He gapes at me in silence for a few heaving seconds. “You have to be the most deranged person who’s ever fucking existed.”
“That’s excessive, Angelito,” I grumble, stepping up to him.
He keeps backing up, and I’m sort of chasing him around the cell.
It’s ridiculous, and eventually I stop with a huff. “Do you want to call off the date?”
The look I’m giving him is admonishingly gaslighting, but beneath the mask of indifference, I’m panicking.
I really don’t want to call off the date. But this is imperative. Allowing him freedom so soon is a dangerous precedent to set.
Angel stares, only a few feet of space separating us. I can smell him, and it’s excruciating. His scent is the headiest combination of floral, earthy, and sweet syrupy decadence. Like jasmine, Palo Santo, and vanilla frosting. I could lick him for hours.
But that won’t happen if he decides to call it off…
Green eyes sparkling back at me, he seems to have lost most of the hostility. But I prefer it to what I’m getting now…Disappointment.
“No,” he mumbles, blinking. “I don’t. I was… really looking forward to tonight.” His tone is sad, weaseling between my ribs.
“Me too,” I whisper. Tentatively, I step forward. “Please, pajarito? Do this for me?”
His throat bobs. “Why would I do anything for you? I… hate you. Remember?”
My lips quirk. “Yo se. That’s why I’m doing this, baby. How else am I supposed to date someone who wants to kill me?” A tiny amused breath escapes him. I take another step. “I have to protect myself from dangerous, sexy prisoners I’m desperate to have dinner with.”
Moving in closer, I observe a flash of delight before he promptly covers it up by rolling his eyes.
“Ugh,” he mutters. “You are literally the worst.”
“Mm not quite,” I croon. “I could be much more forceful, pajarito.”
His pupils dilate, betraying his outrage. A rumble comes from within my chest.
Or maybe that’s what he wants…
Grasping him by the throat, I squeeze just enough that he whines.
“Diablo…” he rasps.
“Angel…” I purr, fastening the collar around his neck.
He’s flushed as he whispers, “I… hate you…” Attempting to convince himself, and me, of this.
Humming, I drop a soft kiss on his soft, fluttering mouth. “Good.”
Backing up, I wrap the leash around my fist. He blinks away the haze and scowls. I give the least a gentle tug, jerking him forward just a bit.
He gasps, then growls, “Smug fucking puta.”
“Sounds about right. Ready?”
I don’t wait for him to answer, sauntering out of the cell, yanking him along. He quickly realizes that it’s interest to keep up, which he does, falling into step beside me as I walk us in the direction of the back stairs.
And again, I’m momentarily unsure whether I’m bringing him this way to protect him, or hide him.
Do I want to avoid having to answer questions from any of the dozens of cartel men wandering around the first-floor about why I’m walking a cuffed prisoner up to my floor on a leash? Or do I want to keep Angel all to myself, because the thought of anyone else even looking at him in any sort of appraising way ever again makes me feel so much more murderous than I already do?
“You look beautiful,” I murmur, distracting myself by focusing on him. He peeks up at me. “This outfit is what you were all worried about?”
