“Gabriel?” The sound on her voice, and the knock on the door, stops my heat.
For a hard second, every muscle freezes. My gaze snaps to the door in horror. I locked it. Didn’t I?
“Are you in there?”
Fuck, don’t try the door.
“Yes!” I shout in a gurgle of desperation. “Christ. Use the other toilet.”
If she opens this door, I’m done for. I’ll have her on her back and my cock balls-deep in her heat in seconds. I almost want that door to open.
Her muffled voice sounds slightly put out and slightly amused. “Testy. I was just going to say I left my laundry in there…”
I look down at the white silk clutched in my fist and the swollen, angry head of my prick peeking out. I shiver and give it a slow stroke, my eyes fluttering in agonized pleasure as I do.
“Go away, Sophie.”
“But…”
“I’m showering.” My free hand fumbles for the taps and turns them on.
“You just turned the water on.”
God, her voice. This is wrong. So wrong. Squeezing my eyes shut, I keep tormenting my knob, denying him the satisfaction of the real thing.
“Can I just step in and get it before you start?”
Already started, love. Why don’t you come in and finish me off?
The image of her lips wrapping around my pulsing head is so vivid, a surge of pre-come leaks onto the panties in my hand. My come on Sophie’s panties. I suck in a breath. “If you don’t move away from this door, I’ll watch my entire collection of Star Trek movies on the next leg of the trip. All thirteen of them.”
I hear a gasp. “That’s just cruel.”
Cruel is fucking silk when I could be in the real thing. Hot, tight, slick. My teeth grind together.
“There will be a quiz at the end of it,” I say in a strangled voice.
I’d pin Sophie down, question her on all the ways she likes to be pleasured, and then do them one by one. Unable to hold back, I beat myself off hard and fast, biting my lip so she can’t hear me.
“Fine,” she says, oblivious to the tremors wracking me as my balls draw tight and lust sucks me down. “I don’t know why you have to be so snippy.”
Her voice follows me into oblivion. I come in hard jets that splatter over my abs and chest, as I milk every last drop of profane, stolen pleasure I can. I swear I whimper.
Silence rings out on the other side of the door. I sag to my knees and try to catch my breath. Behind me, the shower roars and steam fills the room.
I crawl into the stall and let the hot water wash away my sins. It’s only after I reach for the soap that I realize I’m still clutching her panties as if I’ll never let them go. I swear this woman is going to kill me.
* * *
Sophie
* * *
Things to love about Madrid: The architecture. Gorgeous, ornate, timeless. The food. Savory, salty, rich, spicy. The café con leche. Don’t get me started. So rich and creamy, it’s like coffee-flavored hot chocolate. I drank three cups of it one day and reached for another until Gabriel dryly pointed out that I was hopping around like an overexcited bunny.
But the best thing about Spain? Siestas. God bless any country that has decided yes, we shall shut down business and take a long nap in the middle of the day. How can you not love them for that?
This means I have a government-sanctioned excuse to sleep cuddled up next to Gabriel for most of the afternoon. Yesterday, when I pointed this out, he grumbled about it once, and not very convincingly. Not when he was fast shedding his jacket and slipping into the bathroom to change into a T-shirt and sweats.
Pervy me wants to suggest he quit with the coy hiding himself away to change and just strip down in front of me. Hell, I want to help him out, unbutton his crisp shirts and slowly pull the zipper on his fine slacks. But it would upset the status quo, and I have no idea which way the scales would tip.
It’s strange not knowing. Normally I’m excellent at reading men. They’re fairly simple creatures, after all. Most of them are, anyway. They want you, they make it known.
Gabriel? He’s not most men. True, a man as stunning as Gabriel never has to work at getting a woman. He can attract invitations just by standing still. I’ve seen it happen. Many times. Women take one look at him, and it’s on.
Only he never bites. Never even bothers to fully look at whoever is hitting on him. His expression is always bland with a hint of boredom as he casually yet politely gives her the brush off. It’s an art form, really, how effectively he rids himself of unwanted advances. I’ve taken notes.
