Chapter Forty-Two #4
“Is this how we’re beginning the date? With you criticizing me?” I smirk.
He’s clearly trying very hard to stifle his own amusement. “Seems pretty on-brand for us.”
“If you’re not naked, then come out and let me see what you have on,” I rasp. He continues to give me one of his little glares, and it’s so cute, I physically must touch before I expire. “Don’t make me come in there and drag you out by your hair, baby bird.”
Of course I’m teasing—mostly—but I know he likes the domineering possession. Even if I weren’t able to see it plainly on the flush in his perfect face, last night was all the indication I needed.
I’d been balancing on a tightrope with Angel, between knowing he’s never truly been comfortable with real physical intimacy, wanting to respect his boundaries, and being, well…
me. Predatory in my yearning to unleash my every primal desire on him, because it has felt like a natural instinct in me from the moment I laid eyes on him at Edge to claim him, inside and out.
Our first night together in the cage was a revelation; learning about who he is, his own gender fluidity, and what that means for my endless ambition to endow him with the pleasure he craves, but has never received.
But then last night, he was taunting the animal in me. It became clear that he wanted the aggression I’d been holding back…
And he got it. In spades.
Oddly enough, though, it felt nothing like the ways I’ve dominated the bodies of my sexual partners in the past. This was different…
It’s different with Angel. I acknowledge that, and I’m prepared to explore it further, despite how foreign this whole concept is to me, and how inadequately equipped I feel I’d be as a partner.
True, I’ve never tried, but still… I think I’m probably the last person who could be considered boyfriend material. At least on this island.
And yet I just… want. I want so much more from Angel than I’ve ever wanted before, and it’s kind of terrifying. But also intriguing beyond what I ever expected from another person—let alone the son of the man I killed and replaced.
Angel eventually, and visibly stubbornly, gives up his coquette and steps out of the bathroom, sort of fluttering into the middle of the open space that is his little studio apartment of captivity.
The place is actually quite nice, naturally. I wouldn’t dream of having him sleep on a cot like in the prison. This is my home, and I want even my guests—and prisoners—to feel comfortable.
That said, Angel is different. I had a specific idea in mind when designing his cage; cozy luxury. Understated elegance surrounded by flowers and birds. Like a secret garden, housing the most beautiful little bird known to humanity.
And just like every other time I’ve seen him, the wind is knocked right out of me.
I almost cough, as if someone just whacked me in the gut with a six-foot-one, one-hundred-sixty-pound carving of heart-stopping jaw-dropping beauty.
From the shiny shoulder-length hair, like a silky bronze waterfall, to the perfect symmetry of features in a pointed nose, high cheekbones, full, plush lips, and a jawline delicate in its severity.
Eyes of deep green, glittering like emeralds straight from the earth. And that body…
Jesus, it would make no difference in binary, or not. There has never been a more exquisitely sculpted frame. I’m positive.
Angel is shuffling, so clearly uncertain of who they want to be in this moment. Used to playing the part, shapeshifting to blend into whichever situation fits best. I just wish they could see themselves the way I do.
An ethereal being who soars so far above the labels and superficialities of this world.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” He grumbles, and in that one snippy yet curious question masking mild insecurity, I can already tell.
That’s Angel.
It nearly knocks me over, the way I can feel him. My precious little bird…
Chuckling wistfully, I shake my head, unlocking the door. “No reason, pajarito.” Opening the door, I hold out my hand. “Come, sweet thing.”
He purses his lips, giving me one last lingering look of grumpy disbelief that this is actually happening before trotting over and taking my hand.
As soon as his fingers slip through mine, I’m hit with a wave of tingles, like an electrical current in my bloodstream, beginning at the point of contact and working its way throughout my entire body.
My heart is pumping faster, the high of him fogging my senses.
Do I really have to…
Angel tilts his head, gazing up at me. I take his chin in my fingers, tipping him to me.
I brush his lips with mine and whisper, “Lo siento.”
Brows furrowed, he’s puzzled for only a moment. Until the cuffs click around his wrists.
“What the fuck?!” He barks, fighting away from me.
But it’s too late. I’ve already secured his arms behind his back with some very nice leather cuffs, I might add. These are no metal wrist-rashers.
He should be perfectly comfortable.
“Are you fucking serious right now??” Angel jerks at the chain between the cuffs, glaring at me like I’m Lucifer himself.
Unfortunately for him, it’s a look I’m quite familiar with, so I’m impervious to it.
