“A little place called Franco’s. Franco is a personal friend, and he makes the best tiramisu you’ll ever have the pleasure of putting on your tongue. It’s very casual.” He reaches out and fingers a strand of my hair, keeping his eyes on mine. “I have a gift for you,” he confesses, soft and low.
I swear to God, if it’s a fucking car or house, or anything more expensive than a box of matches, I’m going to lose my shit. “Oh yeah?” I try to sound curious, but I’m pretty sure threatening is all I manage.
He chuckles and reaches behind his back to pull something from his back pocket. “It’s more for my peace of mind,” he explains. “Considering I haven’t been able to find out who’s having you watched, and you’d have my nuts for breakfast if I sent someone to protect you, I thought this might come in handy.” I look down, curious. A little gun, no bigger than his palm, is encased in a soft black belt clip that would fit nicely on my side or in even the cutest purse.
“You need to get a license to carry concealed on Monday. It’s less than a hundred dollars, and you can apply at the courthouse,” he explains. The little gun isn’t threatening at all. But for an instant my heart rate picks up and a little surge of fear-fueled adrenaline makes me tense. I get it under control quickly, but not fast enough to escape Gabe’s notice. His lips tighten in irritation and he grabs my hand to slap the gun in it. He lets my hand go and steps back, speaking in short, clipped syllables, “That stings, Luna.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, staring down at the little gun. I’m grateful for it, truly. I’ve never shot a gun in my life though, and only know which end to point at the bad guy because I’ve seen it on television. And I am sorry, though I don’t know how to tell him that the little surge of fear has more to do with not knowing how guns work than his past. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I um…I’ll need you to teach me how to use it.” I look back up at him in time to see his eyebrows draw down in a scowl.
“How the hell can you be from Alabama and not know how to use a handgun?”
I stare down at the little black pistol and take it out of the case, holding it with two fingers. “It’s just me and Dad, and he’s a history teacher.” I shrug and smile at him. “The closest thing we’ve ever had to a gun in the house is a water pistol.”
He makes a sound of disbelieving disgust. “That’s pretty liberal of you.”
I spin the gun and examine the other side, hoping it won’t go off if I hold it this way and spin it slowly. His comment sinks in and I look at him, just blinking in confusion. “That’s rich, coming from the guy known throughout the state as the ‘king of green’.”
One side of his mouth kicks up in that smile—that god damn sexy smile that I fucking love—and he corrects, “Known throughout the Southeast, sweetheart. Not just Alabama. Soon, the country.” He leans forward until our noses touch and whispers, “Think big, baby. Think really big.”
I want to respond to his bragging about expansion, but…God he smells good. His cedar and clove cologne tickles my nose and I inhale deeply, trying to take in as much of that warm, masculine scent as I can. He closes the distance between us and takes the gun from my limp fingers before putting it…somewhere. Hell, I don’t know. He smells really good and I take another lungful of his scent when he rests his hands on my hips.
“Could you still smell me all night?” he asks in a low, rumbling tone, reminding me of what I told him the night we met.
“Mmm, yes. Except now I’d rather lick you like a lollipop.” Oh fuck, did I just say that? No touching, girl. But a sudden image flashes across my mind: him reclining on my sofa, his head thrown back and his hands buried in my hair as he pumps his hips to shove his cock deeper into my mouth. Oh God, yes please.
He blows out a frustrated breath and it wafts across my lips, making me hungrier, hornier than I’ve already managed to make myself. He shifts and his erection brushes my stomach. “You can lick me anytime you want. Anywhere. Just say the word.”
Except I can’t. I close my eyes and whimper a little, wishing I hadn’t made that stupid rule, but wishing more that he hadn’t pointed out that our emotional attachment isn’t deep enough for kissing, much less sex. Although I’ve kissed a couple of men with a hell of a lot less attachment than I have to Gabe. Just a few though. Two, three, four…maybe seven.
“Luna,” he breathes against my lips and almost—almost, god dammit—kisses me. His lips push against mine for the barest instant, then he steps back, leaving me standing there; an island of ravenous female with lips puckered and chest puffed out.
