Page 55 of His Prince
Ivan grumbles under his breath as Casey lets out a small laugh.
“Just take it easy—both of you—and continue taking pain medication as needed. Keep the ice on your head, as well.”
He sets his things back in his bag and then washes his hands, all while Angel watches him intently.
But Georgiy doesn’t acknowledge him, just dries his hands and leaves.
“George is so different…Bane would be obsessed with him,” Angel says, and I frown at my husband, remembering Bane, Costello’s psychopath enforcer, the way he fawned all over Angel—and everyone else for that matter. He’s a murderous flirt who needs to be put in his place.
“Georgiy wouldn’t tolerate him,” I reply, and Casey nods, the first time we’re in agreement.
“He would be appalled by Bane’s hygiene practices.”
Angel giggles and then bites it off, leaning against the counter and folding his arms across his chest. Right now, he looks rumpled, a little flustered. The perfect pairing.
It reminds me of last night when he fucked himself on my dick, the pretty way his back arched, the globes of his ass flexing as he rode me.
Shoving those thoughts away, I stand up and set the ice pack down. I need some space. I need to do something other than think of Angel.
As I start to move away, Angel pushes away from the counter. “George said to keep the ice pack on.”
“I’m fine,” I reply as I make my way toward my office. But I hear rustling behind me and see Angel following, the ice pack in his hand.
“You need to listen to the doctor,” Angel replies, obviously annoyed.
“I’ve survived worse.”
He huffs. “You mafia men are the worst, I swear. Just because you’ve been shot or stabbed before, doesn’t mean being whacked in the head by a pan isn’t serious. Honestly.”
“I’ve never been shot.”
He rolls his eyes, and I find my cock twitches at his sassiness. What an odd thing to be attracted to. Jemma was submissive yet enthusiastic in bed. She never made my dick twitch like he does. And Katarina…well, I don’t want to think about her.
My lips turn down as I continue to stalk to my office, trying to close the door on my devilish husband before he can enter, but he sneaks in, that ice pack in his hand, his body set in a stubborn tilt.
“I have shit to do,” I say when I sit down at my desk and roll the chair forward. I pull the spreadsheet open and blink at it, knowing that Angel won’t be able to make heads or tails of it. I can’t even figure it out.
Angel moves up behind me and presses the ice pack to the back of my head.
I tilt away. “Fuck off.”
“Don’t tell me to fuck off,” he replies, pressing the ice against the bump again.
I grit my teeth, realizing that I won’t be able to rid myself of him. This man does what he wants. My dick acknowledges this as well.
Insufferable. Both of them.
I turn my gaze back to the spreadsheet, and Angel is remarkably quiet for several long minutes, the ice numbing the bump on my skull until he makes a small harrumph.
“What?” I ask as I continue to scroll down the spreadsheet, the neon colors making my eyes bleed. I should be more concerned, I really should. This is my family business.
But at the moment, I just want someone else to take care of this for me.
I want someone else to tell me what to do for once.
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”
I turn toward him and the ice pack falls to his side as he perches on the edge of my desk.