Managed: a VIP novel

by Kristen Callihan

  “Well…” She kisses me again. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  I pretend to read while she slowly, thoroughly kisses her way across my chest. Each lingering press of her lips upon my skin undoes me a little more. The tenderness mixed with heat, as though she’s both worshiping and reveling in me, makes my heart clench and my cock throb.

  Her tongue flicks over my nipple, and my hand shakes, my breath stuttering.

  “God, you’re so hot this way,” she says. Her teeth catch the tip of my nipple and tugs.

  I grunt, liquid heat licking up my thighs. The contract falls to the bed, my head hits the wall with a dull thud.

  Farther down she goes, following the valley between my abs. “So. Fucking. Sexy.” Each word punctuated with a kiss. “I want you to fuck me while wearing those glasses, Gabriel.”

  This woman will kill me.

  I swallow hard, search for my voice. “If you’re a good girl, perhaps I shall.”

  I don’t miss the way her peachy arse clenches. Something primitive and base flows through me. My voice roughens.

  “Take my cock out. You’re going to suck it.”

  A little sound rises in her throat, and I know I’m getting to her, which gets to me. My skin is so hot, I can barely breathe.

  Sophie’s hands trace the edge of my boxer briefs, a sly tease. My cock pushes rudely against the fabric, and she lifts the elastic away from my waist. The throbbing tip catches on the band of my pants. She frees me, and I’m so hard, my prick slaps against my abdomen.

  “Love that sound,” she whispers.

  Good. It’s only for you. “Take me in hand.”

  Her warm fingers wrap around me and squeeze. My eyes nearly roll back in my head. I swallow a groan, my hips lifting up to meet her.

  “Softer,” I pant.

  “Softer?” She kisses my chest again as her grip eases.

  I nearly weep it’s so good. “Make me beg for it.”

  Her lashes flutter, a breath leaving her parted lips. The tips of her fingers glide down my length, teasing.

  I struggle to hold still, but she gently cups my balls and gives them a little tug. A groan rumbles in my throat. It turns to an outright whimper as she bends down and mouths the head of my cock.

  Not enough.

  “Sophie…”

  “Mmmm?” The sound vibrates against my skin, and a throb of pained pleasure pushes through me .

  I nudge upward, but she evades. A teasing lick flickers on my tip. “Fuck… Suck it, Darling. Suck it well.”

  Brown eyes smile up at me, and she does, for one glorious pull, sucking me deep and tight. I arch off the bed, groaning. But she stops there and plays with me again, her pouty lips barely wrapped around my flesh.

  Heat flushes my skin, and I give her what she wants. “Please. Please…”

  And she does please me, lavishing me with attention, drawing out my pleasure as if her pleasure is connected to seeing mine. I lose myself in her, until my throat tightens with emotion and my balls clench with impending release.

  I don’t want to spend in her mouth. Not this time. I pull her up, trying to be gentle, but my hands shake. She makes a noise of protest that I swallow down with a kiss as I tumble her onto her back, fumbling to hike up her skirt.

  “I wasn’t finished,” she pants between kisses.

  My hand slides beneath her little pink panties. Sweet slickness greets my fingers.

  “I need to be in here.” I pet her soft, swollen sex before plunging in deep. And she cries out—a lovely plea that makes me greedy to hear more of them.

  I kiss her mouth as my fingers work her within the tight fit of her panties. She moves with me, her hips thrusting and grinding on my hands. Our breath mingles, growing disjointed.

  No more waiting. I wrench her knickers off, roll between her thighs spread wide for me. The first push into her is agony and heaven, because nothing will ever feel as good as fitting myself inside Sophie. We’re both frantic now, panting. I know she expects me to plough her hard and fast.

  I slow down, cup her cheeks and softly kiss her as I slowly work her slick clasp.

  “Gabriel,” she whimpers into my mouth. “More.”

  I know she means faster. I plunge as deep as I can and hold it until she quivers before easing back out.

  “I’ll give you everything,” I whisper.