And I’d be inclined to think he was asexual at this point, except he’s not. Not even close. Not given the amount of times his gaze collides with mine and the heat in his expression takes my breath. God, it burns, the way he watches me. It’s covetous and possessive.
He looks at me as if he’s mentally stripping off my clothes. With his teeth. He looks at me, and the bottom falls out of my belly. My heart swoops down to my toes, and my nipples go so hard so fast it almost hurts. Almost, because it feels so freaking good—that tight throb, knowing that the only thing that will make it better is his mouth, wet and hot, pulling on them.
I think those dirty thoughts—of Gabriel on his knees, his cheeks hollowing out with the force of his sucks, his hands on my hips, holding me still so I can’t move to alleviate the pressure between my legs—and I get a little lightheaded.
And Gabriel must know. He must see what he does to me. I’m a blonde. I blush like one, all pink and sweaty. Too many times, I’ve seen that hot blue gaze of his stray downward, lingering on my horny nipples. They aren’t exactly shy about showing themselves, damn it all.
His nostrils always flare just a little bit, and then a sharp, deep breath, as if he’s bracing himself. But it inevitably ends there and then. Because he’s unwilling to go any further.
And yet that thick, hard cock of his pokes at my ass every time we crawl into bed. He never pulls away to hide his erection, nor does he grind himself against me to move things along. No, he just leaves it there, snug on my ass, his big, wide hand gently molding itself to my belly, his chin on the crown of my hair. He holds me like a lover might, tender yet lingering. But he treats me like a friend, respectful, kind, never taking advantage.
And I let him do it. I lie there, day after day, night after night, my body yielding to his, soaking up his heat, reveling in his possessive hold. It’d be so easy to turn in his arms, press my lips to his, slide my hands down his waist to slip under his lounge pants. I’ve imagined grasping his big dick—and I know it’s big at this point— so many times that my palms tingle with phantom memories.
Today, however, there will be no napping. Gabriel has gone out on a run instead. Odd, since he already went on one this morning.
God, this morning… My cheeks burn at the memory. Okay, so I interrupted his “man time” by knocking on the bathroom door. I shouldn’t have done that; Lord knows I’d be pissed if he had done the same. But I hadn’t expected him back so soon and went to go get detergent. Imagine my horror when I returned and realized he was locked away with my dirty underwear.
And clearly he found them. He hasn’t been able to look me in the eye since he finally got out of his shower, practically grunting out answers every time I bothered to talk to him.
So embarrassing. I don’t even know why I thought cleaning them in the bathroom was a good idea. I didn’t even bother washing my undies after Gabriel left the room, but stuffed them all in a bag and sent them down with housekeeping. Only, they lost my favorite pair—the cute boy shorts with cherries on them. And no one on staff can find them. So, joy all around today.
I’m so worked up now, when my phone rings, I almost jump out of my skin. Sad that I hope it’s him. But it’s my friend Kati from New York.
“Hey you,” I answer with a smile. “Isn’t a little early to be calling me?”
It’s two in the afternoon here, which means it’s eight in the
morning in New York, and I know Kati is a late sleeper like me.
“It would be,” she answers, “if I was in New York.”
I flop back on the bed. The stupid empty bed which will not be used for napping. “Where are you?”
“I’m in London at the moment. There’s a certain pop star who has broken up with her high-profile boyfriend, and everyone wants the scoop.”
Kati is a reporter who covers the music industry. She was the one to get me into celebrity photography, and also the first to support me leaving the business when she saw how hollowed out I’d become.
“Tough life, isn’t it?” I say.
“The worst,” she agrees with a laugh. “And might I add, I’m shocked to hear you’re back in it.”
“In a much better capacity this time, thankfully.” I roll onto my stomach, my head hanging over the bed. A tiny glint of red peeking out between the mattress and the box spring catches my eye. Frowning, I scoot closer. “And how did you know I was working with musicians again?” I ask, half distracted.
