And that was all the permission Angel needed to wrap an arm around my waist and form my body against his.
His chest to mine, his stomach to mine. Our hips pressed nearly together, the slight difference in our heights meaning I could feel the lengthening part of him just above the lengthening part of me as his lips dropped to mine, hovering there.
I could smell him—fresh soap and the tiniest nip of turpentine, and that wonderful scent that was justhimunderneath it all—and I could feel his breath warm and sweet against my lips. His chest swelled against mine as he shuddered in a long inhale, and I remembered that shuddering breath from the cabin, the same breath he’d take before he pushed all the way inside me until he was buried to the hilt.
It was like music, that breath, the kind of music that inspired ten minute music videos directed by the artist and starring cute people from hit TV shows. A song that changed you the first time you heard it, and every time thereafter. If it were on Spotify, I’d build a whole playlist around it. If it were a hymn, I’d start a church, become the director of its bell choir, and ring bells to it.
His styled curls were tousled and longish under my fingers, and I couldn’t resist tugging a little as I tangled my fingers in his hair. It was Angel’s little secret that he liked things a little rough—looking at him with his giant glasses and paint-stained clothes, listening to him talk about his favorite Studio Ghibli film or the various pros and cons of 3ds Max and Maya for computer animation, you’d never thinkoh, this one’s a biter. But Angel fucked like he made art: like he couldn’t come up for air until he’d finished. And it was heady, being at the center of that kind of storm. Knowing that you were the one who turned a good-natured genius into a grabbing, biting wall of hunger...
I lifted my chin even more, licking my lower lip, and Angel groaned, finally relenting and slashing his mouth down over mine.
His kiss was hot, hard, searching, and he delved into my mouth immediately, his tongue seeking mine and then stroking against it. Unlike me, he could keep a shave when he wanted, and his face was smooth, lovely, like heaven against my lip and cheeks. His lips worked mine open until I was panting against him, and his fingers dug into my waist, pulling me closer, our dicks grazing against each other’s. He walked me back against the door, his kiss turning rough and hungry as my back hit the wood, and our feet slotted against each other’s so we could keep rubbing ourselves below as we kissed above, and then his hand slipped down to my hip, and then my ass, and a needy groan tore out of my chest. I needed him, and I needed him now, and I didn’t care about anything else—
I broke away from him, tripping back against the door, my lips burning and my chest heaving. I stared at him with wide, panicked eyes, lust and fury pounding in my bloodstream. I’d been bamboozled a second time!
“I can’t believe I fell for your mouth!” I said, and then remembered how all this heartbreak had started in Christmas Notch to begin with. “Again!”
Angel brushed a thumb against my cheek, and I could feel my body falling under his hypnosis all over again. Before I absolutely drowned in his touch, I swatted his hand away just like I’d learned in the self-defense class Bee’s moms gifted to her, me, and Sunny for Christmas the year after Bee had moved to LA.
I spun around to try the door again, but that was locked, so I shoved past him to try the adjoining bathroom door Sunny had pushed him through, but that was also locked. Of course. Sunny Palmer was many things, and thorough was definitely one of them.
Fuck me.
I eyed the huge brocade drapes covering the windows on the other two walls and tore the nearest set open.
“You’re going to escape through a window?” Angel asked, doing a poor job of hiding the laughter in his voice. “Luca, come on. We don’t even have to talk.”
I flipped the lock on the window and pushed up on the bottom, but I could only get it open a few inches. “Not talking didn’t really pan out for us all of two seconds ago.” I shoved at the window again, and the glass rattled in the frame, but the sash only budged another few inches.
“The window’s jammed,” Angel said.
“Thank you so much for pointing that out,” I said. “I thought this was just how windows worked and that they were there just to look pretty and not actually function. Who wants to actually escape a fire? Or an ex?”
The second that last word left my mouth, a knot formed in my stomach. We’d never actually defined the relationship, and there was nothing more mortifying than being the one to define a relationship that had never even existed.
“It’s not like they’re going to leave us in here all day,” Angel said. “Eventually someone is going to need a light adjusted or a costume changed.”
Continuing to use my self-defense moves, I punched the screen out of the window and peered down. The first floor of the house was more elevated than I had expected. It was at least a five foot drop, but there were bushes to break my fall.
“Luca,” Angel said, and this time my name was strained on his lips.
I had to get the hell out of here, so I began to do what any reasonable human being would do and shimmied out the narrow gap between the window and the frame, my legs kicking and my hips wiggling.
I’d always thought stuck porn was incredibly unbelievable, but in this moment, it began to make sense. Of course, admitting I was wrong had always been a tough pill to swallow, but I made a mental note to let Teddy know I’d had a change of heart, especially after our argument over plausibility on the set ofStuck Step-Mommies 8.
Fuck. I couldn’t wiggle my luscious ass through the window.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” said Angel.
Nothing—and I mean nothing—could hurt more than being stuck in this McMansion with him, Blake, and Blake’s windsock dick. With a grunt, I pushed as hard as I could, my body tipping over the window frame to freedom.
“Oh, fuck,” I swore as I realized I had zero control of how my body was about to fall.
Okay, maybe the ground was more like six and a half feet away. Or eight. How tall was a standard house story again?
A shriek tore through my chest as my body broke through the bushes, my shirt snagging, until I found myself cradled precariously in a tangle of leaves and branches and—ouch—thorns. Who landscaped an LA mansion with thorny bushes? Didn’t rich people have special rich people plants that were made of skin-enhancing snail mucus and yacht insurance policies???
“What the hell?” I shouted as I tried to push myself up and out, but I was surrounded. My arms were bleeding and—
