by Ivy Layne
I’d thought about it, mostly wondering if I should replace my white cotton with silk and satin—reclaim some of what Anthony had stolen from me. In theory, it was a great idea, but when I looked at those filmy negligées in the department store, I shuddered with memory. White cotton would have to do.
I paced my room for a few minutes, caught in an argument with myself. I wanted a cup of tea. Hiding in my room when I couldn't sleep only made it worse, gave me a sense of being trapped, of hiding, that I hated.
I didn't want to risk running into Gage. Avoiding him seemed like the most sensible move, but I was worried after talking to Mrs. W. He was having enough trouble adjusting to being home. I knew there was no way he was asleep that night of all nights, the anniversary of his aunt and uncles death.
I was leaving my room before I'd consciously made the decision. Heading down the hall, I saw the flicker of firelight in the library and thought about making tea. Two cups, one for each of us.
In the dark, I could sneak by the library without being seen. Winters House was built on a large square, the courtyard in the center. My room and Amelia's were on the front right corner, closest to the driveway and inner gate. The library and Aiden's office were in the back right, the kitchen opposite in the back left. Most of the rooms opened right into the hallway, but the doors to the library, Aiden's office, and the wine room were tucked into a separate small hallway, shielding both rooms from anyone passing by.
I could easily sneak past the library without being caught. There was no reason to poke my head in before I went to make tea.
I was through the doorway before I decided I wasn't going in. I didn't have time to be annoyed at my indecisiveness or the way I kept acting against my best interests. The moment my eyes fell on him, Gage commanded all of my attention.
He was sprawled on the leather couch, his feet propped on the coffee table, a crystal decanter of whiskey beside them, a half-full cut crystal glass in his hand. I'd never seen Gage drink before. Not like this.
His eyes were glazed, his limbs loose. When he caught sight of me the side of his mouth curled in a sardonic smile. The clarity of his speech took me by surprise. Based on the way he looked, I would've expected him to be slurring his words.
Instead, each word was perfectly clear when he said, “Sophie. My angel come to rescue me in the dark.”
His voice was a growl. Shivers skated down my skin, prickling my nerves from the back of my neck to the bottom of my feet, waking every part of my body.
I didn't move from my spot just inside the doorway, my eyes locked on his. When he kept speaking, I swayed forward just a little, mesmerized by the low rumble of his voice.
“The first time I saw you I thought you were an angel. That hair, those eyes, the white robe. I figured it was the end. Coming home was a dream, and you were here to take me with you. Then I heard your voice, and I knew you were no angel. No angel could have a voice like yours. So sweet.”
“Are you drunk?” I asked, and wished I'd kept my mouth shut when he threw back the rest of the whiskey in his glass. He refilled it, his movements precise and controlled. The brown liquor poured cleanly into the crystal glass, the stopper sliding easily into the decanter without a clink.
His hands were steady, and the way he was speaking clear enough, but the glaze in his blue eyes and the things he was saying… Gage Winters was not sober.
In answer to my question, he shook his head. “Not yet, Angel. But I'm working on it. Come keep me company.”
I stayed where I was. Shoving my hands in the pockets of my robe, I held my arms tight to my side and said, “I don't think that's a very good idea. I shouldn't have let you… We shouldn't have… In the kitchen the other day, I—”
My mouth snapped shut, and I fell silent.
Gage took a sip of his whiskey, studying me with hooded eyes. I tried to look away, but I couldn't stop staring at his face. I'd rarely seen him so relaxed. Even knowing it was the alcohol easing his tension, Gage became even more magnetic when he wasn't wound tight. If it hadn't been for the sadness in his eyes, I might've thought it was a good thing.
But the sadness was there, clinging to him, weighing him down. And he was only relaxed because he was drinking. I knew he avoided alcohol for exactly this reason.
“Do you want me to apologize for kissing you?” he asked, his eyes fixed on my mouth. Before I could answer, he said, “Because I'm not going to. Kissing you might be the best decision I've made in the last thirteen years, and I'm not apologizing for it.”