“It’s a small world. People talk…”
Listening to her, I reach down and touch the scrap of red fabric playing peek-a-boo with the mattress. It’s silk, and it’s not just red. It’s red and white.
Kati’s voice ebbs and flows in my ear. “…and not just any musicians. Kill John? How the hell did that happen? Do they know about…well, your pictures?”
“They know. We talked it out, and everything is cool.” Biting my lip, I tug at the fabric. It resists for a second, and then yanks free. For a moment, I just stare at the panties dangling in my hand. White with little red cherries on them. My panties.
They’re slightly damp and completely rumpled from being crammed beneath the mattress. On Gabriel’s side of the bed. Unable to resist, I bring them to my nose and take a cautious sniff. They smell like his shower gel.
Gabriel washed my panties? Why?
A naughty thought runs through my head: Gabriel touching my dirty panties and what he might have done with them that would necessitate cleaning.
Oh, yes, please, and can I watch next time?
But, no, he couldn’t have. Not cool, collected Gabriel Scott. Could he?
Maybe he found them on the floor of the bathroom and washed them for me.
But he kept them. Hid them away as if he might… What? Want to use them again?
Flushing hot, I press the cool, damp silk to my cheek. And promptly flush again.
“Sophie? Hello? Are you there?”
“Shit,” I gasp, plunging back into reality. “Sorry. I…ah…dropped the phone down the front of my shirt. I hate when that happens, don’t you?”
Kati laughs. “Goof.”
“Sorry.” I stare at my contraband panties in wonder. “What were you saying?”
“I said Martin has been talking about you being on the Kill John tour.”
All thoughts of panties flee, and I sit up straight, my heart pounding. “What?”
“Yep. He came into my office the other day and started spouting off about how proud he was of you being able to get on the tour. That he didn’t realize you still had it in you to be such an opportunist. His words.” Her tone is dry and disgusted.
“That asshole. I’m not trying to take advantage of the band. I’m in charge of their social media, for fuck’s sake.” That I even have to say so burns. Can a person ever truly shake their past? Or will we always be judged by it?
“If he had a brain in his head, he’d know that,” Kati says, clearly trying to reassure. “I only mentioned it because you know how he gets. He’s interested now and smells a story. I don’t know if he’ll try to make contact. But I thought I’d warn you.”
“Thanks, K.”
I hang up with Kati as soon as I can, because I’m fairly certain I’m going to be sick. Martin and I have been history for a long time. He can’t hurt me. I know this. But just the thought of him brings back the ugliness of who I used to be.
I’m a better person now, someone who takes responsibility for her actions. I’m no longer flitting through life like a modern-day Scarlett, vowing to think about repercussions tomorrow instead of today.
But am I truly different? I still don’t have a set goal in life other than to enjoy it. My natural inclination is to laugh and tease first, be serious later.
Suddenly, I no longer care about pilfered panties or suppressed sexual needs; I want Gabriel to be home. I want to cuddle up and have him hold me. And yet part of me doesn’t want to look him in the eye.
Gabriel isn’t trusting by nature. In this business, he shouldn’t be. And yet I’d been insulted and hurt when he didn’t want me on the tour.
Looking at my past dead in the eye, I understand the full extent of what Gabriel has done by welcoming me into the band—into his life. He let me in, despite my mistakes, and never once has he tried to use me for anything other than comfort and companionship.
He cares about me. He trusts me.
The weight of that settles around my shoulders like a plush blanket. I’d teased him before about being his champion, wanting to lighten the moment and make him smile. But the truth is Gabriel Scott has become my top priority in life. Whatever we are, whatever we’ll be, that will not change.
Chapter Fourteen
Gabriel
* * *
“Which one is better?” Sophie asks, her voice soft in the stillness of the room. “Star Wars or Star Trek?”
We’re lying face to face on the bed in our suite. Just outside the open terrace doors is Barcelona and the harbor. Sounds of laughter from late-night revelers and the occasional cry of gulls drift in with the briny scent of the sea.