“I’m sorry, my darling, but please try to put yourself in my shoes.” I approach him slowly, pulling the collar and leash off my belt.
His eyes fall to the items in my hand, and he backs up, seething through clenched teeth, “I can’t. Twenty thousand dollar custom Italian loafers aren’t really my style.” I snicker. “And I have no desire to empathize with an evil fucking asshole.”
My lips pull into a purposeful pout. “Love, please. It’s just a precaution—”
“You’re fucked!” He snaps. “You say I’m not like the others, you say I’m not a pet, a slave, and yet you want to walk me around on a fucking leash?! For a date!”
He’s so worked up, his chest and shoulders are jumping with his heavy breaths. I wish it didn’t look so damn good on him, but his torso is truly immaculate.
And he’s just so sexy when he’s mad…
“Give me some credit.” My head slants pointedly. “The leash can come off for the date.”
He gapes at me in silence for a few heaving seconds. “You have to be the most deranged person who’s ever fucking existed.”
“That’s excessive, Angelito,” I grumble, stepping up to him.
He keeps backing up, and I’m sort of chasing him around the cell.
It’s ridiculous, and eventually I stop with a huff. “Do you want to call off the date?”
The look I’m giving him is admonishingly gaslighting, but beneath the mask of indifference, I’m panicking.
I really don’t want to call off the date. But this is imperative. Allowing him freedom so soon is a dangerous precedent to set.
Angel stares, only a few feet of space separating us. I can smell him, and it’s excruciating. His scent is the headiest combination of floral, earthy, and sweet syrupy decadence. Like jasmine, Palo Santo, and vanilla frosting. I could lick him for hours.
But that won’t happen if he decides to call it off…
Green eyes sparkling back at me, he seems to have lost most of the hostility. But I prefer it to what I’m getting now… Disappointment.
“No,” he mumbles, blinking. “I don’t. I was… really looking forward to tonight.” His tone is sad, weaseling between my ribs.
“Me too,” I whisper. Tentatively, I step forward. “Please, pajarito? Do this for me?”
His throat bobs. “Why would I do anything for you? I… hate you. Remember?”
My lips quirk. “Yo se. That’s why I’m doing this, baby. How else am I supposed to date someone who wants to kill me?” A tiny amused breath escapes him. I take another step. “I have to protect myself from dangerous, sexy prisoners I’m desperate to have dinner with.”
Moving in closer, I observe a flash of delight before he promptly covers it up by rolling his eyes.
“Ugh,” he mutters. “You are literally the worst.”
“Mm not quite,” I croon. “I could be much more forceful, pajarito.”
His pupils dilate, betraying his outrage. A rumble comes from within my chest.
Or maybe that’s what he wants…
Grasping him by the throat, I squeeze just enough that he whines.
“Diablo…” he rasps.
“Angel…” I purr, fastening the collar around his neck.
He’s flushed as he whispers, “I… hate you…” Attempting to convince himself, and me, of this.
Humming, I drop a soft kiss on his soft, fluttering mouth. “Good.”
Backing up, I wrap the leash around my fist. He blinks away the haze and scowls. I give the least a gentle tug, jerking him forward just a bit.
He gasps, then growls, “Smug fucking puta.”
“Sounds about right. Ready?”
I don’t wait for him to answer, sauntering out of the cell, yanking him along. He quickly realizes that it’s interest to keep up, which he does, falling into step beside me as I walk us in the direction of the back stairs.
And again, I’m momentarily unsure whether I’m bringing him this way to protect him, or hide him.
Do I want to avoid having to answer questions from any of the dozens of cartel men wandering around the first-floor about why I’m walking a cuffed prisoner up to my floor on a leash?
Or do I want to keep Angel all to myself, because the thought of anyone else even looking at him in any sort of appraising way ever again makes me feel so much more murderous than I already do?
“You look beautiful,” I murmur, distracting myself by focusing on him. He peeks up at me. “This outfit is what you were all worried about?”
“I wasn’t worried,” he grumbles.
“No? Then what were you?” I smirk, attempting to watch where we’re walking while subtly checking him out.
He looks fucking mouthwatering, as always. Wearing a skin-tight black lace body suit that’s sleeveless, and stops at about mid-thigh, highlighting the definition in his torso, and his long, smooth legs.
Fucking delicious.
“I don’t know… maybe just nervous.”
My chin dips. “About what?”