“I don't want an apology,” I said, honestly. “I just don't think we should do it again.”
“We'll have to agree to disagree on that, Angel. Come have a drink with me. It'll help you sleep.”
I took another step into the library before I drew short. His voice was wrapping itself around me, cajoling and tempting. How could something so soothing feel so dangerous?
I tried to tell myself to turn around and go back to my room. I didn't listen. I didn't want to go back to my lonely room and stare at the ceiling until the sun rose. I wanted to be here, with Gage. I wanted—I cut that thought off before I could finish it. I wasn't in a position to want anything with Gage.
For so long I'd had a single focus in life. First, it was to get through college and nursing school so I could get a job and support myself. Then it was surviving marriage to Anthony. Then I was free, and my life was all about finding work and moving forward.
Until the day Gage came home to Winters House. From the moment we'd met my focus had split. A part of me still thought my job and my future should be my most important priority. That part of me was practical. Sensible. Before Gage, I’d never wanted anything more than security.
Now there was a new Sophie. The Sophie that had kissed Gage in the kitchen. The Sophie who wanted to curl up next to him on that couch, take a long sip of his whiskey, and kiss him again. That Sophie didn't give a crap about her job or security. That Sophie was tired of sleepless nights and bad dreams and feeling like she was dead inside.
The new Sophie wanted to be alive.
She wanted to dream.
She wanted to want.
I hovered there, one step into the room, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, and watched Gage lift the glass to his lips. He took a slow, long sip of the whiskey. Sensible Sophie yelled at me as my feet carried me across the room. I ignored her.
Gage’s eyes flared as I moved to the opposite side of the couch and sat, tucking my feet beneath me and leaning against the arm. With Gage sprawled against the opposite arm, a good three feet separated us.
Leaning forward, he filled a second glass with a small splash of whiskey and handed it to me. I took it, thrilling more than I should have when his fingers stroked the back of my hand before withdrawing.
I took a sip of the whiskey and coughed. I didn't like whiskey. The sour fire of it burned my throat. I didn't really like alcohol in general, but if I was going to stay up half the night drinking, whiskey would never be my first choice.
I wasn't here for the whiskey. I was here for Gage.
Chapter Twelve
Sophie
Deciding not to play games, I said, “Mrs. W told me why Aiden left. Told me what today is. I'm sorry.”
Gage’s eyes dropped to the whiskey in his hand. He swirled the glass and took a sip. “This is the first year I've been home on the anniversary since it happened.”
“Was it easier? Being away?” I asked.
“I would've told you no. But now that I'm here? Yeah, being away was easier. I found them right here, you know.” He gestured to the Persian rug with his whiskey glass. “Right there on the rug.”
“You were home?” I asked.
I don't know why I thought no one was home when Hugh and Olivia Winters were murdered. I didn't know much about the crime. I hadn't lived in the area when it had happened, and it felt creepy to spy on my new employers by reading all the media coverage.
A simple web search had uncovered page
s of headlines, click bait and trashy. I hadn't read a single one. Seeing the haunted guilt in Gage’s blue eyes, I was glad I hadn't.
“I was home,” he said in a distant voice. “I was here the whole time, and I didn't save them. Just walked in and found them laying on the floor. Exactly the same way my parents died. Almost the same position on the rug. Same room. Different house.”
I didn't know what to say. I didn't know a lot about the Winters’ tragic history, but I did know Gage’s parents had died when he was a child, in their own home a quarter-mile away. And I'd known those deaths had been called a murder/suicide by the police, just like Hugh and Olivia Winters’ murders had been.
The headlines I'd seen had fed on that angle, but Gage hadn't said, “I didn't stop them.” He’d said, “I didn't save them.”
I turned the problem over in my mind, wanting to ask what he meant and afraid to make it all worse. Had they been murdered and he'd been home? It suddenly occurred to me how narrowly the teenage Gage might have escaped being killed himself.
