Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Guilt swallows me whole in under a second.
How can I be so bitchy to someone going out of their way to comfort me?
“Christian, I’m—”
“Sleep, Angel. Anything that needs to be said can wait until the morning.”
“But—”
“Sleep,” he demands again before shuffling in closer.
The heat of his body curled around mine is my undoing.
It usually takes hours for me to settle after a nightmare.
Days to forgive myself for purposely hurting someone.
Tonight, both are forgotten within minutes.
17
CHRISTIAN
Angel sighs when my brows furrow while staring at my reflection for the umpteenth time this morning. I thought platinum blond made me look washed out. It has nothing on the brown goop covering my head now. It could be because my cheeks are inflamed, but I’m skeptical.
Personal space isn’t a given when you visit a barber. Angel popped the invisible bubble over an hour ago. I’m not complaining. I had no qualms about invading her space last night when her pained sob reached the living room. I just wish my cock would remember how horrifically she berated him. Then perhaps I wouldn’t look like a fool with no control over his dick.
I could cut him some slack. He did a remarkable job acting disinterested last night. He didn’t poke Angel’s ass until she awoke with a stretch a little after 8 a.m. He’s merely enduring the brunt of my annoyance since nothing could deflate his eagerness last night but a quick hand job.
Yes, I stroked my cock last night after sulking to the bathroom.
Yes, Angel’s beautiful face and tasty lips featured the entire time.
No, we’re not going to discuss how fucked in the head that makes me.
Another sigh parts Angel’s plump lips when our eyes collide in the mirror and she notices the concern in mine. “If you don’t want bright-pink hair, we have to go brown before turning it back to red. Every true redhead knows this.”
When I remain quiet, still skeptical, she spins around the swivel chair we loaned from under the kitchen island.
Once I am no longer facing the vanity mirror, she continues placing the last of the dye in my hair. She’s either worked as a hairdresser in a prior life or changes her hair coloring regularly, because she parts my hair in sections like Nina’s hairdresser did during her numerous weekly appointments.
Nina is my ex. During our six-month courtship, she visited the local salon as often as she did the primary suite of my best friend’s penthouse.
This is one of the many downfalls of taking the honesty route. You share too much, and within hours, you go from whining about your ex to stroking your cock in a once-stranger’s shower.
“Did I get it in your eye?” Angel asks, mistaking my sigh as painful.
I shake my head. My sigh was painful, just more in a mental sense than physical.
Although she is checking that I am okay, Angel continues badgering me. It seems to be her go-to coping mechanism when she’s snowed under with emotions—that and silence. “I won’t need to dye your brows if you’ll sit still for two seconds. You’re squirming like a fifth grader.”
I’m squirming because even on a stool, I tower over her, meaning the nipples I was seconds from tasting last night before she stomped on the brakes scratch my arm and chest with every stroke of the dye’s brush.
I’ve been hard for the past hour, and my dick isn’t as appreciative of the brutal bite of my zipper as my astute head was last night when I slipped between her sheets. It wants to use her perky tits and sweet-smelling pussy as inspiration again. Except this time, I’m going to imagine her riding me from above instead of the reverse cowgirl position my deviant head put her in last night.
“Here. Use my hips as an anchor.” The situation in my jeans worsens when Angel grabs my hands and places them on her hips before she straddles my thigh. Unlike my wicked thoughts in the shower last night, she’s wearing panties. I can still feel the heat of her pussy, though. “I’d offer to get you a dining room chair, but they’re also armless, so you’ll still flap around like a fish on a hook.”
I try to keep the wagon on the trail by using her analogy as a conversation opener. “You don’t seem like the type to fish.”
She half scoffs, half pffts, fanning my face with her coffee breath. We shared breakfast this morning like nothing happened last night—neither her brutal ego slaying nor her nightmare—and then we entered the bathroom for a joint operation to return my hair to its pre-peroxide days. “I wasn’t given much choice when I was a child. My father was obsessed with fishing. Anywhere he went, I went.”
With all the blood in my body still surging to my dick, my tact slips down a slippery slope. “Was?”