  She eats at my mouth, her body wriggling beneath me as she tries to change the tempo. But I have her where I want her. I move in her, let her feel each inch. She huffs out a half-laugh, half-disgruntled complaint.

  “Sophie.” My voice is clear and firm, demanding her attention.

  Her eyes meet mine, and I let her see everything—what she is to me, what she does to me.

  Her breath hitches, her eyes wide and shining. I feel her body yield, becoming softer.

  “Gabriel.” Her trembling fingers touch my cheek.

  And suddenly I’m terrified. Because she does see me, every dark corner and imperfect edge. It sparks something between us. I can’t look away or stop myself from rocking into her, saying with my body what I’m too afraid to utter.

  Take me, have me, love me.

  But I don’t need to say those things, because I know in that instant that she already does. On rumpled, linen sheets, she claims me, body and soul, and then offers herself right back. In that moment, I am no longer Scottie or Gabriel, I am something more. I am home. Finally. At last. Forever.

  * * *

  Sophie

  * * *

  All good things must come to an end. I knew my time with Gabriel to myself had a limit; he’s too much of a workaholic to stay on vacation for very long. But though we had two glorious weeks to ourselves, it doesn’t feel like enough. Still, I cannot deny that it’s done him well.

  Days of sleeping until midday, spending lazy hours in bed making love, or lounging by the pool soaking up the sun, have given him a healthy glow and an easy smile in his eyes.

  Days of drinking rich red wine and sopping up olive oil with crusty bread, devouring ripe tomatoes and creamy cheese, have filled out the hollows in his cheeks.

  I thought Gabriel was gorgeous when I met him. Now I realize I hadn’t gotten the full story. He’s robust, deeply tanned, and so attractive in his tailored linen suit that I get a little lightheaded whenever I look at him.

  He flashes me a quick, happy grin as he navigates the Ferrari over the switchbacks along the Italian coast, and I’m thankful I’m sitting.

  “I can almost hear you thinking,” he says, downshifting with authority. Good Lord, the way his thighs strain against his pants…

  I cross my legs. “All dirty thoughts, I promise you.”

  His grin grows but he keeps his eyes on the road. “Behave yourself, chatty girl. I need to concentrate.”

  “It’s like I’ve fallen into the cover of Suit and Car Porn.”

  A low chuckle rumbles in his chest. “There’s no such magazine, Darling.”

  “There should be.”

  Laughing, he shifts again and accelerates. I’m thrust against the seat as the car leaps forward. Squealing, I throw my hands up and let the wind catch my hair as we race down the coast.

  We arrive at our hotel in Naples all too soon. Kill John is doing a show tonight, and then we’re headed up to Milan, and finally Bern in Switzerland.

  Gabriel takes my hand as we walk into the lobby. I wouldn’t have expected it, but he loves holding hands. Whenever we’re in close proximity, he finds a way to thread his fingers with mine, his thumb caressing my knuckles or the back of my hand as if touching me soothes him.

  One evening during our vacation, I sat with him on the terrace, me drinking wine and him playing with my hand, looking down at it as if he wasn’t sure how he’d arrived at the place were he could freely touch me.

  I’d smiled at him then, and he’d tugged me onto his lap. He put his hands to better use after that. And I’d licked wine from his skin until he shivered and growled and demanded dirty things of me i
n that bossy, manly way of his.

  A wistful sigh escapes me, and Gabriel gives me a squeeze. “What’s that all about, chatty girl?”

  “I don’t want to say.”

  “Which only makes me want to know more. Talk to me, Darling.”

  We reach the elevators, and he hits the up button. I shake my head, but give in.

  “I’m just being ridiculous and greedy. I already miss it being just the two of us.”

  His brows draw together, and he takes a step closer, wrapping me up in his scent and the strength of his arms. Warm fingers slide to my nape.

  “Where we are is simply a matter of geography.” Soft lips brush my cheek, and his voice rumbles in my ear. “Remember, chatty girl? I’ll never truly be apart from you because you’re always in here.” He takes my hand and puts it against his temple as he did that night backstage.

  I smile and rest my cheek against his chest where his heart beats strong and sure. “And in here.”

