Hearts the Last Beat (Angel Fire #6) - Ellie Masters



Ever since Bash’s daughter, Angel, moved into Insanity, life’s been one nonstop cluster-fuck of frustration and never-ending desire.

Every molecule in my body vibrates when she’s near. Every breath fills with her tantalizing essence. She’s a siren with an angelic voice reeling me in, far closer than I have the right to be.

Every beat of my heart tells me to walk away.

She’s beddable—fuckable—and the daughter of one of my closest friends. That alone should tell me to stay away.

The daughter. Bash’s daughter.

Yes, I’m very well aware who she is, who she belongs to, and who she doesn’t. That should make me steer clear, and yet, here I am—a man on a mission.

What are you going to do?

You know damn well what I’m going to do.

I can’t get over the way her strawberry-blonde hair cascades down her shoulders and bounces just above the crack of her tight little ass. It makes my fingers twitch to run through those loose curls.

She drives me insane.

I shouldn’t think about her rosebud lips or how they’ll taste once I take what I want from them. Or the beauty of that angelic face of hers, with smooth flawless skin sweeping into the most enchanting eyes. A mesmerizing shade of hazel-green, almond-shaped—they draw me in and make me crave indecent things.

Like taking those glossy-smooth ringlets of strawberry and gold in my fists. Yanking her head back. Watching her rosebud lips round in surprise as I lean down and take what I need. My fantasies don’t stop there. They go on, growing darker, filthier, and more insistent with the passing of each and every day.

Turn around. This is a mistake.

Getting caught is the mistake.

I won’t get caught.

It’s inevitable.

I give a shake of my head and press my palm against my forehead. That voice in my head is right. Unfortunately, I’m beyond the point of no return.

My feet keep moving, sending me on a direct collision course with the worst possible decision of my life. It’s an epic mistake, but I don’t care. I don’t stop. She is my goal.

A low groan rumbles deep in my throat, and my eyes pinch with yet another moment of weakness.

Sick in the head, you are. Walk away, you must.

The Yoda voice in my head is not appreciated.

It’s good advice, but I won’t take it.

I can’t help but pursue what’s forbidden.

And she can’t help but tease and reel me in.

Angel’s made no effort to hide her interest. It lingers in the way she looks at me and in how she tries to sit next to me at every opportunity.

So far, I’ve been strong. I’ve resisted. I’ve ensured we’re never alone, using the guys, and their wives, to create a safe buffer zone. I’m the last bachelor standing, and the urge to find my mate increases each day.

Is Angel the one?

Hell if I know, but this irresistible force can no longer be denied. Maybe I just need to work her out of my system? Sink into her wet heat, take my fill, then slide on out and move on to the next woman?

Only the idea of any other woman turns my stomach.

I crave Angel’s company. I drown in the lightness of her laughter, the beauty of her smile, and in the desperate longing in her eyes when she thinks I’m not looking. The thing is, I’m hyperaware of her presence. I notice when she’s near.

This attraction is some sick chemistry at work, drawing us inexorably toward a destructive, and life-altering, implosion.

Walk away!

Ignoring the warning in my head is not only foolish, it’s catastrophic, but I’m powerless to refuse.

Everything about Angel makes me weak. I’m tired of lying to myself. I’m tired of acting like nothing’s going on. I ache for her on a level I’ve never experienced with any other woman; it’s as if she’s already fused to my soul.

Yet, she’s not mine.

She’ll never be yours.

Three days.

That’s how long I lasted this time.

The moment I knew we’d be alone in the palatial estate that is Insanity, I packed a bag and left town, running from inevitability. I knew I’d be weak if I stayed. Turns out, I’m weak when I walk away.

I’m not wrong in how I feel, even if she’s younger than me. Even if she’s only eighteen. I’m twenty-nine and she just turned eighteen.

That’s the real rub. The thing that keeps me up at night.

Back when Ash, Bash, Bent, Noodles, and I tore up the town, we partied all night and fucked nameless groupies through dawn. Alcohol flowed as freely as the nonstop smorgasbord