Chapter Twenty

Some time later, Angel Rose awoke, finding it dark in her bedroom. She closed her eyes and sighed when she felt Richie’s warm presence still behind her. He had his arm around her, anchoring her to his chest. Being held like this felt wonderful. She shifted slightly, testing to see if he was awake.

The hand that was draped over her began stroking her stomach lightly. Slowly, his hand crept upward until the very tips of his fingers were grazing the underside of her breasts. Ang sucked in a breath but made no move to stop him. Richie palmed one, kneading and squeezing gently. He was kissing her neck; slow, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses that ended with just a little teeth, and he felt her nipple pebble up against his palm. He pinched it lightly, then traced gentle lazy circles around it until Ang thought she was going to scream. Then he moved on to the other breast, torturing it the same way.

Ang shifted restlessly on the bed and the friction of her motions was causing Richie to sweat. He was impossibly hard, and he wanted her again. “Sweet Angel Rose,” he said to her softly, as he kissed and nipped her neck and shoulder. He levered up on one elbow to roll Ang beneath him so he could see her face. “Hey there,” Richie said.

Ang just smiled, her eyes darting back and forth between his.

Richie dipped his head, fully intending to kiss Ang gently, but the taste of her had him deepening the kiss until he couldn’t breathe. Ang threaded her hands into his hair, sealing his mouth to hers, and tangled her tongue around his. She shifted underneath him so he was seated in the apex of her thighs, and sighed. The pressure of Richie against the slow, throbbing ache that pulsed there was almost unbearable.

Ang ran her hands down Richie’s neck and explored his strong chest; her fingers playing over the muscles and sprinkling of fine dark hair. She lightly scraped her fingernails across Richie’s nipples, and he hissed and arched into her, making Ang moan.

“Good Lord, woman,” Richie groaned, and bent to capture her mouth again. He trailed kisses across Ang’s cheek and to her neck, and kissed his way down her chest to a tender, pink nipple where he sucked. Ang cried out and wrapped her arms around Richie’s head.

Richie looked at Ang, his brown eyes nearly black with passion. He flexed his hips and rubbed against Ang again, making her back arch and her head loll to one side. He took advantage, nibbling on her earlobe and neck and Ang wound her arms around Richie’s shoulders and hung on.

“I’m all out, darlin’,” Richie whispered, as he continued to slide his cock against her.

“Night stand,” she croaked back, and waited for Richie to sheathe himself.

He devoured her mouth as he pushed into her slowly, savoring the way her body all but pulled him into her. He started moving slowly inside her, letting her catch up to his rhythm, and within minutes, she was whispering his name, asking, begging for more. Richie moved faster, his cock slamming mercilessly into her. Ang purred and moaned and dug her fingernails into Richie’s shoulders, trying to pull him onto him, wanting to feel his weight. He complied, gathering her into his arms, holding her close while his hips worked furiously to bring them release.

Ang cried out softly when the next wave engulfed her, and the spasming was enough to bring Richie along for the ride. He slowed then stopped his movements when he felt Ang go completely limp beneath him. He rolled off her and gathered her to his chest, kissing her temple.

She was quiet for so long, Richie felt a finger of dread dance down his spine. “Angel Rose? You aren’t having regrets, are you?”

“No,” Ang said, meeting his gaze. “No regrets at all. It’s what I needed, what I wanted – YOU were what I needed and wanted. No regrets.” She was quiet for a minute. “That other, stuff; everything that happened up at the house, that changes everything,” she said softly.

“How?”

“I saw him,” Ang said. “If I close my eyes, I can picture him clearly.” She rolled away from him and sat on the edge of the bed, stretching slightly. “I can draw him.”

Richie stood and stretched before heading to the bathroom. He came back with a warm, wet washcloth and a small towel. He helped Angel Rose clean up before holding out a hand for Ang to take, and he pulled her to her feet. Wrapping his arms around her, he kissed her soundly, loving the feel of her arms looped around his neck, and the press of her body against his. When they ended the kiss, Richie looked around and saw their clothes in a wet heap on the floor. “Uh, Angel, darlin’, not that I mind being naked, but, uh…”

Ang smiled. “C’mon, I can fix you up,” she said, scooping up their clothes and heading for the little room off the kitchen she had set up as her laundry room. She tossed everything into the dryer and fished two clean sets of sweatpants out of the basket on the washing machine. She handed him one, saying, “they’re clean, but they’re gonna be short. You can pull up the legs.”

Ang stepped into her pants and watched as Richie yanked up the uncooperative cotton sweatpants. She nearly groaned out loud when she saw how they cupped him. He tugged on the legs, bunching the elastic around his knees, and the sight of his strong, tanned, hairy legs sticking out from the very snug grey cotton nearly took Ang’s breath away. She raked her gaze upward, scanning his broad chest. Smiling wryly, she added, “unfortunately for you, all my t-shirts are going to be way too tight on you, so you’re gonna have to do without.” She pulled a t-shirt out of the basket for herself and slid it over her head before leading him from the laundry room.