I watched him drain half the whiskey in his glass, tipping his head back as it ran down his throat and staring at the ceiling, shrouded in the darkness of the room. The flickering light of the fire gilded his skin, turning his tan to gold and setting flames into his blue eyes.
He was almost impossibly beautiful in his own rugged way. When my eyes caught on the curve of his lower lip, I looked away and took my own long sip of whiskey, fighting back the urge to cough and choke as it burned its way to my stomach.
I expected Gage to say something else about his aunt and uncle, the anniversary, but his next words almost sent me fleeing the room.
“You were married,” he said, flatly. “What happened with your husband?”
I took another sip of the whiskey to cover my reluctance to answer. I never talked about my marriage. With anyone. I’d only told Amelia a little.
His dark rumble of a voice carefully gentle, Gage said, “It was that bad?”
“I don't talk about it,” I admitted. “And I don't want to talk about it now.”
“Fair enough,” Gage said. “I don't want to talk either.”
In a fluid movement, too graceful for a man who'd been drinking whiskey all night, Gage surged forward and pulled the half empty crystal glass from my hand. Before I could move out of reach, he closed his hand around my arm and tugged me forward.
It happened so fast, I lost my balance and fell into him. I started to struggle, to fight my way free when his arms closed around me and he pulled me into his side, pressing my head to his chest.
“Settle down, Angel. I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to. I swear. I’ll never hurt you. I just want to hold on to you for a few minutes. Just let me hold onto you.”
I went still in his arms, confused. The second the fight went out of me, Gage settled me into his side, smoothing my robe down over my legs and wrapping his arm around my back.
His heart beat under my ear. His solid body was warm against mine, smelling of whiskey and man.
I felt his breath against the top of my head, his lips in my hair as he murmured, “I just want to hold onto you for a little while.”
The tight knot in my chest unfurled, and I melted into him, letting my legs twine with his and laying my arm across his chest. Bit by bit I relaxed, my body molding to his, my eyes sliding shut.
I don't know how long we lay there. A while. Long enough for me to get comfortable. So comfortable I never realized I'd shifted the arm I had across his chest and was exploring his body in lazy strokes, my fingers sliding over his shoulders, tracing his collarbone, dipping into the ridges of muscle at his abdomen.
I was lost in my own head, warm and safe, my hands on Gage as if he were mine, as if I had license to do whatever I wanted with him.
Gradually, I realized that his breath had shortened. His heart beat had sped up. My hand stilled on the side of his neck, and his voice rumbled against my palm when he said, “Don't stop. I won't do anything if you don't want me to. Just don't stop.”
I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to stop. I wanted to keep touching him. I wanted to dive my fingers under his shirt and feel the heat of his skin on mine. I wanted more of Gage, and I didn't want to worry about the consequences.
So many wants and all of them were foolish. I knew I should get up and leave. I didn't move.
I lay there, completely still, my hand curled around the side of Gage's neck, silently arguing with myself. I might have been there forever if Gage hadn't slid his fingers around my chin and urged my head up, his eyes searching for mine.
I shifted over him, maybe trying to get off the couch, away from temptation, but as I moved my body over Gage's his hands closed on my hips, holding me on top of him.
I was slow to react. I lay there, straddling Gage Winters, thinking that this was the exact opposite of what I’d intended. I was supposed to be climbing over him, off the couch, and scurrying out the door. Away from temptation. Away from trouble.
Gage's fingers sank into my hips, but I could have moved easily enough if I’d really wanted to. I didn't want to move. I knew what I wanted.
Ignoring all my doubts, I leaned down and touched my lips to his.
Gage froze beneath me, his muscles tight with tension as I brushed my lips against his. Sinking my fingers into his thick hair, I did it again, slower, flicking out my tongue to taste the full lower lip that always drew my eye. I couldn't resist sucking it into my mouth, opening him to me, fitting my lips against his and tasting him.
My tongue touched his and Gage came back to life, his hips rolling beneath mine, his erection hard against my heat. His need was unleashed in his kiss, his mouth taking control, taking everything it wanted. I fell into the kiss, forgetting that just moments before I'd been ready to flee the room.
