Page 52 of His Relentless Angel

As soon as we make it inside the similarly decorated navy suite, I grab my overnight bag and step into the bathroom, locking the door behind me to brush my teeth and figure out what I’m going to do. I’m a crazy schemer, after all, so I’ll come up with something.

But what?

Chapter 21

Isaiah

Lifting my glasses, I pinch the bridge of my nose after changing out of my uncomfortable trousers into black pajama pants with a pattern of miniature white lightning bolts. Bailey’s been in the restroom doing who knows what for almost thirty minutes, probably gearing up to torment me with some kind of scheme. I saw the look in her eye as we were riding up the elevator. There’s something brewing there.

I grab a bottled water from the mini-fridge below the TV bolted to the wall opposite the king-sized bed and settle onto the padded lounge chair next to it, waiting, waiting, waiting, with my elbows on my knees.

My ears perk up when she exits the bathroom, playing Like You Mean It by Steven Rodriguez at the highest volume on her phone, which she tosses on the bed. I cover my mouth, eyes bugging out when she walks into view wearing a mid-thigh silky orange nightgown that looks like one of her designs. She must have sewn it in secret because I’ve never seen it before. The top just barely covers her nipples, and I grip my cock when it instantly hardens, painfully so.

It’s the two Dutch braids, extra glossy pink lips, and her shy expression that have me shaking my head, muttering, “No, no, no.”

She stops a few feet away and twirls her long, blonde braids around her fingers. “You don’t like it?” she asks with a pout, slowly turning around. Looking over her shoulder, she arches her back and plays with the hem of her nightgown, slowly inching the fabric up her thighs as she starts to sway her hips to the music.

“Fuck me,” I say, almost disbelieving at just how sexy she is. And best of all, mine. I rise from the chair, dropping the water bottle to the side, and she spins, letting go of the hem.

She shakes her head and motions for me to sit back down. She swings her hips as she approaches me, stopping just out of arm’s reach. “Lean back.”

I scoot back in the chair, my cock tenting my pajama pants, standing straight and proud. I push the waistband down and pull my cock out to fist it, pre-cum already leaking from the tip. I coat my palm with it and drag it up and down my shaft, panting when Bailey slides one hand down her stomach to cup her pussy over her nightgown and the other hand up to squeeze her right breast.

“Isaiah,” she moans, pulling the front of her gown up to show me her pantyless pussy, lightly teasing her clit with her middle finger. I’m out of my seat in an instant and she dances back. “Sit down.”

“Bailey…” I groan, struggling to decide whether to take her anyway or do as she directed. She raises her brow, and I finally relent, slumping against the back of my chair, my cock throbbing with the need to get inside my angel.

She gives me a victorious grin and dances forward when the song switches to Who Do You Want by Ex Habit. She must have put together a playlist, probably titled Songs to Torture Isaiah.

“No touching,” she says in a sultry voice. She waits for me to agree, which I do through gritted teeth.

It’s when she steps between my spread knees, slides her hands up my bare chest, and then follows the move with her wet tongue that has me struggling the most to keep my word. I tip my head back, trying and failing not to close my eyes when she licks back down my body and gives me a teasing swirl of her tongue around my crown. I try to buck my hips up to stuff her mouth, and she fucking nips the crown with her teeth. I jolt and suck in a breath, meeting stern eyes.

“No. Touching.”

“Baby, please, you’re killing me,” I say gutturally, trying to keep my ass pinned to the seat.

She stands and tilts her head to the side. “Am I?” She slips one delicate strap from her shoulder while rolling her hips to the song’s beat.

I squeeze my cock. “God, yes, you know you are. Evil angel.”

Her gaze drops, and she brushes my hand away. “No touching that either.”

“Fuck, B!” I dig my fingers into my thighs painfully. “Why are you torturing me?”

Her eyes flash, and she pulls her other strap down, baring her gorgeous tits. Each sway makes them bounce, along with her bumblebee necklace, and I almost nut when she steps between my knees, braces her hands on my shoulders, and lets them swing in my face. She pulls back immediately when I try to lick one of her nipples.

She wags her finger, and I bite the shit out of my lower lip. I’ve never felt like this. Fucking wild and unable to do a damn thing to relieve myself if I want to please her. She turns, drops her head on my shoulder, and arches her back to roll her ass against my dick. I grip her hips, and she swats my hands away.

“For the love of God, sit on my dick, angel.”

“No.” She reaches up and behind me to palm the back of my head, pumping her hips up and down when Middle of the Night by Elley Duhé comes on.

“Then, please, let me touch you,” I beg, my pent-up release unbearable.

“If you want to touch me, then tell me…which scheme?”

I blink, delirious with desire and unable to think clearly. “What?”

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