Page 114 of Eyes Like Angel
It frightened me, but fascinated me to a point where I watched him back, unable to avert; his posture leaned forward, eyeing me closely, like he was dying to say or not wishing me to leave from the premises. His strange behavior has been frequent, and blatantly obvious as I gotten to acquaint with his persona.
My face heated at his close proximity, and a little curl on his mouth quirked. A brief chuckled emitted, as he lifted his thumb to swipe the speck on my round cheekbone aside.
After a long procession, he stood up and reclined, plopped by the grey modular couch. His hand patted. “Come sit here,” he uttered coolly.
At once, I hopped off from the high bar stool and perched down on an empty spot.
His brows crinkled.
“No,” he said, urgent, his brows twitch to aggravation.
He patted his hand once more, on his lap. “Here,” he said, almost sounding like a soft plea.
Gulped, I should know I shouldn’t sitting to any man’s lap. I don’t remember seeing this in a Bible, or if I could reference one. Possibly the closest material I could reference was Jezebel—the haughty and a harlot, who thinks she could do no wrong and free from consequences, which she had her fall from a high tower and being eaten by starving dogs.
Hopefully this is different, I thought.
“Sit here,” he repeated, dark-shaded eyes glimmered in seduction.
Smoothing my long skirt, I took a few steps closer to him, to perch down on his lap, his muscular thighs.
Gulping, my instincts stayed standing, my hands quaked, unable to register on sitting down. Watching below my peripheral vision, his fingers drummed on his trousers, hand flattened and patted one beat at the time, slowly but surely, his pitch-black hues await my compliancy.
His hands grabbed me by my waist and hauled me down on his lap, stiff frozen at his touch, his enlarged hands nearly resembled as a belt on my slim waist.
Minimalist-designed clock was ticking, and ticking. The air sucked in.
“Ah, that’s much better,” he said in gladness, his eyes closing with his cheeky smile forming.
His large palm rested on my back, travelling back and forth. This is how close I get with someone since he has done it numerous times during the Rivers Foundations; his love wasshown through his frustrations, on how Romano yanked me to the stage.
“Thank you,” I began, “for the doughnuts and the mojito.”
Adrian let out a low hum. “Don’t mention it, sweet angel.” His hand was placed on my hip, his finger twirled in circles as he pulled my stiffened frame, leaning against his muscled torso beneath the white-buttoned shirt.
He spoke again, casually. “How do you like your angel doughnuts?”
“It’s good,” I replied, watching my two hands handling the doughnut with my fingers.
“Angels are known to spread goodness,” he teased. “Like you.”
Instinctively, my head bobbed, heart racing and mouth dried.
“You know, Marcy baked all of these angel-shaped doughnuts,” he said to me.
“Oh? She’s gifted with her talent,” I answered merrily.
He trailed his eyes from my face to my lips, darting longer on my lips as I inserted the doughnut piece in my mouth.
“Glad you enjoy her baking,” he said to me, inching his face closer. “Mind if I have a bite? I’m hungry.”
At first, I was hesitant, but I soon gave in and fed him. He took a large bite of the angel-shaped doughnut. Suddenly, he leaned in and licked doughnut powder from my cornered lips and droned a ‘hum’. “It tastes delicious.”
I flabbergasted, clutching my hands to my chest.
He chuckled. “I want to have another bite.”
And he clashed his lips onto mine, moaned passionately against my mouth.
