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“I’m not getting naked for you,” I protest, suddenly noting that my bottom lip is dropped open and quivering. I slam my jaw shut.
“Prude,” Angel teases, just as his dress pants slip down from around his waist to his ankles. The sight of his powerful thighs nearly causes me to lose my breath. They clench and ripple as my captor kicks off his pants. A throbbing bulge appears behind his tight briefs; it’s nearly irresistible.
“I’m not a prude,” I shoot back. “I’m just not the type who gives in to peer pressure.”
“I’m not your peer,” Angel taunts, stepping forward so that his package is nearly eye level. My gaze wants so badly to snap onto the steamy bulge, but I refuse to give in. I stare my captor in the eyes, instead, as if that’s going to help. His effervescent glint of green glimmers through my soul as he stares down at me.
“That’s right, you’re just a bully,” I whisper, trying to hold back the quiver in my throat.
“No, I’m not you’re bully, either,” he teases.
“Then, what are you to me? My captor? My tormentor?”
“I’m your future fiancé.”
Angel’s voice is low and deep and commanding—forged by years as a leader of men who I’m sure are far tougher than me—but when he says ‘fiancé’, it’s so unexpected that I can’t help but laugh.
The hunky brute seems amused by my reaction. Thank god. Usually men in such precarious positions don’t take kindly to a woman’s laugh... or so I’ve been told.
But it’s clear that I’m not laughing at anything about Angel’s body. There’s nothing to laugh at there. Physically, he’s so perfect it’s nearly stressful, but when a dark Adonis says something so unexpected at a time so full of sexual tension, there’s not much else a girl can do but chuckle.
“Funny, huh?” Angel says, holding back a smirk.
“Fiancée. I didn’t know you spoke French,” I tease.
“I speak whatever language benefits me the most.”
“Well, if you were trying to make me laugh, then mission accomplished, Frenchie.”
Angel turns from the side of the bed, giving me a direct view of his athletic ass as he struts off silently towards the bathroom.
He stops in the doorway, half turning back; showing off his six-pack abs and his finely tuned shoulder blades all in one model-type pose. “You’re cuter when you laugh than when you spit,” he says, and I can’t quite pinpoint the emotion in his tone. Is he teasing me? Complimenting me? “I’m going to have a shower,” he adds, his voice deepening. The fire in my belly shakes from the shockwaves of his rumble. “If you’re not out of my bathrobe when I’m finished, then there will be consequences.”
The fire inside of me instantly flickers in response, doused with equal parts rage and arousal. How can someone say something so nice and then so demeaning without even blinking twice?
What game is this guy playing with me?
The bathroom door slams shut and Angel disappears. The bedroom is colder without his devilish presence, but I don’t linger on his absence.
Fiancée...
What was that all about? Was he being serious? Is he going to try and force me to marry him?
There’s no way...
He can’t like me that much. We’ve only been ‘together’ for a couple of days, and pretty much all of that time has been spent fighting. I haven’t spotted a single ounce of anything in Angel that would warrant such a grand gesture.
He must just be fucking with me...
I spot my tattered and torn winter dress at the foot of the bathroom door and make a sudden beeline for it. The last thing I want is to be here when Angel gets out of his shower. I have a feeling he won’t be covering up at all, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to resist him when he’s fully exposed, all wet and glistening...
Butterflies with flames for wings flap around inside my stomach as I rush for the ripped dress on the floor. Angel’s bathrobe slips off easily enough and, for a split-second, I stand, completely naked, outside of the bathroom door, knowing full well that he’s also completely naked on the other side.
Dirty thoughts rush through my mind in a flurry of hurricane winds, lifting the fiery butterflies in my stomach to dangerous altitudes. I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be with Angel. That beast. That hot, powerful, absolutely ripped beast.
What do those muscles of his taste like? How about his cock?
When I notice that I’m biting down so hard on my lip that I can taste blood, I snap out of my dirty daydream.