Twenty-Five
ALLISON
A llison stared at the chaos before her, her heart sinking at the sight. The living room looked like a battlefield after the storm, boxes scattered everywhere, some half-open, others leaning precariously, as if daring her to touch them. When had her belongings multiplied to such an alarming degree? She’d only packed the essentials—at least, that’s what she told herself. Now, it looked like her entire life had exploded inside Angelo’s apartment.
“Oh, fuck me,” she muttered under her breath, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of stuff.
“Is that a request?” came a smooth, deep voice from behind her.
She leaped at least a foot in the air, whirling around to face the source. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she clutched her sweater as if it might calm the rapid thudding. Angelo stood there, far too close for comfort, a smug grin playing on his lips.
“Jesus Christ!” she exclaimed, glaring at him. For someone with a frame like his—tall, broad-shouldered, and undeniably solid—he had the uncanny ability to move silently, like a damn ghost. Or, as she imagined, a very large and sneaky cat.
“Ha. Ha. Very funny, Mr. Taylor,” she shot back, sarcasm dripping from every word as she tried to collect herself.
Angelo’s grin widened, a flash of amusement lighting up his dark eyes. He moved around her with a casual grace, his presence magnetic in a way that was entirely unfair for a Monday morning, and her gaze followed him.
“Oh, we’re back to formalities now, are we?” he teased, his voice low and full of mischief.
Allison’s breath hitched involuntarily as he came fully into view. His black button-down shirt was neatly pressed, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms—veiny, muscular, and distractingly masculine. Her eyes traced the lines of his arms, the kind that made her think he spent his spare time lifting cars or saving small children from burning buildings. His pants, black corduroy that clung in all the right places, were semi-casual but devastatingly effective at highlighting his long legs.
Focus, Allison. There are boxes to unpack, not thirst traps to fall into.
As if sensing her internal battle, Angelo cleared his throat dramatically, his smug smile deepening. “See something you like, Ms. Lockwood?” He crossed his arms, the motion flexing his forearms slightly, as if he knew exactly the effect they were having.
Allison mentally slapped herself, willing her gaze to stay above his shoulders. “Just wondering which poor grandpa woke up this morning wondering where the hell his pants went.”
1—0.
Really mature. Well done, me.
Angelo raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips twitching in amusement. “Funny, I was thinking the same about your sweater.”
1—1.
Her jaw tightened, a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment flooding her as she glanced down at the oversized knit sweater she wore. It was slouchy, comfortable, and, okay, maybe a bit shapeless, but she loved it.
“Touché,” she muttered, before spinning on her heel and marching further into the room, determined to escape the pull of his teasing gaze. Under her breath, she whispered to her sweater, “Don’t listen to him. You’re fabulous.”
The room was bathed in warm, golden light from the floor-to-ceiling windows, the rising sun spilling across the sleek surfaces. It should’ve felt welcoming, but the monochromatic decor—black couch, black coffee table, black everything—gave it the vibe of a chic vampire lair.
“You need color in here,” she called over her shoulder, running a hand over the cool, dark surface of the coffee table. “I’m glad I packed my couch cushions. You might as well be living in a dungeon.”
Angelo shrugged, sinking onto his black leather couch with a grace that made her scowl. How could anyone that large move so smoothly? “A stylish dungeon, at least.”
She rolled her eyes, gesturing to the mountain of boxes surrounding them. “What are we going to do about all this?”
“I have no clue,” Angelo replied, completely unbothered by the mess. He tapped his phone lazily as if the scene before them wasn’t a logistical nightmare. “But I think we’re going to need some help.”
Allison raised an eyebrow, arms crossed as she glanced at him skeptically. “And who, exactly, is going to help us at—” she glanced at the clock on the wall, groaning as she realized the time, “—the crack of dawn on a Monday?”
Without missing a beat, Angelo’s fingers danced across his phone screen. He shot her a smirk that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “I have an idea.”
“Why does that sound ominous?” she muttered, narrowing her eyes at him. His ideas rarely meant anything good for her sanity.
Angelo’s smirk widened into a full-blown grin, the kind that had trouble written all over it. “Relax, Pinkie. It’s nothing illegal.” He paused, looking almost too pleased with himself. “Probably.”
That did nothing to calm her nerves. “If you’re about to hire some sketchy Craigslist movers, I swear—”
“Please,” he interrupted, shooting her an exaggerated look of offense. “Give me some credit. I called someone you trust.”
Allison blinked, taken aback. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll see,” he said cryptically, still typing away on his phone.
She groaned, already dreading whatever scheme he had up his sleeve. “This is going to be a disaster, isn’t it?”
Angelo stood up, stretching his arms above his head in a way that made his muscles pull at the fabric of his shirt. It was ridiculous how attractive someone could be while simply existing. “Only one way to find out.”
“I hate it when you say things like that,” Allison muttered, but a small part of her couldn’t help but feel a twinge of excitement at the impending chaos.
“No,” Allison blurted the moment Angelo’s ‘idea’ materialized at the door. “No way in hell.”
