Page 5 of A Taste of His Angel
I follow after her, tripping over the blanket. “I could’ve sworn you said…” I stop. I’m being ridiculous. There’s no way she said what I think she did. Maybe I haven’t fully detoxed from all the whiskey yet.
She stops, too, grimacing at the garbage bin that needs to be emptied and taken out. She sets the bottle on the counter and goes to the bin, attempting to stuff everything down far enough to pull on the drawstrings. Humiliation sweeps through me, and I’ve found that I’ve had all I can take. I drop the blanket, grab Miranda’s biceps from behind, and forcefully steer her back toward the front door, ignoring the impulse to steer her over the back of the couch, flip her skirt up, and thrust inside her angelic pussy.
I gently push Miranda through the door onto the stoop. By the time she spins around, bewildered and ready to argue, I have the door open only a crack. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got it handled. See you at noon.”
I shut the door on her, throw the lock, and take my miserable ass to my bathroom. I skip looking at myself in the mirror as I shove my pajamas down and step into the shower, stroking my cock to completion before the water has even turned hot. And then I do it all over again, needing to empty my mind of Miranda in all her innocent glory before I attack my messy house to ready it in time for the company-wide party.
I trudge through the living room afterward, hanging my head, deciding to hit the kitchen first, only to be greeted by the sight of Miranda on her hands and knees, her plump ass high in the air as she scrubs at some spill beneath the table in the eat-in breakfast nook.
“Angel!”
Chapter 6
Miranda
I bang my head on the underside of the kitchen table when I jerk upright at Mr. Fischer’s shout. He’s wearing dark denim jeans for the first time since we’ve met and a short-sleeved burnt orange polo shirt with a white Longhorn logo embroidered on the pocket. The material is stretched across his broad shoulders, his hair slightly damp and messy. He’s so big and handsome that I forget to breathe as he rushes toward me at my pained yelp.
Mr. Fischer slides an arm around my waist to haul me off the floor and pulls out one of the two kitchen chairs. We’ll need more soon enough if everything goes according to plan. He sits me down before grabbing a plastic bag and loading it up with ice from his freezer, then kneels before me, holding the ice to the back of my head, his brows pinched with worry. “Are you ok, angel?”
I sniffle and nod, and he scoots closer. It’s all an act. It didn’t hurt that much, but I’m going to milk it for all it’s worth.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you. It just surprised me to see you here. Forgive me?”
I nod and make a whimpering sound. Mr. Fischer scoots so close that I have to part my knees to make room for him as he fusses over me, not at all the grump he pretends to be at the office. This is the second time he’s apologized when I should be the one apologizingto himfor being a bit of a stalker.
I pout a little when he sits back on his heels and questions, “How did you get in here anyway? I locked the door.”
I sheepishly answer, “The back door was unlocked. I know you said you didn’t need the help, but I was here anyway, so I might as well put myself to work while you were in the shower.”
Mr. Fischer sucks in a breath and puts a hand over his heart. “You didn’t hear anything while I was in the shower, did you?”
I squirm and wish he would touch me again. “No, sir.”
He looks relieved for a second, though I don’t know why. Looking toward the door on the back wall of the kitchen, inset with a large window in the upper half that faces the brightening backyard, he says, “I always forget to lock that one.” And then he catches a scent in the air that has his nostrils flaring. “What’s that smell?”
My cheeks turn warm. “I made cherry pies for the party. I hear it’s your favorite.” I lean close enough to feel his breath on my lips when I say, “I made one just for you, sir. It’s warming in the oven.”
Mr. Fischer groans, licking along his bottom lip. But then he shakes his head, pats his belly, and grumbles, “I don’t like pie.”
Liar. He’s practically drooling, and I’m going to figure outwhyhe keeps lying to me. I stand and motion for him to sit in my vacant chair. Dropping the bag of ice in the kitchen sink, I pull on the red checker oven mitts I found in one of his drawers, hoping they didn’t belong to a former girlfriend of his, and pull the warm cherry pie from the oven, golden and flaky on top, smelling like heaven.
Mr. Fischer drums his fingers on the tabletop as I cut and plate a large slice, grab my bowl of homemade whipped cream from the fridge, and bring them to the table. I scoop a generous amount of cream with a spoon and plop it on top of his pie, then hand him a clean fork.
He refuses to take it. “Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t like pie,” he lies again.
I brace my hands on the table, pushing my breasts out as I stare down at him, and say coyly, “I bet you’d love my pie if you tried it, sir.”
Mr. Fischer swallows repeatedly, unbuttoning the top of his collar to pull it away from his neck. “Maybe…maybe a small bite.”
I beam at him and wait in anticipation as he finally takes the fork and cuts the teeniest, tiniest bite, skipping the whipped cream. His eyes shut as he drops his head back and savors the flavor, my lower belly fluttering at the sight. It’s the same expression he wore when he orgasmed in his office. When he finally opens his eyes, his cheeks are flush with heat.
“So…how was it, sir?”
“Delicious,” he whispers with a husky voice. “Thank you.”
My cheeks ache with the force of my smile, but then it fades when he sets his fork down on his plate and pushes it away.
“It’s even better when you get every layer,” I say, picking up his fork and cutting a larger bite before bringing it to his lips.
