Page 4 of A Taste of His Angel
Ok, so I didn’tknowthat Mr. Fischer would be masturbating in his office, his dick long and hard and thick in his big hand, but I did know that something was off when he yelledyesat my knock on his office door. The way he said it—gruff with a desperate edge—had my toes curling in my sandals.
What a delicious sight it was to see him lose control, fling the papers to the side, and watch his face transform with pleasure when he reached his orgasm and moaned the wordangel.He was moaning forme, Miranda.I’m his angel.
If he hadn’t bolted as soon as he was done, I would have dropped to my knees to lick up all his delicious cream. Ok, actually, I don’t know if it would have been delicious, considering I’ve never done anything like that before, but I at least wanted to find out.
I get nothing of importance done at work, with Grant treating me like a pariah whenever I get close to him. Fine by me. It gives me more time to plan for the weekend. My enthusiasm drains each day, however, when Mr. Fischer doesn’t show up for work, claiming to have the flu, but I’m determined to keep a positive outlook.
Friday night, I set about baking the perfect pies, in total making three to guarantee I can save the best one for Mr. Fischer since the party hasn’t been canceled. If I had moved back home instead of my little studio apartment after graduation, I’d likely have to explain my compulsiveneedfor everything to be perfect to my mother, which she would balk at since Mr. Fischer is closer to her age than mine. Once Mr. Fischer gives in, explaining our relationship to my parents surely won’t be easy, but I don’t care. Nothing is going to sway my decision to make him mine or stop us from being together—including him.
I’m up an hour before sunrise on Saturday morning, debating whether to braid my hair as usual or leave it loose to fall down my back. Remembering that I had it in one long French braid the day I found Mr. Fischer masturbating in his office, I decide to go ahead and braid it, tying the end with a red ribbon. The thin white tank top patterned with mini cherries I bought with him in mind might be going overboard, but I wear it anyway, pairing it with the long white skirt I wore the first day I started at the firm.
The last step is to pack the pies carefully into a cooler, along with the homemade whipped cream, then make the fifteen-minute drive to Mr. Fischer’s house. I pull into his driveway a few minutes after sunrise, surveying the single-story brick home with a large front yard in a quiet, winding neighborhood. It’s the perfect place to raise our future family.
Climbing out of my tiny hatchback, I close my eyes and inhale the scent of summer. I daydream of our young children running around in their swimsuits, jumping through sprinklers, playing hopscotch, and throwing water balloons while our friends, family, and neighbors gather around. Carrying the mental image of Mr. Fischer throwing our future daughter up in the air, making her howl with laughter, I pick my way to his front door, dragging the heavy cooler behind me.
I can’t stop smiling as I knock and ring the doorbell until the door is flung open. My jaw drops, and I moan with longing when the real Mr. Fischer greets me, wearing nothing but blue plaid pajama pants, his light hair tousled from sleep.
My eyes trail down his torso, dropping at last to the thick rod swelling in his pants, the material so thin that I can trace every vein of his shaft. “Oh, wow, sir,” I say with a swoon, licking my bottom lip, my pulse sprinting with excitement when it jerks.
And then he slams the door in my face.
Chapter 5
Sherman
I immediately wrench the door back open, gutted at the look on Miranda’s face, tears starting to brim the lower lash lines of her gorgeous gray eyes. I’m not thinking about what’s right or wrong when I wrap my arms around her waist and lift her off her feet, hugging her tight to my naked chest when I pull her inside the house, kicking the door closed.
“Angel, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to slam the door. I don’t know why I did that. Forgive me?”
Miranda tucks her face in my neck, draping her arms over my shoulders, and she purrs out ayes. My cock jerks against her stomach, and as quickly as I picked her up, I set her down again, backing up a few paces.
I look away from her rosy cheeks, pulling a blanket from the couch to wrap it around my shoulders, hiding my half-naked body. She’s probably just as uncomfortable, if not put off, by my lack of clothing as we stare at each other until I finally ask, “What are you doing here?”
She jumps a little as if coming back to the present. “Oh, I’m here to help set up for the party.”
I raise a brow when I check the time on the clock hanging above her head on the wall. “At six-fifty-two in the morning? The party doesn’t start ‘til noon.”
Miranda sucks in her cheeks before answering, “Figured I’d get a head start.” Then she flutters her lashes as she steps closer. “Is there anything I can do to helpyou, sir?” I back away, knocking into the recliner before I step around it, and she follows me, smiling sweetly. “I’d be happy to help you withanythingyou need.”
The little angel has no idea how filthy her words sound to a man, conjuring visions of herhelpingme by twirling her little tongue around my cock the way she did her spoon at the meeting and drinking down my cum so I don’t make a mess. She doesn’t need a perverted old man like me thinking of such things, sullying her innocence.
I go hoarse, pulling the blanket tighter around me, inching toward the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. Something to the side catches Miranda’s eye, and I groan, entirely mortified by the state of my house after days spent wallowing in my misery. The living room is in disarray, the nearly empty whiskey bottle and too many take-out containers—tangible evidence that I gave up on my diet—litter the surfaces.
I rush to the coffee table, holding the blanket with one hand while trying to scoop everything up with the other, fumbling with the bottle. “Sorry for the mess. Maybe you should come back later after I’ve had time to clean up.”
Miranda takes the bottle from me. “Hey, hey, why don’t you let me take care of that instead?”
I try to take the bottle back and only succeed in dropping my blanket, fumbling to recover myself. “Why would you do that?”
“It’ll be my house soon,” she says, stacking the take-out containers. “So I don’t mind cleaning up before our guests arrive.”
“What?” I pull on my ear, wondering if I heard her correctly.
Miranda freezes, holding a container in mid-air. “What?”
“What did you say?”
She snaps back into action, balancing the pile of containers while she looks around the living room for the opening to the kitchen. “Nothing.”