  “Precisely.”

  I love him. I love him so much it doesn’t feel real. I love him so much it terrifies me a little. I’ve never been in love before. I don’t have any experience with processing the emotion. How can it make a person so happy and yet so afraid? I can’t lose him. I can’t. My heart won’t survive.

  But he’s here, holding me as if he’ll stay right here, giving me comfort for as long as I need it.

  The elevator dings, and I step back. That’s when I see him. He’s looking a little worse for the wear, with a sunburn on his face, but I’d recognize him anywhere.

  The bottom falls out of my stomach, and I swallow hard, feeling dangerously close to throwing up.

  He’s looking right at me from his spot across the lobby. The calculating glint in his eyes tells me he knows exactly who Gabriel is, and he’s figuring out how to use the knowledge that we’re obviously together.

  A cold sweat breaks out along my skin as Gabriel puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me into the elevator. The last thing I see before the doors close is Martin’s smug grin and ugly wink, as if to say, “I’ll be in touch soon.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sophie

  * * *

  We need to talk.

  I stare at the text on my phone, and my rage grows to a black haze that blurs the edges of my vision. My gut churns. That motherfucker still has my number. I’m sorry I didn’t change it long ago. But it wouldn’t have mattered; Martin always finds a way to get what he wants.

  My stomach lurches, and I press a hand to it.

  I should tell Gabriel that Martin is skulking around the lobby. But I don’t want to. Speaking his name is like calling forth the devil. I don’t want to remind Gabriel of what I did. Of course he knows, but seeing Martin, visually linking him with me, will make it more real. More pungent. Because that’s what Martin is: a foul odor hanging around, stinking up the place. The bastard wants to talk. It takes little imagination to discern about what.

  A breeze blows in from the harbor. I huddle down in the lounge chair on the balcony, drawing my knees to my chest. It’s not cold out here, but I’m freezing inside, while my skin burns hot.

  “Sophie.” Gabriel’s face hovers in front of me, a frown marring his brow.

  Startled, I blink and look around, taking in the dark sea and the lights along the shore. “Yes?”

  He sits on the foot of the lounger. “I called your name three times.”

  “Sorry. I…” I don’t know what to say, so I shrug.

  He assesses my face, worrying. “What’s going on in that head, chatty girl?”

  “I don’t feel well.” It’s true. I want to climb under the covers and cry. “Too much driving on mountain roads, I guess.”

  The cool press of his fingers to my brow almost has me weeping, and I have to blink several times to keep from losing it.

  His frown deepens. “You feel warm.”

  “And you feel nice and cool.” I force a smile. “Kiss me and make it all better.”

  He leans in and kisses my forehead. But he’s on a mission. “I’m serious. I want you to stay in tonight. I’ll text Dr. Stern and have her come look you over.”

  “No, don’t,” I say to Gabriel. “I’m fine. I’ll be better off working.”

  “Bollocks to that.” Without an apparent effort, he scoops me up and carries me inside. Despite myself, a little thrill runs through me. I’ve never been carried around, or handled as if I were precious. And though I’m not really sick, his care makes me want to cling to him and cry my troubles away.

  He sets me on the couch. “Stay.”

  “Yes, sir.” I salute him, but he’s already going into the bedroom.

  He returns with a blanket, which he promptly tucks around my body. “There.”

  “You’re acting like a mother hen.” Which I love.

  “Cluck, cluck,” he deadpans as he picks up the house phone with one hand and grabs the TV remote with the other. I’m impressed by his multitasking; he scrolls through the movie selections and selects a rom-com, while simultaneously ordering a soup and bread basket through room service.

  “And a pot of tea,” he adds, finishing up the call.

  My poor, battered heart turns to mush there and then. He’s getting me tea. My voice is too thick when I speak. “Italians aren’t known for their tea.”

  “It’ll likely be rubbish,” he agrees. “But it will have to do.”

  And though I’m all tucked up like a package, he moves me once more, lifting me onto his lap and snuggling us both under the blanket. It’s so much better being held. I burrow against his chest, and his arms wrap around me.