Fucking bastard.
I’m so irritated with him, so fucking wet and uncomfortable that I snap and accuse, “There’s more to the kissing and intimacy than a bitch ex-wife. What is it?”
Suddenly I’m flattened against the wall, his big body pressing into me, the solid pressure of him squeezing the air from my lungs. “Do you need to come, Luna?” He nips my neck and pushes his cock against my stomach. “Because I do. In your pussy, in your mouth…” He takes little nipping bites of my neck, sucking and licking away the sting as he continues, “…on your tits. Wherever you’ll let me. I just need to blow my load. In you or on you, it doesn’t matter.” He lifts his head and stares down at me, his eyes hard. “But you said no. Don’t get pissy with me because I’m following your rules.”
Fuck those god damn fucking stupid ass rules. I almost say it, almost beg him to just do me, pushed up against the wall of my dad’s kitchen with my hairy-ass legs. But his next words freeze me.
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I just don’t want to kiss a woman I don’t love?” He takes a step back and runs a hand through his hair. “That maybe it’s something deeply fucking personal that I don’t share very easily or often.” He turns away and puts his hands on his hips. “Janet is maybe half the reason. The other half is…” He takes a deep breath and continues in a firmer voice, “The other half is harder to explain.”
“Try,” I demand, a little bit of wounded pride worming its way in. He hasn’t kissed me because he doesn’t want to? There goes my ego, whizzing away, deflating like popped balloon.
He grunts and digs his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. “Sex is…it’s just a way to get off.” He drags a hand through his now mussed locks and begins to pace. “Before my marriage and after, women were just…” He stops and sighs, looking at me from the corner of his eyes. “God dammit, this is going to sound really offensive, but I don’t know how else to say it. Women were just something I used as an alternative to jerking off. I’d make sure they had a good time, but…” He holds a hand out, palm up, and gives me an apologetic look. “But I’d always send them on their way in the morning with a note and a…fuck.” He puts his hands on his hips and looks down. “And a pearl necklace.”
I look away, stunned, unable to hold his gaze, and finger the pearls around my throat. The beloved pearls, that for a year reminded me of my own worth as a woman; that recently reminded me of a man that valued me. But not anymore. Now they make me feel cheap. Used. Sure, that first night a year ago I was just as eager as he was to cut all ties. That night served its purpose. We used each other.
But he gave them back to me after I tried to return them, insisted I keep them even after he maintained we try something a little more long-term. Like a fucking consolation prize, thanking me for the lay. And damn—hot tears sting my eyes and I blink rapidly to clear them—I didn’t know that he bought the fucking pearls in bulk. It had made me feel just a little bit special that he gave them to me because I got so much pleasure from them, and now even that’s gone. Did he do that for every woman? And how the hell many are we talking about? I put the mental brakes on that thought. How many women he’s been with is irrelevant to us.
“Luna,” he whispers, taking a step closer to me.
“No,” I hold one hand up to stop him and yank the pearls away from my neck with the other. The tiny little beads bounce and scatter with melodic tinkles on the kitchen tile. Only four are still in m
y hand when I hold it out to him. The rest are bouncing off to be swept up with the trash. But it’s not the actual pearls I’m trying to give back. It’s how god damn cheap he just made me feel. I brush a tear away angrily, my inability to hold it in pissing me off even more.
“Moon goddess, don’t do this…” He starts, his voice hoarse and raw, but I can’t let him finish.
“Don’t you ever fucking call me that again,” I grind out. I sniff, the bubbly sound of snot being sucked forcefully back into my skull taking a little of the heat out of my words.
“Dammit, Luna, I’m sorry.” He grips my shoulders and gives me a gentle shake. “I could have done this a little better,” he stresses bitterly.
“Gee, ya think?” The snarky comment comes out sounding pathetic instead, my throat froggy from trying not to cry, and my nose running like it’s trying to win the Boston marathon. It’s been a source of great aggravation my entire life that I am not a quiet, pretty, or neat crier. Which is why I try so hard not to cry. It gets pretty fucking messy and disgusting.
