Page 51 of His Angel

“Fuck, you’re as sweet as I knew you would be,” he admits.

I’m struck speechless as his hooded gaze meets mine. Reaching up, I thread my fingers through his hair, pulling his lips down to meet mine. My taste is sharp on his tongue, and mixed with the coffee he had earlier on, it’s different, pleasant, as I tangle and taste. His hand comes back to my nape as he angles the kiss deeper, pressing his thick erection against me.

“I’m not fucking you in the woods again,” he says, pulling back. “The next time you come, I want to be front and fucking centre.”

“In your dreams,” I reply, but there’s no strength to it, no conviction. Our panted breaths intermingled as the seconds tick by.

“Or yours.” He smirks. “But I expect pictures.”

I can’t help the laugh that tumbles from me as my knees finally strengthen and there’s half a chance I can walk out of here not looking like I’ve just been fucked in the woods. Again.

“We’d better get back,” he says, bending down and picking up the torch. “People are waiting for us.”

I nod my agreement, taking the torch and the olive branch it offers and pushing back any and all thoughts of red nails on his white shirt. She might be here for whoever she can get, but he isn’t, and with that thought settled in my mind, and a serious post-orgasm haze, I let him guide us back to the pool.

Cheering calls out from the house as we duck out of the cover of the trees.I guess they got sick of waiting.

“Shall we?” he asks, holding his arm out for me as I swap out the now muddy ballet flats for the heels we left by the pool.Planning ahead.My legs are still wobbly as I accept his arm and the two of us head to the house, sliding discreetly through the French doors.

“I knew there had to be a good reason for missing your girl’s big entrance,” Jacob comments idly from the kitchen, his assessing gaze astute.

Nick steers us in that direction as Jacob finds us both drinks, but I decline. “Never accept an opened bottle. Girl code,” I explain.

“Good thinking,” he agrees, throwing his down the sink too and heading to one of the electric coolers laying around, pulling out a bottle of Moet. With a smile and a shake of his head, Nick grabs half a dozen glasses from a cupboard as Jacob opens the bottle. “If you see me open it, that’s okay, isn’t it?” he checks.

“It is.”

Awareness prickles over my skin as Nick’s gaze flicks to someone over my shoulder. There are plenty of people here, it’s a party, after all, but the hands on my waist give me a moment's hesitation until Leo kisses the side of my neck and steps back.

“You look… gorgeous,” he compliments.

“Ravished.” Jacob grins, handing me a glass, knowing in his eyes.

“Ravishing,” Wyatt corrects, plucking two glasses from the counter and handing one to Ruby, who sneaks in quietly beside him.

“Yeah, whatever. You look fine,” Ruby says. “Who has seen Tamsin’s dress, though? Nowthatis amazing.”

“Oh, she did the thing?”Already. “With the thing?” I ask, gesturing to the long train we added.

“Absolute fire.” Ruby nods.

“You’ve all seen it?” I ask, looking at the guys who nod and shrug like it’s no big deal. “My fingers are still sore from all the time we’ve spent on that damn thing.”

“Wait, you guys made that?” Ruby asks, edging closer. “Like, the two of you, together, by hand?”

“Yep.” I nod. “It’s Tamsin’s design.”

I don’t know if it’s the drink she’s barely touched, her proximity to Wyatt, or being away from Amy’s watchful eye, but she’s almost another person at this moment. She’s interested, excited, and engaged. Running with it, I ask if she’d like to come and take a closer look, and to my astonishment, she says yes, lighting up.

Well fucking hell.

The temptation to reach up and kiss Nick before we leave hits me right in the gut. It would be so easy, so straightforward, but with the feel of Leo’s hands still branded on my waist and Wyatt’s helpful optimism just a breath away, I don’t. Instead, I squeeze his hand before Ruby and I walk away, champagne in hand, weaving our way through the guys and the rest of the partygoers.

“I didn’t know you were into design,” I comment, attempting to make conversation.

“I’m not really,” she admits. “I’m into black, and that dress transformation was spectacular.”

Eventually, we find them holding court in the den, chatting with some people I’ve never seen before. The train glitters and shimmers, even in this rubbish lighting, and as she flicks it out, the pride is indescribable.

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