Fallen Angel (The List #3) Read Online Free PDF Page A

only met four weeks ago and it’s been the
best four weeks of my life.’
     
    I say, ‘It may sound strange but I do care
about him.’ But the pre-edited version was, ‘ It may sound totally fucked
up but I absolutely love everything about him’ .
     
    Jack stays downstairs fiddling with a new
smartphone, whilst—on wobbly legs—I head up to Jax’s bedroom. Nerves set in
again and I have to set the cups of coffee down on the steps halfway up to
steady my hands.
     
    The bedroom door is open. I take a calming deep
breath. Other than the conversation I’ve fabricated in my head, I’ve actually
got no idea what he is planning to talk to me about. It could be any number of
things. I cautiously walk in and find him asleep. I quietly set down the drinks
on the nearest bedside table and take the time to drink him in instead.
     
    My God, he is stunning. His dark eyelashes,
protruding from his puffy eyes, lie meticulously fanned out on his face. His
lips look so soft and kissable, even with the cut on the outside of one corner.
I notice his sexy stubble, which stands out because he always favours having a
clean shaven face. I tried to convince him to leave it for a few days but he
wouldn’t. I can almost feel it grazing the soft skin of my inner thighs. Yes .
     
    I’ve spent years going without sex for weeks at
a time. I’m talking sexual deprivation. That almost seems impossible now. This
man has me literally aching for sex. It’s as though he has fine-tuned my body
to respond to him and only him. In fact, it’s not only sex. I ache for any
physical contact from him. Like his kisses—those kisses. He has a whole catalogue
of customised kisses just for me, which cater to the needs of any mood.
     
    Or when he delicately strokes my cheek with his
strong hands and the way he unconsciously runs his thumb over my knuckles. He
creates this unquestionable longing inside of me and the fact that he’s lying
in front of me asleep, proves that it’s not his eyes, his voice or his words
that trigger it. It’s simply him, everything about him. He doesn’t need to
seduce me—as enjoyable as that is—his beautiful soul involuntarily does that
all by itself.
     
    It’s not a choice, it’s not a decision. It’s
simply the consequence of coexisting with him. A consequence of having our
paths cross, is that now I’m not able to picture myself travelling down any
other path, unless he is walking right there alongside with me.
     
    I notice he’s on the left side of his bed when he
always sleeps on the right… He’s on my side.
     
    The bruising on his face has really come out
now. His lip has scabbed over nicely and the cut on his eyebrow looks sound. He
is topless, letting me admire his broad boulder shoulders in the flesh. It’s
warm in here so the overhead fan’s still whirring away. The white covers are
pulled up under his armpits. I glance down to his ribcage and visualise where
the knife was.
     
    Suddenly struggling to swallow the dry imaginary
lump in my throat, I take a sip of my coffee. Every part of me is lusting to
reconnect with him, to selfishly take away this hollow emptiness, echoing
inside of me. I want to reach out to him. He’s breathing so peacefully.
     
    How have I got myself into this situation? From
the simple life—to this.
     
    I set down my cup, trying to distract myself
from the urge to slide on the bed beside him and breathe him in. I want to
steal away a secret moment to myself.
     
    Fuck It. I can’t resist him.
     
    I slip my pumps off and quietly slink on top of
the covers to lie alongside him, propping my head up on my elbow. It’s strange
being on his right-side. Jesus he smells good. He epitomises what I find
irresistible. Or maybe I just find whatever it is that he epitomises
irresistible. What came first, the chicken or the egg?
     
    I place my right hand on top of his and feel
the smooth warmth of his skin. These hands, these wonderful hands. I’ve
witnessed them protect me,