Page 64 of Never Fall for an Angel

Leaning into him, I press my lips against his again, testing the waters. His fingers tighten in my hair, and he tugs me harder against him until there’s not an inch of space between our bodies. He kisses me like a man starved, a deep groan traveling up his throat.

“You’re going to fucking kill me.”

“Holy shit,” I gasp, shooting up in bed. I clutch my hand to my chest, my heart racing underneath my fingers, and look around.

Christian’s. I’m at the cottage.

That fucking explains it.

It’s with some annoyance, I realize I’m incredibly hot . . . and turned on.

My nipples strain against my tank top, my core is throbbing, and my skin is coated in a light sheen of perspiration.

Just like it would be if he were here.

Am I that far gone that I’m having sex dreams of the man who kidnapped me now?

God, Mila. Give it a rest.

I glance at the clock. Three in the morning.

Figures I’d have a sex dream about Christian Cross during the witching hour.

“I need a glass of water,” I grumble, angry at my body for having the female version of a hard-on for a man who not only kidnapped me but plans to use me in his little revenge plot. Which, might I add, he hasn’t told me who or what he’s getting revenge on.

I listen intently for any signs that he may be home, only hearing the soft drip of the kitchen faucet before I tug on one of his flannels, which is basically a robe.

Padding quietly down the stairs, I make my way toward the kitchen, passing through the living room on my way.

Only I stop short the moment I see him.

Christian must have fallen asleep when he came back inside. I don’t know where he went, but I stayed awake until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer before conceding defeat and going to bed.

Now, I’m regretting it because he’s passed out on the couch, no shirt on and glorious abs on display for everyone to see.

Well, really, just me. The creepy night stalker watching him sleep.

I pause, watching the even rise and fall of his chest. I had thought seeing him sleeping would make him look less . . . devastating.

Now, I can see, I was wrong.

The hard muscles of his abs and chest move with each breath, making the tattoos on his skin look like they’re alive.CROSSis written in big, bold letters across his chest. An intricate clock tower design over his abs, and right above it, the bullet I’d lodged in his shoulder.

It’s the three letters—MRC—with the date of November eighth a year and a half ago, on his chest that cause my heart to fall to my stomach.

“It’s rude to stare.”

I let out a squeak, spilling water down the front of mywhitetank top when Christian’s eyes open and zero in on the now see-through material.

Great job, Mila. You’re a one-woman wet T-shirt contest.

“I wasn’t staring.” I totally was. I tug my flannel-turned robe tighter around myself, but it’s thin, so the material instantly gets wet, making it look like my nipples are leaking.

I hate it here.

“I had a nightmare, and I needed a drink.”

Quickly regretting that decision.

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