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Angelo Visconti isn’t a knight in shining armor, he’s a monster in an Armani suit.
Who needs a knight anyway?
“I swear to God, Rory. You better know how to fly, because if you fall, I’m coming with you.”
Seek hope where the air is salty and the cliffs are steep.
“Not just regular happy. I mean really fucking happy,” he growls into my mouth, palming my ass to pull me on top of him. “Can’t stop fucking smiling, don’t want to go to sleep because reality is better than your dreams kind of happy. I want to make you so damn happy that you shit sunshine and piss rainbows and people think you’re as high as a kite when you walk into a room.” He nips my lower lip in mild frustration, and his fingers dig deep into the back of my thighs as he slides me up to his groin. “If you want to be mine, I’ll make you that happy, Rory.”