“Aw, come on, shrimp.”
Her brother, Johnathan, stood in the doorway, smirking down at her with that irritating big-brother energy that she hadn’t missed at all. He was dressed casually— too casually for her brother, who usually looked like he’d just walked off a corporate battlefield. The light blue polo shirt, black pants, and sneakers felt almost surreal.
Wait, sneakers? Who is this man?
“Aren’t you going to give your big brother a hug?” Johnathan’s grin widened as he leaned against the doorframe like he hadn’t just appeared out of nowhere.
Allison was still too gobsmacked to respond. How Angelo had even gotten Johnathan’s number was beyond her. The idea that Angelo had not only texted her eldest brother but that John had actually shown up? Her brain was short-circuiting.
Angelo, meanwhile, was clearly enjoying the spectacle. His snickering behind her was like nails on a chalkboard. He looked like a schoolboy who had successfully placed a whoopee cushion under her chair.
“Did I… miss something?” Allison finally managed to ask, her eyes bouncing between the two men like she was watching the world’s weirdest sports match. “When did this happen?”
Angelo grinned even wider. “I think you broke her, John.”
“John?” Allison echoed. Her mind felt like it was lagging five seconds behind reality. The last time these two had been in the same room—at least to her knowledge—they’d barely tolerated each other. Now they were on a first-name basis?
Since-a-when?
Johnathan smirked as if they were all in on some great joke—except, clearly, she wasn’t. “What? I wanted to surprise you,” he said with a shrug. “Consider me a very efficient moving crew.”
“Oh, yeah,” she muttered, still trying to wrap her head around this. “Because that’s exactly what I needed today—you showing up.”
“Ali, you wound me,” Johnathan replied, but his smirk remained firmly in place. “You really need to get better at surprise hugs.”
“What’s going on?” Allison demanded, finally pulling herself together. “Since when are you two all buddy-buddy?”
Johnathan waved his hand as if to brush off her concerns. “We’re not buddies. We’re just getting along.” His tone was so nonchalant it made her want to scream.
Angelo, still leaning smugly against the wall, decided to chime in. “You remember that lunch we had? The one where your brother and I, um, didn’t exactly hit it off?”
Allison snorted. “‘Didn’t hit it off’ is putting it lightly. You both acted like territorial lions fighting over a gazelle. It was embarrassing.”
Angelo winced but pressed on. “Right. Well, we thought about it afterward and realized we hadn’t handled it well. So, John called me up and asked for a do-over.”
Her eyes flicked back to her brother, who nodded as if this explanation made perfect sense. “A coffee run,” Johnathan confirmed. “It went surprisingly well, actually.”
“Surprisingly well?” Allison repeated, her voice rising in pitch. “You two hated each other.”
“ Hate is a strong word,” Johnathan said smoothly. “We just had differences of opinion.”
“On literally everything,” she snapped, rubbing her temples. “Okay, but why are you here now? Isn’t there a company somewhere waiting for you to boss it around?”
“I cleared my morning to help you out,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Family first, right?”
“Since when?” she grumbled, but she felt the sting of gratitude somewhere underneath the exasperation.
“I’m not the villain you make me out to be,” Johnathan teased, giving her a light punch on the shoulder. “Now, let’s stop talking and start unpacking. This place isn’t going to organize itself.”
Angelo chuckled, but Allison was already mentally exhausted by the testosterone-filled camaraderie happening in her once-peaceful morning. “I still don’t get how you two went from nearly fighting to—” she waved her hand between them,“—whatever this is.”
Angelo nodded towards the stairs, clearly ready to move on. “Why don’t we talk upstairs for a minute? I’ll explain.”
Allison narrowed her eyes. “Fine. But this better not be some trick to get me to carry more boxes.”
She followed him up the sleek, modern staircase, trying to hide her growing curiosity about the rest of his place. The open layout of the living room gave way to an even more impressive view of his home—or, as she liked to call it, the stylish black-and-white prison. The kitchen to the left was a designer’s dream, all stainless steel and marble countertops. It looked like the kind of kitchen where someone else cooked for you, not the kind you actually used.
When they reached the second floor— if anyone were to have a two-story penthouse, it would be Angelo Taylor —Allison’s eye twitched. “No chairs in the dining room?”
Angelo glanced back with a shrug. “I haven’t gotten around to it.”
“Yeah, because dining tables are just for decoration, right?”
He smirked but didn’t respond, leading her down a short hallway to what was, of course, a black-and-white bedroom. The king-sized bed in the center was perfectly made, the kind of bed you’d see in a magazine, not in someone’s actual home. No personal touches, no knick-knacks. Just pure, sterile minimalism.
“Sit,” Angelo said, nodding toward the bed. “You’ve had a rough few days.”
Allison sat, her body grateful for the chance to rest, but her mind was still spinning. “Okay. Explain. What’s with the bromance?”
Angelo shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck—something she found oddly adorable. “I didn’t want to leave things bad with your brother. It didn’t feel right, especially since… well, you know.”
