Page 198 of Never Fall for an Angel

We also play a game of twenty questions every night over dinner.

I learn that he hates tight spaces while he learns that I have a slight fear of public bathrooms.

I learn that he played rugby in school—totally not surprised— and he learns that I was in the animal rights club—he wasn’t surprised by that, either.

Life is simple and sweet. We spend the nights wrapped in each other’s arms, and I spend the days counting down the hours until he comes home to me.

“You smell like heaven, baby.”

His hands slide around my hips, tugging me back into his front, where I’m cooking at our stove.

“Fuck, I love coming home to you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of my neck. His lips slide over my skin, his breath warm, and a shiver moves through me.

With a soft laugh, I turn in his arms, letting him sweep me into him.

“New house rule. No clothes.”

“Going to make cooking pretty dangerous. Or company uncomfortable.”

“Okay, I’ll amend it for cooking only and guests?” His eyes slide down my body before flicking back to mine with a scorching heat. “Fuck the guests.”

Then, he cuts the burner off on the stove, hoisting me onto the island counter, and feasts on me until I’d be willing to sell my soul if it made him happy.

All in all, life is coming together beautifully.

There’s just one problem.

—The fact that someone is still out there that wants us dead.

“I want to help.”

“You are helping.”

“Feeding you and fucking you every night is not helping,” I argue when we’re undressing for a shower one night.

I mean, what straight, hot-blooded woman wouldn’t want to watch water run down Christian Cross’s abs every night? Certainly, not me.

He smirks, his gaze sliding over me.

Maybe I shouldn’t have started this conversation naked. It’s only distracting him.

“You’re more than that, and you know it.”

“Then let me be useful. Maybe I can bring him out of hiding.”

“You want me to offer you up as bait?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” I grumble.

“Yeah,” he grits, cutting on the shower. “He got to you once. I won’t let it happen twice, Mila.”

“Hewon’tget to me, though,” I urge, pressing my hands flat against his chest. “You’re here.”

He stares down at me, his eyes studying mine.

“Please,” I try again, letting my hand slip down his chest and to the rock-hard abs beneath. “I want to help.”

His jaw ticks, and he shakes his head.

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