Page 68 of Angel

There’s no waiting, no easing him in. I lower my legs and wrap them around his waist. As soon as his cock touches my hole, I push my heels into his ass and drive him forward. I’m impaled in a nanosecond.

“Yesss.” I sink into the sensation of being stuffed. Angel’s cock fits so perfectly, it hits all the right buttons inside me.

I run my hands up and down Angel’s sides, down toward his hips, then up his back. His body hair tickles my palms and the tingles travel along my arms.

He props himself up with his hands on either side of my head. His necklace hangs between us, bumping into my chin. My cock is trapped against his stomach.

I don’t usually love missionary, and not because it’s boring like some people think. I like being on top, taking charge, being in control. I like teasing my partner, giving them pleasure, watching them fall apart and knowing it’s because of me.

But with Angel, everything is different. I mean, yes, I still want all those things, but I also want things the other way around.

I want his weight on me, pressing me firmly into the mattress. I want to be smothered by him and engulfed in him. I want to lose myself in him and let him have control over me. I want him to feel powerful, to feel strong, to feel like he’s in charge.

I yank him down to me, and we both grunt when he drops to his elbows. I catch his lips with mine, tangling our tongues together the way our fingers were earlier. I fill my lungs with the scent of our sex, of my cum, and underneath it all, that fresh sawdust that is Angel himself.

I wrap myself around Angel like a fucking octopus, arms and legs snaking around his back. “Fuck me, teddy bear,” I whisper against his lips.

And he does. He takes me apart, inch by careful inch. Not with hard, bone-shattering thrusts. But with slow and equally soul-destroying ones. It’s definitely Angel-style fucking and I am here for it.

He rocks against me, barely pulling out before pushing back in. The movement has the underside of my cock rubbing against the soft hairs on his belly. He peppers my face with kisses before licking his way to my neck. I crane my head to give him better access. He nips my earlobe, laps at my pulse point, then buries his nose into the crook of my neck.

I cling to him, reveling in the exquisite torture, letting myself drift in the pool of pleasure he’s creating for us. I could die like this and be happy. All wrapped up in Angel, inside and out, feeling loved, cherished, precious.

My eyes sting suddenly as emotions surge, unbidden, to the surface. No. No. Not now. Not like this. When I can’t run away, when I can’t hide from him.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the tears to go away. This is just fucking. This is just sex. It’s only physical. I’m just guiding Angel through his exploration of gay sex.

There’s nothing personal about this. Nothing emotional. I’m definitely, absolutely, one-thousand-percent not in love with my teddy bear.

A tear escapes.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FOUR

ANGEL

I bury my face into the crook of Rhys’s neck and snuggle down into him as much as I dare. I don’t want to crush him. Although he seems intent on crushing himself with how tightly he’s clinging to me.

If that’s any indication of how he feels, then I feel the same way too. I want to cling to Rhys and never let him go. I want to burrow into him and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. All I need is Rhys and his light. All I want is to bask in him—forever.

Or at least, for as long as he’ll let me. I’m under no illusion that this will last. Rhys has his pick of guys. Dudes who will stumble over each other for just one chance with him.

I’m everything he left behind the second he was old enough to move away from home. I’m everything he’s run away from and cut out of his life. Why would he invite any of it back in?

I tilt my hips forward, sheathing myself all the way inside his body. Then I wiggle my hips back and forth a bit. He clenches down around me, and twin shudders run through us.

I like this kind of sex. Soft and gentle is much more my speed. Slow enough to savor, to imprint every moment, every sensation into my memory. So that in the future, when Rhys has moved on, when I’m back to my boring old life, I have something to remember, something to cherish.

Rhys sniffles. He turns his head to the side, away from me. He doesn’t stiffen underneath me, but his movements become jerky, rather than the smooth, flowing dance we’ve been doing.

I lift my head and what I find triggers alarm bells and flashing lights.

“Rhys? What’s wrong?”

Tears trickle from his closed eyes, over the bridge of his nose, and down into the pillow. There’s a growing wet spot on the fabric.

“Am I hurting you?” I move to climb off him, but he only clutches me tighter.

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