Page 57 of His Angel
He climbs out, his over six-foot tall, broad frame blocking everything as he opens the door for me, the boot opening at the same time. That same gaze focuses as I slide one leg out, finally placing my heeled foot on the ground before swinging the other to join it and standing.
Just his presence has me weak at the knees, add in the heels, the drive, the alcohol, and the drop in adrenaline and unsteady is potentially not even the word. Heat sizzles as his gaze tracks up my legs, skimming over my stomach before admiring my pushed-up tits for longer than is polite, not that he cares.
His teeth grind together as he gestures to the back of the car for my things, his restraint impeccable. I walk, stumbling as I round the car and land on the edge of the boot, luckily not finding myself in an embarrassed heap on the floor.
Sadly, he doesn’t jump to my aid, catching me before I fall like Wyatt would, or rush to check I’m okay like some of the others might. He just watches and waits. Silently, patiently. The boy I knew hides in the depths of that gaze, somewhere, and as I shake out my wrist, the bones already smarting from where I landed, I finally get a hint of him.
He reaches out, a fission of electricity that coils deep in my stomach as his fingers trace the bones, rotating my hand to check I’ve not done anything permanent. With a nod, he releases me, clearly happy it’s okay, although, I could have told him that, but the touch and the half-second of vulnerability was worth keeping my mouth shut for.It’s not my forte.
“Is there anything you need, anything you want before I go in?” I ask, much bolder than usual, the words coming out husky.
His body is barely inches from mine, blocking out the world that spins slightly, but he doesn’t move. He’s solid and stable, always has been. His gaze flickers down the length of me, appreciation shining through before his thumb and forefinger hook my chin, dragging my face to his.
He leans in, my breath held as my heart flutters in my chest, his lips so close to my own before he runs his cheek against mine. His rough stubble sends electric sparks through me, with need that coils deep in my stomach. Fuck, does he even know what that does to me?
“Careful what you wish for.” With my chin held firmly in his grasp, the words come out scratchy, his breath fanning down my neck. “Now go to bed, baby girl.”
Like the fool I am, I sigh, my held breath seeming to come out forever as I sink back down into myself. I’m not stupid, he feels exactly the way I do, so why we’re doing this idiotic song and dance, I have no idea.
Stringing someone along is mean and unfair, but with a fortifying breath in, his cologne and the rich cigar smoke that curls around him like an old coat seeping into my lungs, I put the walls back up.
He’s just doing a job. So am I.
Puppets on a string.
“Good night,” I say, my hand finding the bag behind me without turning.
I feel the sting of the tiny squeeze on my chin before he steps back, letting me go and gesturing to the house with his head. I know he can taste my disappointment on his tongue, but I’ll not give him the satisfaction of seeing it.
Instead, I push my shoulders back, step up on my heels, and do my best to saunter down the short path before opening the door and going in.
I lock it behind me, knowing my mother is already home, but it isn’t until the light goes on in my room that I hear the engine rumble, him pulling away into the night.
I don’t doubt he spent his night sitting outside that campus, waiting and wondering. Does he even care about sending me into the Devil’s lair? Does he care about me at all?
SIXTEEN
IVY
“How do you shower with this damn thing?” Tamsin complains, rubbing a nail beneath the edge of the leather band.
“The same way you would with any jewellery,” I offer, looking up from my laptop.
“Well, I’d normally take mine off…”
“Ah, that might be a problem.”
She adjusts the towel around her, sliding her top on whilst I turn the page looking for my next piece of quotable material.There’s got to be something useful in here.
“Well, just slide it down a bit and you should be fine,” I say absentmindedly.
“Can’t,” she says, thrusting her wrist in my face. “There’s not enough slack in it to shuffle it, and I’m going to end up disgusting if I can’t clean and dry it properly. Can you imagine? Gross.” She shudders.
Sticking my pen in the book, I turn and open one of the vanity drawers, rifling through the bags and boxes stashed in their depths until I find the pads I’m looking for. The soft cotton is almost paper thin but layered together so it doesn’t just fall apart. Grabbing two out, I add a little micellar water to one, sliding the edge under the leather and running it around her wrist.
“Ooh, that’s cold,” she comments.
“I’m sure your shower gel is working just fine, but if you’re concerned, any cleanser will work, I’m sure.” I pull it out, replacing it with the dry one to soak up any excess moisture.
