Page 31 of Safer Together
~ Chapter Eleven ~
Elliot
I’m lying here, the women I love enclosed within my arms, and I can’t help but smile. Her breathing is a soft, rhythmic sound beside me. She is relaxed, finally, after the night we’ve had.
Inside I’m fuming. I’m so full of fucking anger. How did he pass my companies criminal check we perform on all employees? Unless he was already working or me when this happened? Tomorrow morning, I’m going to phone Dylan and sack him. But then again, that would be too simple, after what he did to this angel sleeping peacefully with me. He deserves to experience something along the lines of the pain he caused her: a long, drawn out torture.
The scar on Angie’s leg is large and unpretty, not from a slice, but from torn flesh. She mentioned a broken leg. The bone must have pierced through the skin. I’ve broken bones before in my life, and not once have they ever pierced my skin. This only happens from extreme pressure.
Her injuries from that sack of shit are extensive. She listed broken ribs, fractured cheek, and many more. To think of my woman in any pain makes me sick, sick to my goddam stomach. For a man to lay a hand on a woman like that, he needs his head punched in.
The smile on my lips turns from one of content, into satisfaction. A plan is unraveling in my mind. I should arrange a meeting with him at a building site, and then proceed to kick his ass from one side of the building site to the other, and then all the way back again.
However, the rational part of my brain chooses this moment to let itself be known and tells me if I do indeed perform this act that I’m picturing in my mind, then it opens me up to a whole heap of liability, and what good does that do? For him maybe, opening me up to one hell of a lawsuit, and from the way she described Dylan, I could see him taking that opening with both hands and riding it all the way to the bank.
I could afford it. I’m worth fucking billions of dollars, but that’s not the point. I have to be smart about this. One thing was for certain, though: he would never get the chance to see her, let alone touch her again. I would make sure of that.
My arm tightens around Angie and she moves. Her palm comes up to rest on my chest, her bare left-hand clenching at the fabric of my sleep shirt. I reach down with my right hand coming across to sit on top of hers.
She brings out a side of me that I want to lock away: possessiveness and protectiveness, that if unchecked, will get us both into a whole lot of trouble. I want to hurt anyone who even looks at her the wrong way. I want to keep her here at my side, never letting her out of my sight, and that’s nothing compared with how my libido turns on in her presence.
Tonight, she asked me to unzip her dress; a simple request, you would think, until I saw my vixen wearing black lace underwear. I mean fuck, I almost creamed my pants seeing her standing there in nothing else. She excused herself to the bathroom and I couldn’t, or more so wouldn’t, leave well enough alone. I followed her in and allowed myself to touch that pale skin as soft as silk. She never trembled when I kissed her full breasts, or when I trailed my hands down towards her pussy.
I would have given everything I owned to slip inside her at that moment and hear her call out my name in the throes of passion. But I’m holding onto a secret.
I’ve let Angela believe that I’m fairly innocent and that I’m waiting till marriage out of some ill-guided ideal. I’ve told her I’m not a virgin, but she has no idea to what extent. For all I know she believes I’ve only ever touched one woman before. But that’s not the case. When my ex-girlfriend cheated on me, I flipped out. I went to a local bar and took some random girl home, planned to go the entire way with her, but stopped, just before slipping into her wet, waiting pussy. Luckily, she was so incredibly drunk that she figured we had gone all the way, thanks to my incredibly agile fingers.
After it got around campus that I was single, I had women throwing themselves at me. And that was before I even cracked my first million dollars. I’ve taken woman to motel rooms from bars before, even gone home with someone on a blind date. But it never felt right. Sure, I got my rocks off, but what good is it when you feel nothing afterwards
So, I vowed to wait. To wait until marriage, if I had to. Wait for the woman who makes me feel something. But, now with Angela, I don’t want to wait anymore. I want her to be mine, in every meaning of the word. And if all goes according to plan on Christmas Day, then she will be mine. For the rest of our lives.