Yanking at the voluminous fabric of my rope and nightgown, Gage went for the bare skin beneath, stroking his hands from my knees to my hips and up my sides. My breath caught in my throat as his big, rough hands closed over my breasts.
Gage broke our kiss, his head falling back as he groaned, “Fuck, Sophie.”
My lips met his again, and his kiss was hungry. Demanding. When one hand traced down my spine to dip between my legs, I settled back into him, my knees spreading wider, my hips tilting up.
I was wanton, as hungry, as needy, as he was. He plucked at my nipple, sending shocks of sharp, sweet pleasure through me. One thick finger delved into the heat between my legs, carefully, patiently opening my body to him. I panted into his mouth, overcome with sensation, too much and not enough.
A second finger joined the first, and I let out a low cry, tearing my mouth from his and dropping my forehead against his neck, panting and rocking back into his hand, undone by the pleasure.
Two fingers pumped deep in my pussy, a hard callous thumb pressed into my clit, and I let out a keening wail, gasping for breath. I think I called his name.
My cheeks were wet with tears or perspiration. I didn't know. I didn't know anything. Just Gage's hand between my legs, his fingers teasing my nipple, his strong, solid body supporting my weight as I shuddered and wept through a wave of pleasure, unlike anything I'd ever known before.
Afterward, I was shaking, tiny shocks of bliss echoing through my body, a heavenly ache pulsing between my legs. I was aware of Gage withdrawing his fingers, smoothing down my nightgown and robe as he arranged my legs beside his. I couldn't help but notice the long, thick bar of his erection straining the front of his pants.
I wanted to touch him, to see what he felt like in my hand, to make him feel the we he'd made me feel. So good. So alive.
I reached for him, and Gage's hand closed over mine, leading it to his chest. I propped myself up on one elbow and looked down at him in confusion.
“Don't you want me to?”
Not releasing my hand from his, he sat up a little and kissed me gently, skating his lips along my jaw and nipping my earlobe.
“Angel, you have no ide
a how much I want you to.”
“I want to touch you,” I said, ignoring the blush I could feel in my cheeks.
“I want you to, but not yet. Not tonight.”
“Why?” I asked, searching his eyes, trying to understand.
“You gave me a gift, Sophie. You trusted me to make you feel good.” Seeming to change the subject, he said, “I love the sound of your voice when you talk. So low and sweet, it soothes all the jagged parts inside me. Did you know that? But the sounds you make when you come—. Fuck, Angel, I could listen to that for the rest of my life. It almost makes me feel whole again.”
“Then why—”
“We’re not ready for that. I’m a fucked up mess, Sophie. You deserve better. And if you let me get inside that sweet angel’s body of yours, I’m not going to be able to let you go. Do you understand?”
“You’re protecting me? From you?”
“I promised I’d keep you safe,” he said, in answer.
Gage sat up, bringing me with him, and stood, pulling me to my feet. My legs were shockingly wobbly. I realized he planned to walk me to my room. I knew he was going to leave me there, alone.
If I were alone, he’d be alone, too.
“Are you going to sleep tonight?” I asked. Gage scanned the library, his eyes bleak. He shrugged. That meant ‘no.’ Pulling my hand from his, I said, “I’m not leaving you. We can play cards. Watch a movie. Something. But I’m not leaving you.”
“Angel,” he started.
I planted my hands on my hips, keeping my eyes on his. I wasn’t very big, and I wasn’t loud, but I was stubborn as hell. Gage’s tight shoulders dropped in resignation.
“Fine.”
We stood there for a full minute, in silence, watching each other. Gage seemed to come to a decision because he took my hand and led me back to the couch. Turning on a speaker in the book shelves I hadn’t noticed, he put music on low. Big band. The old stuff.
Gage spread out on the long couch and pulled me into his arms, tucking me securely between his big body and the back of the couch. My head on his chest, his fingers combed through my hair as the flames of the fire flickered across the room, and the lively tones of the music drifted to our ears.