Just like Haley’s shirts, her bra is cute and cheap and flimsy.
There’s only one thing for it.
I tear through the lace with my teeth.
She freezes in place, all of her still except the quick rise and fall of her chest. I would give anything to know what she’s imagining in this moment, but asking her might give her the impression that I give a fuck.
Maybe I do.
But now’s not the time for that kind of introspection. It’s time for a sleight of hand. A distraction. It’s time to embarrass her more. So much that she doesn’t notice the state of my cock through my pants. If I can make her cry, all the better.
The bra goes with the other destroyed things, and I reach down into the suitcase for a pair of her panties.
Haley closes her eyes.
“Haley Constantine likes watching her clothes get torn apart by the Beast of Bishop’s Landing,” I comment. “She likes it so much she can’t bear to watch anymore, because she’ll ruin her Target panties.”
Her eyes fly open again, and her hand goes to her throat, where I want my hand to be. “I’m not turned on by this.” A petulant frown, quivering at the edges like she might cry. “I’m not turned on at all.”
“Aren’t you?”
I let that hang in the air until she looks away.
“You’re being horrible.”
“I’m being a gentleman.” I look her in the eye and pull apart the fabric of her panties, relishing in the way the individual threads snap one by one. “It would be mortifying for you to walk around my house for the next thirty days in these disgraceful clothes.”
“You’re mean.”
“Well, yes, darling. What did you expect out of a Morelli? Some simpering jackass who’s over the moon for you?” I pick up the suitcase, walk it to the door, and dump the rest of it out onto the pile. A book tumbles out with the rest of Haley’s panties. “Aww. Your brother packed you something to read.”
She takes a half-step forward, but I’ve already abandoned the suitcase and picked up the book. A battered hardcover, the dust jacket missing. Haley hasn’t just been reading this—she’s read it more than once.
“A fantasy, Haley?” She lets her head fall back, her hair spilling over her shoulders, and I’ve done it—I’ve fucking done it. She’s more embarrassed about this book than any of her clothes. “A fantasy.”
I take the book back into the room and shake it open, balancing the thick spine in one hand. Oh my fuck, I’m delighted. Haley’s brother swiped this book straight off her nightstand. I flip through the pages, and Christ, it’s perfect. It’s so nerdy and sad and fucking adorable.
“Oh, they love each other. This one here says he would wait a thousand years. Does that sort of fuckery get you off?”
“Do all the fake books in your office get you off?”
“How could they? Nothing is as sexy and thrilling as a man with wings.” I laugh out loud, and this time no part of it is faked. “A Constantine, escaping into these little fantasies—Christ, darling, you’ve given me more than you could ever know.”
More pages, and Haley tenses. What happens in this fucking book? I skip more pages, scanning for the thing that’s making Haley squirm.
Literally. She is squirming, though she doesn’t seem to realize it. I have never been so alive as I am right now. I haven’t been this aware of another person in years. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was drunk on her impatience and her embarrassment and her red, red cheeks.
My eyes catch on a word midway down one of the pages.
The word is unleashed.
Haley is already watching me when I look at her over the top of the book.
I’ll do her one better.
“He is unleashed,” I read, and she looks toward the ceiling like she’s praying for God to strike her down and save her from this. She should know that God does not usually answer prayers. “The dark angel’s power burns like fire. It covers me like ash. He’s fallen from grace; evil at his very marrow. I should be repulsed, but raw attraction pulls me to him. The steps I take are inevitable. What human wouldn’t crave the sensation of those wings wrapping around her body?”
Haley bites her lip. Grips the edge of the bed.
“I let the dark angel draw me close. He wears night and flame like a cloak. He wears his lack of grace like a shield. Without hesitation, he reaches between my legs and pushes two fingers deep inside me. Unerringly, he finds the place that makes me moan. The place that makes me long for sin. He knows how to make me fall, as well.”
I fall silent.
Waiting.
Haley doesn’t move a muscle.
“The first orgasm wracks me, heightened by his power. I am consumed by him. In thrall to him. Controlled by him. I belong to him, this angel cast out by God. I sacrifice myself to him. It rips the veil from my eyes. Pleasure binds me in its wings and multiplies. He does not allow me to look away. He looks into my soul, and for the first time, I see into his. It’s good. The core of him is bathed in angelic light and hope. He is a fallen angel, but he is good. I want to tell him, but I can’t speak. I can only moan.”
Her face is glowing with fear and anticipation and something else. I was teasing her, mocking her, about being turned on before. I was also correct. I’ve made it worse.
“This is the kind of thing you think about when you touch yourself at night?” I shake the book in her direction. “This? A fallen angel fucking you?”
She shoots one of her hands out to grab for it.
And misses.
I’m faster, and I have a finger in the pages that make her blush, so I open the book again and skim to the end of the scene.
The pages are thick and sturdy in my grip. I tear them all out with one hard tug.
I drop the rest of the book on the floor at Haley’s feet, then fold the torn-out pages into a neat packet.
She looks hurt by this. As if a few printed pages are more than she can bear. A single tear streaks down her cheek and catches on her jawline, and fuck, I feel that. I feel something. I feel—
“Why?” The word is almost a whisper, laden with exhaustion and pain.
“A promise, darling. I’m going to do all these things to you.” I stop at the door on my way out. “Unleashed.”
I laugh so she can hear it, and then—yes. A single, choked sob comes from Haley’s room.
9
Haley
I don’t pick up the pile of ruined clothes. I don’t bring the suitcase back inside my room. I don’t even shut the door.
Once Leo’s knife’s-edge laughter has faded from the hallway, I fold myself into the bed, pull the covers over myself, and slap the remote on the bedside table until it’s blessedly dark.
I do not cry myself to sleep.
What happens is worse. The tears ball up and sit there like a rock, aching and threatening, and I swallow them back again and again until finally I’m too tired to fight them anymore. I expect sobs and I get a deep, heavy sleep. His sister’s chosen blankets with a heft to them. They create a calming pressure that keeps me asleep for so long that it’s bright when I open my eyes.
White winter light floods the room. I can’t believe it didn’t wake me up earlier. I fumble with the remote until it’s not blinding.