Angel’s POV
Angel was still kneeling.
And he was angry.
For whom—himself or the savage bastard—he didn't know.
Maybe both.
Or maybe he was angry even with fate itself.
He could still taste him in his mouth.
Bitter.
Sour.
His mouth was stinging like it had been kissed by acid and bad decisions.
When in truth—Angel had just given a stranger—a man to boot—a blow job.
That’s the cold hard truth.
His crying eyes narrowed.
Color slowly drained from his burning cheeks, leaving only the sick shame behind.
God, he wanted to puke.
Or gargle holy water.
Or set himself on fire.
He hated him—that silver-eyed sin incarnate, with a Roman statue’s face, a body like Michelangelo’s sculpture with the morals of a drunk alley cat.
‘I didn’t even know his fucking name!’ disappointment filled him.
‘Very classy Angel. Very Classy.’
He cursed the demon-like bastard in every language he knew.
‘@%$!!!—Asshole!’
But the moment their eyes met—bam.
Fire.
Heat.
A goddamn inferno in his chest cavity.
One look was a