In here, however, it is quiet, peaceful. The ambient light from the street below paints Sophie’s curves in a palette of soft blues and grays. There is a gleam of relaxed happiness in her eyes that only I am privy to. Because this is our time, no one else’s.
“Which one is better?” I scoff, even though I secretly love her line of questioning. “First off, Star Wars is a space opera. Star Trek is a space odyssey. They’re completely different storytelling approaches.”
It’s going on three in the morning, and I’ve been up since five. The irony isn’t lost on me that Sophie’s here because I need her to sleep. But the best part of each day is when I am in bed with her, and I refuse to waste it by sleeping more than I have to. Especially now that she’s in a chatty mood.
The last day and a half, Sophie has been subdued and a bit downcast. Since I’ve been avoiding direct eye contact after tossing off in her panties, guilt sits heavy in my gut. But perhaps her mood isn’t about me at all. She seems happy now, content even. So I fight sleep and drink in the sight of my chatty girl basking in the plush comfort of our bed.
“You are such a dork,” she says grinning. “They’re both about space and laser guns.”
“You’re taking a piss,” I tell her with a laugh. “I refuse to believe you can’t tell the difference between the two.”
“I’m not…” She puts a hand up and finger quotes, “‘taking a piss.’ I’m just don’t see what the big deal is. Pick a favorite, already.”
“No. It’s like that old dilemma of trying to choose between The Beatles and The Stones. It can’t be done.”
Her blunt nose wrinkles, and I have the overwhelming urge to kiss it. “Of course it can be done,” she says, oblivious to my thoughts. “The Beatles for joy or nostalgia. The Stones for drinking or sex.”
At the word sex my cock jumps as if to remind me that I’ve been ignoring him and he is not amused. I tilt my hips toward the bed and press my irritable cock to the mattress. The randy bastard jerks in protest. I empathize with my needy willy. Truly. But some things are worth more.
Keep telling yourself that, mate.
“Why not The Beatles for sex?” I can’t help asking. Mistake. Turning any conversation towards sex is playing with fire. But apparently I like the sweet pain of being slowly burned.
Sophie shrugs, sen
ding the white sheet farther down the curve of her shoulder. “Name one Beatles song that’s sexier than a Stones’ song.”
I stare at her shoulder. Her fucking shoulder has me enthralled. And it isn’t even bare. Every night, she wears an over-sized t-shirt and little boy-short panties to bed. I’m fully aware she believes this to be as sexless an outfit as she can manage to sleep in—I’ve tried the same, usually wearing loose lounge pants and a t-shirt—but she is wrong.
Her breasts, unfettered by a bra, are soft and round. Trying not to notice them sway and bounce beneath thin cotton that lovingly clings to her shape is impossible. Every fucking night, I imagine rolling her onto her back and sliding the shirt up over her fantastic tits.
I’ve pictured it so many times, holding her hands over her head so her back arches and lifts those plump mounds high. I’d drink in my fill, just looking, making her squirm as she waits for first contact. I’d take it slow, pepper kisses over every inch, leaving the buds of her nipples for last when she’s whimpering for me to suck them.
The notion of sucking on Sophie’s tits has my tongue pressing to the roof of my mouth. Shit. I clear my throat, try to focus on her question. What was the question again?
“I can’t think of an answer,” I tell her truthfully.
She makes a sound of triumph. “See? I’m always right.”
“Keep telling yourself that, chatty girl. Won’t make it true.”
Our hands are so close that our fingers nearly brush. I keep still. And it is an act of will, an exercise I endure every night. There are rules: I can hold her, but I cannot explore. No stroking of her skin, no drifting of my hands. I can tuck her up against my side or press her back to my stomach, but no letting my hard cock grind into her plump arse.
And when we lie together like this, talking deep into the night, I never, ever focus on her mouth. That mouth, plush and rosy, always moving—talking, pursing, smiling. I want to lick up her smile, suck in her words, her laugh.
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