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I pull back, looking up the length of her writhing body, ignoring her hands trying to pull me back down to finish what I started. “Who’s between your thighs, Frankie?”
“At the moment? No one.” She lifts up on her elbows, spying down at me. “Finish me before I get pissed.”
A chuckle leaves my chest before I can stop it. My Angel is not a morning person. “Call my name. Not His.” I hide my smirk in her pussy lips.
“Gladly—”
Her words fade off when I fill her with two fingers and suck her clit, wrestling her legs to the mattress to keep her wide open for me.
I think she might have missed her calling. She could be a killer MMA fighter. She has strong leg muscles and a knack for slipping free of my hold—not to mention knocking me flat on my ass with a single wanton look. The idea of her rolling around on the floor with another woman has me nearly blowing all over the bed.
Fuck.I’m not sharing my Angel even if it is with an imaginary MMA female fighter.
She’s almost there, but before she can trip the wire, I flip her on her belly and fill her to the brim. Her hands clasped in mine, my body covers hers, rocking into her slowly. I swallow her cries for more, swiveling my hips, grinding her into the mattress, chasing her orgasm, knowing she’ll pull mine from me in equal measure.
Before she can voice what her body is pleading for, I slip my hand between her and the bed, giving her clit the extra friction she needs. She calls my name, and I growl my approval of her tone and word choice, and encourage her to say it again. She does. Over and over until she’s mute on a silent scream as her orgasm racks her body in thunderous waves, leaving her shaking from head to toe.
“Fuck. Angel.” I slow my pace, wanting it to last, wanting her to feel every morsel of pleasure her release has to offer.
When she stills, I pull out, turn her over and suck on her tits until she’s writhing for me again. Then and only then do I take her, face to face, hard and with the lust-induced frenzy she unleashes in me.
The lion marking his lioness.
The beast claiming his beauty.
The devil loving his angel.
The past month has been good. Great, even. Austin is in rehab. Out of sight. Out of mind. Out of my heart, my life, at last. I didn’t press charges: the man I knew had been taken over by Anabolic Steroid-induced Mania according to his doctors. But his cheating ass was due to lack of character or balls to tell me he wanted to sleep around long before his car accident. That’s all on him. The steroid freak out, I can forgive. The lying and cheating—I’m still working on.
Forgiving myself for putting up with it for so long is a work in progress. I fell in love with a boy-man at fourteen. I loved him into manhood. But somewhere my love turned to loyalty and only hung by a thread that Austin so easily ripped free. He felt trapped by me, and I never want another man to feel trapped by me.
I never wantGabrielto feel trapped. He’s loyal to a fault. Like me.
We don’t talk about Austin. There’s not really much to say. Gabriel was there for the last five years. He witnessed our breakdown with clearer vision than I. He knows where I stand. I’m with him and not Austin. Even if Austin returns to the Black Ops Team and was the old Austin I used to love, too much has happened to pretend he didn’t break something precious. Something that can never be fixed.
We can maybe mend it enough to be civil, but never more than that.
Never will I be vulnerable to Austin again. That ship has sailed. That door has closed.
Where does that leave Gabriel and me? I have no idea. I wake up every day in his arms and fall asleep every night in those same arms, against his hard chest and heated parts that fit so perfectly with mine. He worships my body at every opportunity. He fills my belly with food. He provides a roof over my head. And he fills an emptiness I didn’t even know was there until Austin’s absence ripped open a void his love masked but never truly filled. Remarkably, Mr. Asshole fills it, and fills it, and fills it. His tender ways and beastly claim over me are the magic touch I was missing.
Who knew?
I think he did.
But he’s not saying.
He’s heads-down on training for his next match that’s only a few months away.
He’s not distant. He hasn’t turned into Mr. Asshole. He’s just not saying what we are. What I am to him. And I’m afraid to ask. Afraid to scare him off by asking for more—or the possibility of more.
I’ve heard him often enough claiming marriage and kids are not in the cards for him. I don’t believe he’s changed his mind—that he’d want that with me.
But I do want it. Someday.
I ache when I see Donovan and Lili with Violet. Or a random couple on the street walking hand in hand with their children in tow.
I. Want. That.
