Page 13 of Gaga for the Gargoyle
I’m acting like a cat in heat.
But the way he called me a naughty kitten? It was sexy as hell!
I’m definitely being naughty.
My overactive hormones seem to be overshadowing my fear of heights. I feel safe in Xander’s arms. His words and nearness calm me in a way I can’t explain. It made me forget we were hundreds of feet in the air. Or would it be dozens of feet? I don’t even know, but the longer we hover, my body flush with his, the more my fear transforms intoexcitement.
Xander flies us a few blocks away to a high-rise. He must be rich. This building is full of luxury units. I remember seeing a listing for a unit when I was apartment hunting that was three times more than what I pay for rent. Mybuilding is an old, pre-war walk-up with appliances that haven’t been updated in the last twenty years. At least I live close enough to work that I can walk.
We land on the roof—smoother than a plane landing on a runway—and I attempt to dismount the gargoyle, but he tightens his arms around me.
“I can walk now.”
“I know,” he chuckles, and the deep, hearty sound vibrates throughout my body.
“I’m too heavy. Just let me walk.”
“Does it look like I’m straining? Can you see me sweating?”
My hands mindlessly run up and down his muscular arms. They’re massive. Okay, fine. I suppose he’s got that supernatural strength going for him.
“Convinced?” He raises his brow—perfectly sculptured like the rest of his body.
I realize I’m still petting him and squeezing his muscles. I can’t help it. His skin has such a unique texture. It’s soft despite appearing hard, and it’s coated with fur-like hair.
“Sorry, I’ve never been carried around before.”
“Ever?”
“Not as an adult, no.”
I’ve been fat my whole life. There are things I’ve never experienced like being picked up by a man and carriedaround as if I weigh nothing. Things I’ve been limited to because I was either too self-conscious (like wearing crop tops out in public), or because my body wouldn’t allow it (like being comfortable on airplanes or amusement park rides).
These things used to bother me. I let the world tell me I wasn’t worthy, and then my ex-husband’s verbal abuse solidified those views. It wasn’t until my fortieth birthday last year, when Farrah and I took a train into New York City to celebrate, that everything changed.
I wore a skintight dress. I put on make-up and cut my hair and dyed the grays away. For once, I cared about my appearance—instead of letting Brandon convince me I wasn’t hot enough to care—and I looked fucking amazing.
That night, I had men hitting on me left and right. And even though I wasn’t at a point to let them take me home, I still felt beautiful. That’s when I realized my whole life had been a lie. It was never about how the world viewed me, but how I viewed myself.
“Evangeline.” Xander’s deep voice startles me, and I jolt in his arms. “Where did you go?”
“Sorry,” I whisper.
He walks us into an elevator and pushes a button. The doors close, and he presses my back against the wall, then reaches up and clutches my chin between his fingers.
“Never be sorry.”
I smile.
“What if I do something that deserves an apology?”
He leans in and rubs his nose up and down my cheek.
“Then you atone.”
He presses his velvet soft lips to my neck, and I gasp when he sucks and laps his tongue over the skin.
“Is this okay?”
