Angel
A N G E L
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D a n i W y a t t
Copyright © 2016
by Dani Wyatt
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,
events and incidents are either the products
of the author’s imagination
or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
Cover Credit PopKitty
Editing Nicci Hayden
A NOTE TO MY READERS:
I appreciate every one of you.
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This one’s for you SW.
Dedicated to the naughty little girl inside us all.
Take care of her and she will take care of you.
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MAGNUS
“Y
ou are wound too fucking tight, man. When’s the last time you got laid anyway? Go find some fucking chick and just get it done!” Erik smirks at me as he spreads his fingers on the polished birch. The desk used to be mine, and it was big even for me. Erik isn’t small, not by everyday standards, but he looks like a toddler playing like he’s some big shot behind that desk.
He’s wearing a fucking idiot grin, and I have half a mind to wipe it off with a quick shot to his jaw.
What he doesn’t know is I get laid a few times a day. In my mind at least and by my own hand. I got laid a couple hours ago. Laying back in my bed, my fist around my rock hard shaft, trying to talk myself out of jerking off for the second time before six a.m. as I thought about my angel.
I lost that battle, just as I’ve lost hundreds exactly the same over the last few months. As I gripped myself, squeezing and jacking up and down with the sheets tossed off my body, my thoughts had drifted to what her lips would taste like, the way they curve and stay full when she smiles. Thinking of that gorgeous smile as I would sink my tongue so deep inside her I become part of her fucking DNA. The image of myself placing her on her knees in front of me, her willing eyes looking to me for reassurance...
My fantasy unfolds with the first brush of her tongue on the slit of my cock, drops of pre-cum seeping out just for her. The things I would say to her. How she would smile when I told her she was my good girl... The weight of her magnificent tits in my hands.
The taste of her pussy. Her legs spreading willingly for me. Then that smile again.
Every time it happens, I imagine teaching her, guiding her, showing her everything I want her to know about sex. About how I was made to please her and her me. Making her mine in ways most men would think perverse, but it’s not. The ways I want her are beautiful. The ways I wish I could have her. Take care of her. Possess her beyond anything most rational men would understand.
My Angel.
My babygirl.
But it’s what I need. It’s what I’ve always needed, I just didn’t know it until I met her.
I would tell her to open her legs for me, order her to play with herself so I know exactly what she likes, how to reward her when she is a good girl. Fuck, I gripped my cock so tight, thinking of how her pussy would feel. My stroke sessions are more fits of lust-filled anger than pleasure. I want her so badly it hurts. I need the release because I’m sure I will never truly have her and that is my own private torture.
Pulses shoot up my cock, thick and hard simply from the memory of my morning fantasy, and I shift in the chair where I sit facing the front of the desk, hoping my brother won’t notice the hard-on that is beginning to fill the front of my pants.
That’s never happened before at the mere thought of a woman. Hell, I haven’t gotten hard for anyone in so many years I don’t even bother to count anymore. Until three months ago, and my cock seems to be eighteen years old again. Wiley and half hard twenty-four seven.
I rub an open hand over my jaw and mouth, unconsciously grooming my beard in an attempt to regain control of my pulse. I twist my neck and let out a huff as I try to shake away the endless fantasies of her, a girl who shows absolutely zero interest in me. A girl I can’t get out of my head.
My angel. My Cassie.
The four words out of her mouth that first day I met her told me I was a goner. You would have thought they were more provocative than, ‘Can I help you?’. But that’s all it took.
“I even have a few girls in mind.” Erik soils my daydream. “My cast-offs, shall we say. I’m sure they would be happy to take one for the team.” My baby brother doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up sometimes.
“Fuck you, Erik.” I point a meaty finger in his direction. “Getting laid is not the answer to everything. And those women should kick your ass not sleep with you. You need to learn to treat them with more respect.”
I turn away so that I won’t see his reaction. This is the exact same room I walked out of last year. Nothing has changed, and everything has changed. Erik has managed to turn what was my center of organization, my control room, into something more chaotic than I could ever find comfortable. But it doesn’t matter. He’s the Chief Executive Officer of Foundation Demolition now.
Right or wrong, that chapter of my life is over.
“I just think getting laid couldn’t hurt but okay, bad joke.” He scribbles on a yellow legal pad in front of him then his eyes snap up to me with something I think might be pity. “Look, you weren’t wrong about letting the demo go forward that day. You did everything right.” Erik puts down the pen and drums his fingers on the desk, watching me as I avert my own line of sight from his. He knows me well enough to realize I’m still stuck on that fucking day but him bringing it up every time we see each other pisses me off.
He’s ramping up for another lecture on how I should come back to the business.With a thrust of my chin I set him straight. “Well, I clearly wasn’t
right
either. I don’t want to talk about it.” My fingers squeeze my knees and I shake my head. “We’ve run circles around this and it’s better this way. You’re doing a great job and I’m not bringing unnecessary attention to the business.” I shift back and forth in the chair, bring a palm up to run a few hard strokes over my head and as belly twists tight. I want to be somewhere else.
Erik’s upper lip twitches the way it does when he’s nervous. “You were the best though. No one knew how to rig a building like you did. It was almost magical, how you just knew where each impact should go. Every detonation in the right order. Like you were conducting a symphony of destruction. Dad taught us both well, but you had something else. Like Rain Man for building implosions.”
“Except being the best didn’t save that girl, did it?” The harshness in my voice reminds us both how fresh the pain is for me.
Pain
. I shake my head thinking of the word, trying to clear it, wondering how I can think what I’m feeling equals pain. I’m fucking alive. This isn’t pain, it’s just emotion. I’m an asshole.
Erik’s chest rises and falls with a deep breath and he rolls a pen back and forth under his fingers, but I’m done here. I shoot him a look that says “no arguments” as I grunt and push off on the chair, rising to my feet.
My
foot,
I should say.
Singular. My constant reminder of that day’s error in judgement.
“Do you need anything else?” I clasp my hands together, rubbing them until the friction creates heat. My forehead draws tight as the sun assaults my eyes looking out the window so that I don’t have to see his concern. We’re on the seventh floor of the Foundation building, looking across the Detroit River to the Canadian Club sign. Somehow it helps settle me. That sign has been in my memory since Dad had his first office on this site. Seems like a thousand years ago.
Foundation Demo’s first location was nothing more than a single story, brick square, with bars on the windows and no running water. Two more office buildings were added to the group after that first one, then seven years ago we built this glass and metal monstrosity to house the new, international team of demolition experts. We’re the best, no one doubts that.
“No, I don’t need anything else. What I still fucking need is for you to let this
other
stuff go.” Erik has a habit of thinking he’s right about everything and he’s the one that needs to learn to let stuff go. We’ve gone a few rounds over the years because he refuses to see things any way but his. “I mean, fifty thousand to another rehab?
Fifty thousand
? Do you even know how much that is?” He rubs the back of his neck as I shift my weight off my prosthetic as I move behind the chair. The new one they just fitted me with is still a bit stiff and it’s digging into what’s left of my calf muscle.
I do know how much money that is, and it’s not like I don’t have the cash. He’s just pissed because he sees it as a waste. Never mind he’s the one that has a garage full of vintage motorcycles, a Porsche 911 Turbo and two Aston Martin Db5s. He fancies himself the James Bond of building demolition. Somehow those trinkets are worthy of the expense in his mind, but not my spending money on trying to fucking help people out of a death spiral.