Page 41 of His Little Angel

I laugh, and it only makes her glare harder. She sits on the arm of the couch. I lean against the counter, watching her with way too much hunger. I ate her perfect pussy this morning, and I’m still hungry for more.

“You’re early. You usually don’t get off work at six.”

“Couldn’t wait to see you.”

She scoffs. “How original.”

I set my coffee down and move toward her. She sees me coming and straightens like a threatened cat.

“Don’t,” she warns.

“Don’t what?”

“Be… like this.”

“Like what?”

“All sexy and shit.” She pouts.

I reach her. She tries to shift away, but I cage her in with my body, hands braced on either side of her thighs.

“What do you want from me?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

I hook a finger under her chin, forcing her to look me in the eyes.

“Say it,” I whisper.

“No.”

“Say what’s eating you alive.”

“Nothing’s eating me,” she snaps. “I just don’t trust you not to bolt the second things get—”

She cuts herself off.

“The second things get what?”

She bites the inside of her cheek.

“Say it,” I growl.

She shoves the words out like they’re knives.

“I want to know if you’re going to run away again. If the moment things get difficult, you’ll bolt.”

“You think that’s still an option for me?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she mutters.

“You can slam doors in my face,” I say. “You can be a nightmare. You can tear me to shreds with that beautiful mouth.”

She opens her lips to argue— I shut her up with a look.

“Do whatever you want,” I murmur darkly. “Torture me. Bitch at me. Ice me out. But I’m not leaving.”