She started a pot of coffee and walked into the living room, to where she had left her pad and charcoals. Richie could feel the fear wafting off Angel Rose and hugged her close. He could feel her shuddering against him, still shaken by what happened at the house, and afraid of what she would see when she drew this Jeremiah. Richie had to admit, he was a little shaken, too. He wasn’t a neophyte by any means, but he had never seen a woman so desperate for a physical connection like Ang was. He tilted her face up with a gentle finger under her chin. After searching her face, he kissed her so softly, so lovingly, that fresh tears sprang to her eyes.

“Don’t cry, sweet, Angel Rose,” Richie said. “I’m here with you. I’ll protect you.”

“You can’t protect me from this,” she said. “You can’t save me from my own mind. But it’s sweet that you want to try.” She stretched up on tiptoe to brush her lips against Richie’s. He caught the back of her head and held her there, pouring all the emotions of the past day into his kiss. His arms trailed down hers, settling around her waist, anchoring her to him while their mouths played over each other. Long minutes later, Ang eased back from the kiss and cuddled into Richie’s chest, pulling strength from him.

With a sigh, Ang gathered up her drawing supplies and took a seat in her chair by the window. Silently, Richie sat by her, watching as the pencil flew over the page. Her hand was a blur as it sketched lines and circles, each joining the last in creating an image of a man, Halfway through, Ang growled in frustration and tore the sheet from the pad, letting it flutter to the floor. “Nose is wrong,” she muttered.

Even before it hit the rug, her arm was hastily moving back and forth across a fresh page. She got further this time before she tore this page from the pad in exasperation and tossed it to join the other on the floor. “Lips. Fuller lips.”

On and on she went, discarding one sketch after another, muttering about the shape of an eyebrow or the cleft of the chin. Finally, when she had nearly exhausted the pad of paper, and had gone through three pencils, she dropped the pad from her lap. “That’s him,” she said, pointing a shaky finger at the sketch.

Richie bent to pick up the pad, but before he could look at it closely, Ang said, “Wait,” and took it from him. She colored the irises of the eyes an eerie jade green. “NOW that’s him,” she amended, and handed the pad back over to Richie.

He stared at the drawing for a full minute. “I know this man,” he said.

“Of course you do,” Ang said. “This is Jeremiah.”

“No,” Richie said. “I mean yeah, that’s who it is, but I’ve seen him. I know I’ve seen him. Or at least a someone who looks like him.” He racked his memories, trying to remember. “I almost have it,” he said.

“Don’t force it, or it’ll never come,” Ang counseled. For her, it was the opposite. If she tried to force it, the images would never leave her head. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “Come on, let’s make something to eat. It’ll distract you, while you figure out who this man is, and you’ve got to be ravenous.”

They bustled around the kitchen for a few minutes, making sandwiches from what they found in the refrigerator. They ate at the kitchen table, an easy, companionable silence between them. As they were cleaning up their mess, Richie stopped. He strode to the discarded sketch pad and picked it up. He stared at the drawing for a moment, standing statue-still in the middle of the kitchen. “Where’s my wallet?” he asked.

“Probably still on the floor in the bedroom,” Angel Rose answered.

Richie jogged from the kitchen, snagged his wallet, and was back in less than a minute. He pulled a small white card from his wallet and held it up. “I’ve got it,” he said to Ang. “Can I use your phone?”

She motioned to the wall where a fire-engine red phone hung. “Go for it,” she said. “Who? Who does Jeremiah remind you of?” Richie had dialed and had the phone pressed to his ear.

Richie held up a finger as the caller answered. “It’s Richie Sambora. Listen, sorry to bother you at home, but something interesting happened at the house, and I want to talk to you about the house’s history.” Richie listened for a few minutes. “That’s fine. Can we meet at the Historical Society, say at 10 tomorrow?” He nodded. “Great. See you then, Marty.”

“Marty?” Ang asked, confused.

“Yeah, Marty. Halstead. My real estate agent.” He pointed to the drawing as he spoke. “He has eyes just like this, and the chin is the same.”

Ang shook her head. “Richie, do you know how many men have green eyes and a cleft in his chin? I think you’re trying too hard.”

“I know what I know,” Richie said, taking another swallow of his beer. “We’ll know for sure tomorrow.”

There was a bit of an awkward “what now” silence between them. Angel Rose cleared her throat. “Are you heading back to your house tonight?”

Richie shook his head. “Uh-uh. Not tonight. Not when Kirstin is still in poltergeist mode. That was messed up.” He looked at Angel Rose, and sensed the real question she was asking. “Oh,” he said. “Do YOU want me to head back to my house tonight? I mean, I’ll need fresh clothes for tomorrow, but I’d like to stay if you’d like to have me.”

Angel Rose smiled. “Of course I want you to stay.” She reached out to pull the pad from Richie’s hands, and studied the drawing. “I wonder what made this man attack Kirstin,” she said.

“Well find out, Angel Rose. I promise you.”