  “I don’t want to leave you,” he murmurs in my hair.

  “I’m fine. Really. I can go with you—”

  “No.” His voice is gentle but firm. “Even if you aren’t ill, you need rest. Now, shut up and do as directed for once.”

  “Bossy.”

  “You’re only sorry it’s my turn to do the bossing.”

  Unable to help myself, I stroke his chest. Touching him is a luxury I don’t think I’ll ever get used to. “What was you said about forced relaxation being an oxymoron?”

  “I don’t recall that at all. You’ve grown delusional in your exhaustion.”

  I snort, and he kisses me on the forehead, chuckling.

  The movie starts playing, and we fall silent.

  “How did you know I love When Harry Met Sally?” I ask softly.

  He shifts a little beneath me, propping one foot on the table. “You told me.”

  “What? When?”

  “The third night on the coach. You were taking a piss at my love of all things Star Trek, and I asked what your favorite movies were. And I still take umbrage that you think Spaceballs is on par with Star Wars.”

  I grin at the disgust in his voice, but a small jolt runs through me as I think back on that night. “You remember all of that?”

  His hand sifts through my hair, spreading lovely little shivers down my spine. “I remember everything you say, Darling. You talk, I listen.”

  I almost tell him I love him then. The words bubble up and dance on my tongue. But my mouth refuses to open. Fear holds me back, as if by saying it I’ll somehow start the beginning of the end. It makes no sense, but I can’t shake the feeling.

  I kiss the underside of his jaw, where the scent of his cologne blends with the warmth of his skin, and hug him close.

  He holds me until room service arrives. Given the speed at which they show up, I’m guessing we get preferential treatment. A perk, I suppose, of Kill John renting the entire floor.

  Gabriel pulls on his suit jacket and tugs his cuffs into place as I pretend to find interest in my meal. But my appetite is gone.

  “Don’t poke at your soup,” he says. “Eat it.”

  “I’m waiting for it to cool down.”

  Apparently I’m terrible at lying because he hovers at the end of the couch, peering at me as if he can pull the thoughts from my head by she
er will.

  “I should stay,” he says finally.

  When he pulls his phone from his pocket as if to start texting, I touch his hand. “No, go. I swear I’m all right. I’m just having an off night. It happens.”

  I need him to go so I can hunt down that fuckwit Martin and tell him to eat shit and die—or something to that effect. I can’t do that with Gabriel around. I’m fairly certain his version of telling Martin to eat shit would probably lean more toward actually kicking the shit out of him.

  That would be kind of satisfying to watch, but the idea of Gabriel getting into trouble with the law or having his reputation tarnished horrifies me.

  He must see my urgency, because he sighs and leans down to kiss me. This kiss isn’t quick, it’s soft and languid, as if he’s luxuriating in my taste. And I melt under his touch, kissing him back, my hands threading into his thick hair.

  High color stains his cheeks when we finally break apart, both of us breathing faster. His forehead rests against mine as he cups my nape. “Sophie,” he says. “My darling girl.”

  Tears threaten. He’s too tender. Too wonderful. I close my eyes, run my thumbs in circles along his temples. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

  Making a sound of agreement, he kisses me once. Then once more. Gentle, kisses. Kisses that feel like love.

  “Sophie, I…” He takes a breath, shaking his head. When he steps back, I feel the loss of him like a cold hand to my skin.

  He tugs his cuffs in place once more and searches my face. I don’t know what he sees, but his voice is soft when he finally speaks. “Be well.”

  “I will.” But my promise is empty; because this sickness won’t go until I make a stand against Martin.

  * * *

  Gabriel

  * * *

  I hate meet and greets—the inane parties both before and after each concert, where press, fans, fan club runners, other people of fame, and record industry heavy hitters all congregate into one, boring, who’s-looking-at-who cluster. They’re the bane of my professional existence.

  Over the years, I’ve perfected a remote look that keeps people at arm’s length during these torturous hours. Only the very brave or the very stupid approach me. The very brave have my respect and are usually intelligent enough to converse with briefly. The very stupid are easily dealt with.