Allison felt her heart soften. He’d done it for her.
“Let me guess,” she said, smiling slightly. “Now you two are getting along fine.”
Angelo chuckled. “If by ‘fine’ you mean I’ve survived coffee with him once, then yeah, we’re ‘fine.’”
AKA friends.
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the warmth spreading through her chest. The man had gone out of his way to make peace with her brother. That counted for something. Something big.
He scratched the nape of his neck shyly, glancing everywhere but at her, and she might have cooed if her mind hadn’t been preoccupied. His biceps flexed as he continued scratching, and once again, Allison was struck by how ridiculously gorgeous this man was.
She swallowed audibly, causing Angelo to stiffen and finally look up at her. His eyes were the exact color of molten chocolate and gold, even from this distance, and she couldn’t look away. She felt trapped, like a fly caught in a spider’s web, helpless and awaiting her imminent doom.
Damn, I’m in deep trouble if I’m waxing poetic about flies.
“We should—” she began, her voice faltering as she cleared her throat, trying to push past the sudden tightness that gripped it. She tried again, her cheeks flushing. “We should probably head back down. John will think we’re…”
She trailed off, her gaze dropping. Angelo’s eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her pulse race. He took a slow step closer, his movements deliberate and predatory.
“He’ll think we’re what, Allison?” His voice dropped an octave, growing impossibly deeper. She shuddered under his gaze, which had darkened to the color of wet November soil.
She swallowed hard. The words stuck in her throat, her resolve wavering.
“No.” His voice was suddenly right at her ear, his breath warm and almost unbearable. “Your mind is brilliant, and I love seeing it work. But right now,” he whispered, lowering himself on his knees, his gaze flickering between her eyes and her lips, “you need to answer me, pet.” His tone was low, almost a growl, and Allison’s thighs clenched in response. From the flicker of his expression, he noticed.
That nickname again. She cursed inwardly, feeling a mix of frustration and embarrassment. How was she reacting to a nickname that seemed to set women back decades? Though she doubted many of those women had a six-foot-four, half-Greek man like Angelo whispering to them like this. She pitied them.
Angelo’s hands were on her then, his touch featherlight as he trailed from her neck down her arms to her waist and finally to her thighs. Each touch left a trail of fire on her skin, and she felt every place he’d touched ignite with heat.
“Allison,” he growled, his light touch turning to a fierce grip that made her shiver. The fire spread from her chest to her toes, and she would have willingly turned to ash if only he would touch her higher.
It took a moment for her to remember she was supposed to speak. “He might think we’re doing something… inappropriate.” Her voice was barely a whisper, almost lost in the silence of the room.
Angelo chuckled, seemingly unbothered by her quiet response. His hand moved higher while his other remained firmly on her thigh. There was something undeniably hot about the way his large hands gripped her, unlike any experience she’d had before.
“Allison.” He squeezed her thigh, pulling her back from her wandering thoughts. His eyes were patient, though she could feel the heat in his gaze.
“Well, this could be considered inappropriate,” she said, trying to sound more confident.
“Oh, could it now?” Angelo’s tone remained playful, undeterred by her haughty remark.
Allison’s frustration bubbled up. “Yes. You’re holding onto my thighs. And you’re very close. If anyone were to walk in—”
“If anyone were to walk in,” he interrupted with a smug grin, “they’d see exactly what’s happening right now.”
“And what’s that?” Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest heaving as Angelo’s breath fanned across her face.
“I’m taking care of my woman .”
The words hit her like a jolt. She’d never been called anything like that before. It was possessive in a way that was new to her, but coming from Angelo’s warm voice, it felt oddly… right.
“Your woman?” she echoed, her voice trembling.
He nodded, his hand inching closer to where she needed him, but pausing just before he touched her. Her panties were already ruined, and he hadn’t even done anything to her yet.
“You’re mine, Allison.” His gaze darkened, his grip tightening. “Maybe not officially, and I admit I didn’t plan on it happening like this, but you are mine. That’s my baby inside you. These are my hands on you, my voice making you hot and heavy,” he whispered, making her stop breathing altogether.
“But you—”
“What, sweet girl? I don’t know you?” He laughed darkly at her nod, a dangerous sound that stirred butterflies in her belly. “Didn’t I prove you wrong the other day? Let’s refresh your memory.”
Angelo’s hand moved again, finally touching her. The light brush of his fingers over her clothed center sent a jolt of electricity through her entire body, and she gasped.
“What are you doing?”
“I already told you. I’m taking care of my woman,” he said, his tone smug. His touch grew firmer, moving over her center in a teasing dance, playing with her, never really on the little bundle of nerves because of her stupid pants. She felt on the edge of bursting into flames, desperate for his touch. “Say the word and I’ll stop.”
He knew she didn’t want him to stop, knew she was ready to beg for more. The thought of having to say it aloud made her shiver.
“What will it be, Allison?”
He was so close now, almost there, and she needed him to touch her, to make her explode.
She caved.
“Touch me. Please, Angelo.”