Abigail

The front door clicked shut and the apartment went very quiet after he left.

I remained on the kitchen floor for a moment, the marble floor was cold under my knees. The taste of his cum was still thick and heavy on my tongue.

His chicken was still on the counter, half eaten, the craving knife resting next to it.

I pressed the back of my hand to my mouth.

What had I been thinking?

Well, it was safe to say I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have come on to him dammit, why happened to give him space and time.

I had acted based on pure lusty instincts, without giving it a bloody second thought. All I wanted was another taste of him, another touch, to see his eyes cloud over as I made him cum over and over.

I replayed the sight in my head and with a sigh, picked myself up off the floor. My legs were on fire. My entire body trembled. That had to be the best ever.

Now, he was gone. He must have been terribly furious. With me, or with himself? I caught the flash of sickening disgust on his face when he turned away from me and that just made my heart rend in pain.

Was he disgusted that he had touched me?

That he had fucked me?

Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I approached the sink and held my hands under the tap, letting the water run as I washed my hands.

Would he come back? Was he waiting for me to leave before he did? I had apparently overstayed my welcome.

Tears burned the corner of my eyes and my stomach clenched as I fought them. No dammit, I would cry when I was back home.

Not now and definitely not here. I wasn’t a whiny, petulant child and I certainly wouldn’t become one over a man.

I opened the cabinets above the sink, searching for any Tupperware that I could keep the rest of the chicken for him. The least I could do was not waste the food.

I carved the rest cleanly, packed it into containers, and stacked them in the freezer. Then I picked up my top and bra from the kitchen floor and put myself back together.

Going home was the obvious answer. No scratch that, going home was the only answer.

Fishing a piece of paper from the jotter in my purse, I scribbled down a note.

Thank you for bringing me home and for the chicken. Both were very good. I’m sorry for everything.

I went to leave it on the dresser in the bedroom when my eyes caught a box. It was a small box, a gift wrapped in dark purple paper and a cream ribbon.

It sat on the corner of the dresser with a small card tucked under it and the words on the card read- My Angel.

My spine went rigid as if someone had pushed a pole into it.

His Angel?

The handwriting was clearly Finnegan’s. I would recognize it even in my sleep.

My eyes scanned over the words again in disbelief.

My Angel.

I had to be hallucinating.

Wait, was he disgusted because he had someone else? Someone else even gave a freaking nickname too.

Something bitter bubbled in my throat and I scoffed, pushing it down immediately. I was being ridiculous. Finnegan was not a cheat. He wouldn’t have touched me if he had someone else. He wouldn’t have been angry if he was too, the man even hated lies.

I set my note down beside the box then made my way out of the penthouse. I found the elevator and got on, slamming the button with my fingers, blinking back the urge to cry.

The elevator ride took barely thirty seconds. When I stepped out of the building, one of his security team walked up to me. "Mr. Wolfe asked us to see you home."

Even furious and storming out of his own apartment, he had arranged a car for me. My heart ached at the thought and I just nodded meekly at the man, following him to the car.

Who was his Angel?

***

The apartment was empty when I got home.

Annette had the entire living room in disarray, the couches were all moved to the wall, the centre table as half painted.

Ah crap, she must have watched those home reforming videos again and tried rearranging the place.

"Dammit, Annette, we both know you won’t finish it," I groaned, climbing over one of the sofas to get to the bedroom door.

Where was she again? She must have gotten distracted. Well at least now I had the whole place to myself so I could cry.

I dropped my purse by the door, walked into the bedroom, and fell face down onto my bed.

The duvet smelled like my washing powder, not cedar or that mouth watering, nipple-tightening scent of his. How had I managed to make everything so fucking complicated?

The note flashed through my head for the hundredth time and I turned my face into a pillow.

Would he ever actually forgive me?

And who in hell was Angel?!

Three days later I was in Annette’s car on a street in downtown New York. It was at least ten minutes away from the industrial area that was still under reconstruction.

"He lives there?" I gaped at the dirty murky apartment complex looming above us. Grime and dirt clung to the walls, vines bloomed and even seemed to crawl into some people’s windows.

"Yep on the fourth floor," Annette replied, handing me some weird little device and a tracker. "You’ll need this to break the passcode on his door."

"Should I just tap this button?"

Annette nodded, grabbing my hand. "His car isn’t in the parking lot so he isn’t home. We have like ten minutes tops. I’ll stay on the lookout, you go in, plant the tracker and come straight back out. Don’t get distracted and no snooping-"

My lips widened in a grin. "I’m going to snoop a little."

"No, come in! What if he comes back?!"

"What if Cole’s phone is in there? I just have to search for it and we won’t have to track the asshole if all the proof is on Cole’s phone."

"And if it isn’t?"

I pocketed both devices and unclipped my seatbelt. "If he shows up, call me,"