Gabe takes the pearls from my hand gently and drops them on the floor. Then he pulls me into his arms and presses my head to his shoulder. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I should have left that part out and skipped to the end.”
I sniff again, a great heaving, embarrassing snort, and reply gruffly, “It better be an epic end, asshole.”
He chuckles and rubs a hand up and down my back, soothing me. He keeps his tone low and explains, “A kiss, from a peck on the lips to a full blown tongue-in-the-throat is extremely intimate. I kiss my mother, my aunts, my grandmother, all because I love them. Everyone reserves some part of themselves until the time is right. With you, it’s your children. With me, it’s a kiss because it’s too intimate for me to share with a woman I don’t love.” He takes a deep breath and finishes, “I don’t love you, Luna. I might someday, but not yet. Don’t resent the fact that I keep that one thing sacred for the woman I do fall in love with. It has to mean something, and if it’s you…” He trails off, but I don’t need him to finish. I know how much it’ll mean when he makes his mind up to kiss me. I still don’t understand how it’s more intimate than sex, but to him it is, and I have to respect that. And they say women are hard to understand.
I take a shuddering breath and sniff again. His shirt is ruined. Maybe it’ll dry and he won’t notice. Probably not, though. “You kissed your wife. Were you in love with her?” I don’t mean to sound so fucking pitiful, but I catch sight of a stray pearl and the “poor Luna” syndrome hits me again.
“I thought I was. But no, I never really loved Janet. She knew how to manipulate me, and she knew how I felt about real intimacy. She abused that, and it only made me dig my heels in harder.”
“I get that, I guess.”
We’re silent for a long time, standing there doing nothing more than holding each other. The scrape of my clothes against his, the sound of his even breathing, and my somewhat snotty sniffles are the only sounds in the house. The sun is still out, won’t be completely gone until almost nine, and the soft glow streams in the windows around us almost in a frame. I keep my head nestled into Gabe’s shoulder, because that’s where I want it to be. If he doesn’t want snot on his shirt, he shouldn’t make me cry.
Ass. Hole.
He rubs my back, up and down, over and over, the warmth of his palm seeping through the thin fabric of my shirt. God, I just want to snuggle into him and really cry; let it all out without reservation. He’d hold me through it, I know he would. But I don’t want to put that on him, and I think I’ve ruined his shirt enough.
I pick my head up and look at the shiny, wet spot left. How embarrassing. Snot, tears, and slobber. Fucking lovely. He presses gently against the back of my head, urging me to put my head back down. I don’t want to put it in the gross spot, so I switch shoulders.
Fuck the shirt anyway, it’s already ruined. Might as well finish it off.
“I’m sorry about the pearls, Luna. I shouldn’t have told you.”
I snort gallon of snot back up my nose and try to speak, though it sounds like there’s a slug on my tongue. “It shouldn’t have hit me like that, but…even knowing that it was a one night stand, those pearls made me feel special.” I pull back and glare at him. “All the other women felt special too, and you treated them—and me—like a whore.”
“Now wait just a god damn minute…”
“No, I’m telling you how it makes a woman feel to be given a gift on her way out the door. Wham-bam-thank you ma’am is one thing Gabe, but when you top it off with payment…”
“It wasn’t fucking payment!” He fumes, teeth gritted. His fingers dig into my hips, not painfully, but with enough force that I can’t step away.
But I continue, ignoring him. “…it makes everything that happened cheap, and it makes a woman feel cheap.”
“It was a gift and nothing else,” he reiterates, voice tight and firm.
“Would you have given me the pearls if I left before we had sex?”
He tightens his lips and looks away, so obviously uncomfortable that I want to cheer. I’ve made my point. “No,” he finally enunciates, drawing out the single syllable. “No I wouldn’t have.”
Ha! Dead horse, meet whip.
“See?” I press, “You gave them…”
“Enough, Luna. I get it, all right?” He pulls away from me and turns, running a hand through his hair.
