Page 67 of Where Angels Fall

I groan against her skin, my lips finding her ear as I whisper, “Can we fill you up, my perfect angel?”

She nods desperately, and my fingers come down to reach her clit, pinching it in a painful hold. She screams as her body begins to tremble, jolting between us. I didn't think it was even possible for her cunt to grip us tighter, but as she orgasms, it feels like a fucking fist wrapping around both of our cocks. We can barely move in and out of her. Our hips are locked as she grips us tightly.

Fuck.

Thomas groans, and I feel his cock twitch inside of her as he begins to spill his cum in her hole.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groans, and the whole thing undoes me.

My hips drive wildly into her, stretching her more than I thought capable, as my cock shoots off, spurts of cum painting her insides white the way they deserve to be.

Breaths rip out of my chest in ragged exhales as it takes forever to come down from the heaven she just brought me to, the gyrating bodies around us, screaming, moaning and crying as I look into her perfect dark eyes.

I smooth her dress down as her legs unwind from my body, the music rolling on and dragging us all back into its rhythm. The three of us grind together in the crush of bodies, heat pressing in from every direction.

Finding the forgotten bottle of vodka on the ground, I tip it into my mouth, sighing as the liquid warms my insides before passing it to Thomas, then back to her. She takes a drink without hesitation, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes bright and reckless as she laughs.

She leans in close, forehead brushing my jaw, her voice just loud enough to carry over the music.

“I never want this night to end.”

My gaze flickers between her eyes, searching her face, searching the woman who looks like she finally belongs to herself, to this moment. To us. I let my thumb brush her lip, inhaling her scent before answering.

“I won’t let it,” I say quietly.

Even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. Morning will come. It always does. And when it does, it’ll bring consequences.

But tonight is ours.

Before I can think too hard on it, laughter explodes beside us. Leon barrels in out of nowhere, all boyish grin and wild energy, scooping her up without warning. She squeals, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he spins her, her laughter bright and unguarded as it cuts through the music.

“Welcome to the Devils, you crazy woman!” Leon shouts over the beat, twirling her once more before settling her down.

She’s still laughing when her feet hit the floor, cheeks flushes and eyes sparkling as she swats at his chest. The sound of it, her joy, her ease, does something tight and unfamiliar to my chest.

“Never seen someone look so hot while throwing a Molotov,” Leon adds, pushing his shaggy curls off his forehead. “Who knew you had such an arm.”

My angel’s face twists as she remembers what she did earlier in the night, a nervous smile creeping onto her face.

“I’m not going to wake up with my arms cuffed behind my back for this, right?” She jokes, but there is still some apprehension on her face.

“Do you remember what happened the last time you visited the police station?” I remind her, a wicked grin curling my lips.

“You went to the cops about us?” Thomas fake gasps, raising a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt.”

Maddy shoves him playfully, laughing breathlessly at the absurdity of it all, and Leon grabs her arms to spin her in a dramatic fashion. I’ll never get sick of this, seeing her like this. Seeing those once haunted eyes zap to life.

So, I let myself enjoy it. And whatever comes in the morning, we will face together.

Chapter 25

Maddison

The sun filters over my face as my eyes slowly flicker open, exhaustion weighing heavy on my eyelids. Yet I can't stop the smile that blooms on my face as I realize where I am. I'm in Ash’s bed, naked and tangled up in his dark sheets, curled up next to his warm, hard body.

Lying on his stomach, the muscles in his back ripple as he slowly moves his arm over me and pulls me tighter to his body. I can't help but stare at him; his harsh features looking so soft as he sleeps, soft lips parted just slightly, dark lashes fanning his cheeks and dark hair a mess over his forehead.

His scarred skin is covered in black ink, patterns and symbols, and words covering the tanned, toned complexion. Reaching out my fingertips, I trace the rose that snakes up his face, the thorns sharp and the petals blooming. Then I trace the script over his eyebrow. Unable to resist, the pads of my fingers skim over his soft lips, his stubble slightly longer than usual.