Page 83 of Never Fall for an Angel

Somehow, though, I know it would only piss me off because my hands aren’thisand I’d be left unsatisfied.

I have to try, though.

Slipping my hand under the covers, I brush them along the planes of my stomach, slipping under the waistband of my panties. My core is soaked and burning hot, and the moment I touch myself, my cheeks burn with shame.

I haven’t done this in nearly a year. Not that I exactly had the desire to before Christian came along and fucked with my libido.

Now, it’s all I can think about.

And that’s going to be a problem.

I withdraw my hand, falling back and staring at the ceiling.

If I go out there right now and ask him to . . . help me, there’s a chance he could deny me, and that would make breakfast tomorrowreallyawkward.

There’s also a chance he could laugh in my face. I know my body is damaged. I know my scars make people uncomfortable. I can barely look at them myself.

But to see that look in Christian’s eyes?

I’m not sure I would survive that kind of humiliation.

Closing my eyes, I lay in bed and count backward from one hundred.

When I open them, I’m still wide awake and burning up, so I kick the covers off and let out a deep sigh.

“This is ridiculous.”

Clambering from the bed, I roll my shoulders and pad towards the stairs. If Christian Cross doesn’t find me attractive anymore because of the scars that litter my body that I have no control over, then he doesn’t have a right to say what I do with it.

Making my way down the stairs, the fire has died down, but the embers glow enough to light Christian still asleep, where I’d left him on the couch. He’s got a throw over him from when I went to bed, but right now, with him asleep, it’s almost easy to picture him as the scared teen who had just lost his mother.

I know he wasn’t a bad kid. No kids are born bad. It’s the world that makes them behave the way they do when they lash out. When my father died, I was too young to remember him. My mother and my stepfather were the only real parents I ever knew and look how that turned out.

I can’t imagine having to do it alone. Having to find your place in a world that is designed to hate you because your family is dead.

With my stomach in my toes and a fire coursing through my veins that can only be described as Christian Fever, I sink down to the couch on my knees beside him, my fingers reaching out to brush over the ink on his arm.

Only the moment I touch him, I’m thrown onto my back, a very big, veryangryChristian looming over me.

It’s the cold steel of a gun pressed to my temple, though, that sends a shiver through me.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Mila,” he growls, dropping the gun to the floor. I don’t miss the tremor that moves through his hands the moment he releases me. “I almost fucking shot you.”

He sinks back to the couch and lets out a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe, rising and pressing my back to the couch cushions. I won’t lie and say my heart’s not racing from having a gun pointed at my head, but I can say I’m not afraid because I know he didn’t do it on purpose. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Fucking hell,” he grumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

I draw my bottom lip between my teeth, my cheeks burning hot when his eyes finally slide over me. He takes in my lack of pants, the thin strip of lace covering the center of my thighs, then the T-shirt that rests just on my hips from where it’s bunched up, and his eyes darken.

The silence hums in the air between us.

“Mila?” His voice is noticeably huskier now, his gaze penetrating through the darkness.

“I . . .” Can’t speak, apparently.

Guilt washes through me. I woke him up and I can’t even say why.

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