Cole stared at her.
Angelina was perfect in every way. He wasn’t a good man. He had done a lot of bad things. Some of those to Angelina. He didn’t deserve her.
And yet here she was.
Standing before him, her long chestnut hair hanging around her shoulders in the silkiest waves he had ever had the pleasure of tangling his fingers in, her amber eyes were like two glowing pieces of gold, her breathing was heavy as adrenalin coursed through her system.
She was his.
He was the luckiest man on the planet.
For a moment he choked up. He wasn’t a man who got emotional. Feelings just made things complicated, and he liked his life to be simple. But Angelina did things to him that no one else did.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he reached out, brushed the backs of his knuckles across the soft smooth skin of her cheek. “Sometimes, looking at you, knowing you’re mine, I just, I forgot to breathe.”
“We can’t have that,” she giggled.
Giggling. After what she had just done. She was the other half of his heart, the missing piece of his soul, she was air to his dying lungs, she was his everything. “You killed him,” his hand trailed down her cheek and circled her neck.
“For you,” she whispered. “I killed my husband for you.”
That she had. Without a single hesitation she had waited for her cop husband to turn up to the scene of the shooting, then fired the rifle at him like a pro, killing him in one clean shot. She was perfection. “I can’t keep my hands off you.”
“I don’t want you to.”