His thumb strokes my jaw, slow, deliberate.
“I take care of the messy, terrible, bloody things so others can pretend life is nice and easy. I make the hard choices. And I let people call me whatever they want so they get to feel safer. Better.”
I swallow hard, his words curling around something deep in my chest, something I don’t want to name.
“Who takes care of you?” I ask. I want to kick myself the second it leaves my lips, but Angelo heard it and I’m screwed.
His eyes darken and his breath slows. Too late. Angelo’s grip in my hair tightens. He jerks me closer. The air between us is gone, stolen.
His voice is a low growl against my lips. “Is that an offer?
My breath stutters. “It’s just, uh, a…”
I bite my lip. His gaze drops to my mouth.
“I don’t know.”
“Let me help then.”
His words barely register before his lips crash into mine, stealing my breath, swallowing my gasp.
The kiss is hungry, consuming—like he’s been waiting for this, like he needs this more than air.
He devours every sound leaving my throat, moaning with me, drinking me in like I’m something he won’t let go of.
My head spins. His hands find my waist, gripping, lifting?—
Effortless. Like I weigh nothing. Like I belong exactly where he puts me. The table is cool against my thighs, but I barely feel it. I barely feel anything but him. His lips crash back onto mine, demanding, relentless, burning.
When he pulls back, I’m panting, my pulse a riot beneath my skin. His hands frame my face, holding me steady, forcingme to look at him. His voice low, rough, absolute.
“No one takes care of me because no one is strong enough to.”
My breath catches. I feel something sharp and dangerous curling in my chest. I shouldn’t say it. I shouldn’t.
“Yet.”
The word is barely a whisper, but his entire body stills. Then—his lips crash back onto mine. It’s fine. I’ll stop before anything happens. We both just need something good right now. That’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.
It doesn’t.
SEVEN
Angelo
She tastes so damngood and feels even better. If I believed in fate or doom or fucking destiny, I’d say she’s the one person in the world that can destroy me because she makes me want to be a better man.
Kissing her, feeling her stacked body press to mine, the way she moans into my mouth, pulls me closer, and tries to take control of every moment between us drives me insane. Maybe, if I was the kind of guy who wrote poetry, I’d say she haunts me, inspires me, damns me, and saves me all at the same time.
I want to be better for her. I want to earn her kisses,—not through deals, not bycatching her off guard. I want her to want me. To choose me.
Because fuck—I’m starting to think she’s the one woman in the world who could take care of me.
And maybe…
Maybe I’d let her. She pulls at my shoulders, her fingers spreading, stroking down my bare biceps. Just that touch feels good—her hands exploring me, feeling me—feels so fucking good.
She moves without hesitation, her fingers trailing over scars and muscle like both are something to be admired.