I want to keep going, make sure he never forgets. But I don’t. He understands and that’s good enough for me. I won’t harp on it.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “It’s a dick move, and I should have thought a little harder about it.”
“You’re forgiven,” I graciously allow. “But there are probably a lot of other women out there that deserve an apology too.”
“Not as many as you’d think,” he grumbles. Then, slightly panicked, he asks, “You’re not going to want me to find them and apologize, are you? Because…”
I wave a hand in a negative motion. “No, not unless you’re confronted with it. That would be unreasonable.”
He breathes a little sigh of relief and looks around. I follow his gaze to the little pearls scattered throughout the kitchen and dining room. “If I offer to get them fixed for you, you’re going to be offended, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Dumbass, of course I am. God, men are idiots sometimes.
“I’ll get you something else, then.”
Dammit, he is so stubborn. “I don’t want anything else, Gabe. And why pearls, anyway?”
He jerks his head up and grins at me. “Don’t you remember?”
Dear God, yes. I nod once.
“I couldn’t exactly use the same pearls for every woman, now could I?”
The thought had never crossed my mind. My pearls sliding between another woman’s legs? Gross. I’m glad to know those pearls specifically were only ever mine. Dammit…now I want the pearls back. But not those. Maybe I’ll get myself some fake ones.
He closes the distance between us without warning and frames my face in his warm palms. “I’ll get you something Luna, something that’s just for you.” He declares quietly, his voice deep and almost reverent. He kisses my cheeks, my eyes, my nose. “Something that makes me think of you, that will make you think of me. Something as rare and wonderful as you.”
Here we go, buttering me up again. But I kind of like it. He nuzzles the spot just below and behind my ear, sending a shiver down my back and through my legs.
“Gabe,” I moan, trying to protest his insistence on buying me something. “You already gave me a car, which I’m going to give back as soon as I can buy my own.”
He kisses that little space behind the lobe of my ear, flicking his tongue over a nerve I never knew existed. His voice is thick when he says, “You have no idea how much I would give you if you’d let me.”
My heart falls from my chest, through my stomach, out of my body, and splats on the floor. “Except a kiss.” He’ll give me ever
ything except the one thing that means something to him.
He stills against me and sighs, then pulls away with a soft kiss to my ear. “Patience, Luna. Patience.” He looks me up and down and brushes his thumbs beneath my eyes. “And speaking of patience, Franco has none and we’re already going to be late.”
Chapter 16
Much to my relief, Gabe keeps a spare shirt—why, I have no idea—in his car, and pulls it on while I watch, a little drooly. This one is periwinkle, and it doesn’t escape my notice that he’s usually wearing some form of blue.
The bastard knows he’s fucking sexy in blue. It’s those eyes, the almost crystal clear blue that reflects whatever color he’s wearing without darkening at all. Piercing to the point of being disconcerting, but capable of such heat. He shoots me an arrogant, knowing look once he gets the new shirt tucked in and his belt buckled, but stays silent.
And that’s how we make the drive to Franco’s. The entire hour to Mobile is silent, along with the short jaunt down Battleship Parkway to the restaurant. I’d expected something a little higher class than the appearance Franco’s gives on the outside. A bit isolated, it’s a huge, old brick…something. Warehouse, train station…I have no idea. It looks old and worn down, and I’m a little hesitant at first.
Gabe leads me inside with a hand at the small of my back, and my opinion changes immediately. It’s beautiful inside. Spacious but cozy at the same time, and the brick gives it an old world feeling that somehow works with the Italian décor. I had expected white and red checked tablecloths, but they’re solid black instead, topped with thick sheets of glass to make clean-up easier. The wait staff hustles, their khakis and white shirt a simple and comfortable uniform, likely chosen for ease of movement.
Franco himself greets us, further destroying the image I’d conjured up. I’d thought he would look like Luigi from Super Mario Brothers, and talk like the Italian waiters from Lady and the Tramp. But he looks like just another guy, dark hair and brown eyes, wearing the same uniform as the rest of the staff, and he doesn’t have a hint of an accent.
Luna Exposed Page 20