Page 12 of As Angels Sin

“You didn’t chase me after paying my ridiculous sum, and I left. Why?” I ask. It might appear suspicious if I blindly accept his offer, after showing so very little interest, and I don’t want to risk that.

“The option was always yours. You made your terms clear from the start, and I respected that. But things are changing, Crue, and soon New York won’t be the same city it is now. I would have let you vanish, had I not needed you.”

It’s the first real thing he’s ever said to me. I can tell what he has planned by the twinkle in his eye — a mixture of sadness, fear and pride.

“Pay the rest of the money, and then we’ll talk details.” I turn around and start for the door. “In the meantime, I have some unfinished business I need to see to.”

My first stop is sleeping right inside this mansion.

I’m coming for you, my Little Flame.

Chapter Six

FIAMETTA

From dreamless sleep to a bitter black room, a creak from my bedroom window jerks me awake. Before I have time to react, scream for help, or even figure out what the hell is happening, I hear a grumble. Not words, only the primitive grunts and growls of a caveman lost to time.

Is it Crue, at my window again?

That would be awfully ballsy of him. My killer, strolling leisurely into my family home for a meeting with the patriarch, before doubling down and sneaking his way into my bedroom right after.

But if there’s one thing Crue Amos doesn’t lack, it’s balls.

He fumbles his way through the window, doing his best to stay quiet as he briefly tangles himself inside the thick, blackoutcurtains. Another noise comes from his lips. This time it’s closer to words but still not quite there. I stay quiet, intrigued. I watch him wrestle for his freedom with the curtain.

Crue wrests himself free and the outside light illuminates his frame. Somehow, his two-month absence has made me forget just how big he truly is, even after I saw him earlier. He is a truly magnificent specimen. He has an entire body of ripped muscles that always look as if he’s flexing them to the point of collapse, and he’s taller than any man I’ve ever met.

But that’s where my appreciation of him comes to an end; because, behind that body carved by God, is a man. A mean, cruel man, who chose violence over whatever the fuck was beginning to blossom between us.

I stay silent as his footsteps approach. Now, his frame, hard as it is to miss, is barely visible in the darkness that engulfs my room. But somehow, he knows where to go. It must be his unnaturally green eyes. Seeing through the dark like a cat hunting a mouse. For all I know, that’s exactly what it is.

He’s cold, calculated, and monstrous, allowing the barest of human emotions to scratch his surface. That’s if you call a smile and a smoldering look emotion.

His slow, calculated footsteps bring him closer to me.

What the hell are you doing? Don’t let him do this. He’s a monster. Run. Call for help.

Do anything else but this.

But why would I? I have a niggling sensation in the back of my head, a feeling that I’ve spent the past two months trying to rid myself of. I want to feel this closeness with Crue again — the sort of closeness I thought we were building. I want him to hold me down in a way that most would find scary, but I knew was endearing. I need him to do those intensely hot, fucked-up things to me with reckless abandon and no concern about whatI have to say about it. It’s a closeness that only true lovers can experience.

And what’s more, I’m supposed to marry a man I can’t stand looking at. Tomas is the real monster. He is the boogeyman beneath my bed, lying in wait to break me. Why, now, would I fend off the closest thing I’ve experienced to love, in favor of hate? Besides, Crue might be here to fulfill that wish I made earlier. For all I know, he’s about to end my suffering before it even begins.

His footsteps go quiet. If I squint my eyes hard enough, I can just make out his form among the all-consuming black. It’s vague and very close. I almost yelp, realizing I’m not staring at his full body, I’m only looking at his abs. His six-packed, rock-solid, covered-in-scars-and-tattoos abs.

He grabs the showpiece blanket I’m under by the edges and slowly starts to lift it. His caution makes me wonder if he actually believes that he got into my room quietly. Maybe he doesn’t care, and this isn’t part of the games he used to play. This slow, methodical peeling off of the blanket, and how his gloved fingertips gently travel across my bare forearm, could all be for him. Is he taking a trip back in time? When there was a chance we could be something.

The gloved hand moves away from me, but I don’t have to wonder why for long, as there is a soft popping and the sound of material being dragged over something. When he returns, it’s skin on skin this time. Not my arm, but my upper thigh. He’s not fumbling here; not like he did at the window. Everything that’s happening is expertly precise, and almost studied.

When Crue reaches my panties, he wastes no time tearing them down my legs. It seems he abandoned his slow, methodical approach the second he felt my body. And while he claws them away, his free hand, still gloved, smacks over my mouth. To prevent a scream from his sudden intrusion?

I expect him to speak, now that he knows I’m awake. Not that I’ve given him any indication that I am. I remain as dead, basking in the sensation of his hand traveling back up my shins, passing my knee and sliding comfortably between my legs. Not a single sound escapes him either, yet. He makes no apologies, no indication of the impending acquisition of his pleasure. There is nothing but silence, and my unsteady breathing against his glove.

As his finger grazes against my wetness, finding its way against my folds, my breathing intensifies. As angry as I might be at him, I have to give Crue credit for one thing: he’s super, fucking hot. He knows exactly what to do to drive me crazy, and it seems to come so naturally to him. It’s as if we really were soul mates in a different life. We are a perfect fit of raw, aggressive masculinity and soft, tender femininity.

Without warning, he plunges his digit inside of me and groans audibly as my pussy tightens around him. I groan, as well, muffled against his leather gloved palm, exchanging my thoughts about our purity for something far more tantalizing.

Slow, steady movements follow. There is no thrusting or pounding, just an enthusiastic exploration of my silky insides using his divine touch. It caresses my walls, and scratches an itch that hasn’t been sated since the night Crue disappeared. He makes me want to howl at the moon in utter delight, like a she-wolf in heat, who is expecting a mating partner.

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