Page 190 of Never Fall for an Angel

God, who even am I?

Surging forward, he thrusts inside me hard and unforgiving. I cry into the comforter, desperate moans slipping free when the pressure builds low in my stomach.

“You hear that?” he rasps, the wet sounds of his body slapping against mine filling the room. “Hear how fucking wet you are for me? You were fucking made to take my cock.”

“Please,” I whimper, tears streaming from the corners of my eyes. I’m sure if I come again, it’ll be the death of me. I just know it.

“You can take it,” he grunts, powering into me with each word. “You’re my good little whore, aren’t you?”

I nod, shivers rolling down my spine as he fucks me so fast, I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to. He reaches under me, gripping me around the throat, and tugs me back to meet his gaze. He’s so much bigger than me that I can see him over the top of my head as he fucks me, my vision consumed by his.

I’m going to come again. It’s inevitable. Especially with the way he’s stroking over that secret spot like he put it there. His fingers on my clit, mixed with his cock bottoming out in my pussy have me barreling towards another orgasm. How many times is he going to make me come before he releases me?

“You’re so goddamned pretty when you’re crying my name. You love my fucking darkness, don’t you, Mila?”

I shiver, right on the precipice of collapsing into what he’s doing to me.

His fingers tighten around my throat, restricting my air.

“Answer the question, little devil.”

“Yes,” I admit on a groan.

“Good fucking girl. Come.”

He releases me, and I fall to the bed. Taking both my hips in his hands and powering me right over the edge. My body seizesin the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had, and my vision grows spotty. I’m not sure if I pass out, see God, or die, but I scream his name into the pillows, distantly registering his animalistic groan as he comes, pushing into me so deep, I feel it in my stomach.

“Fuck,” he grits, a tremor moving through his hands on my hips. “Fucking hell, Mila.”

When he rolls me over, he collapses over me, holding his weight on his arms so he doesn’t crush me, and captures my lips with a soft groan. When he pulls back, he leans his forehead against mine, our hearts racing against one another in the darkness of our new room.

“You have no idea the things that I would do for you, do you?”

My heart beats unsteadily, the last bits of my soul surrendering to him and the sincerity in his gaze.

Leaning up, I press my lips to his gently, a shiver rolling through me from the aftershocks of my orgasm.

“Til death do us part,” I whisper against his lips, and he chuckles darkly.

“Not even death could rip you away from me, baby. I’m a Cross. We don’t give up what’s ours.”

I’ve always loved tracing the lines of the tattoos on Christian’s skin. Staring at him while he sleeps, my fingers running over the smooth lines etched into his flesh, it’s easy to picture the rest of our lives intertwined.

I know I’m breaking my own rules. Dreaming of him. Clinging to the idea that he can be something he’s not. I mean, he forced me to marry him, but, like the idiot I am, I know I’ve fallen for him all over again.

And who wouldn’t, after all? Fall for him?

He’s the pinnacle knight in shining black armor, full of chinks and scuffs. Handsome as sin. Protective. He’s everything every little girl with a broken past dreams of. Someone to wrap their arms around you until the demons can’t reach you.

My chest aches, thinking of his words earlier when he gave me back my body by writing over the demented carvings of a madman because I think a part of me wishes I’d never met Christian Cross at all.

I was doing so well . . .surviving. Who were my nightmares hurting but myself? My silent misery living under my stepfather’s rule? Why did he have to come in and show me that there was more to life? That I could allow myself things I didn’t even know I was denying myself of?

Why did he have to make me fall in love with him?

Because now that I know what it feels like to have him, I don’t want to give him up.

“Mila . . .” he murmurs quietly, stirring from sleep. It’s two in the morning and he lays on his stomach, his head on the pillow, facing me, and I roll over to mirror his position. The moon shines through the bedroom window behind him, casting his tattooed back in shades of orange and gold and highlighting his stone muscles.

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