Storm Redemption

by Magda Alexander

  I have no reason to trust him. But my gut tells me he’s someone I can talk to. Edward, with his fresh perspective, might be a good sounding board. God, first Bri. Now Edward. Am I turning into someone who needs reassurance every chance she gets? No. That’s never been me. I’m just trying to understand Gabriel and his obsession with me. Logic tells me his siblings are the best to ask. “Yes. We . . . . argued about my returning to work.”

  He smiles. “He would. The Gabe I used to know would much prefer you stay at home.” He leans in, winks at me. “You know, he never shared his toys as a boy.”

  I jerk up my chin. “I’m not a toy.”

  He leans back. “My apologies. I never meant to imply such a thing. You’re his wife.”

  “And his property?” A long time ago in Britain, wives were considered their husbands’ chattel, to do with as they willed. Times have changed and I wouldn’t say Gabriel has adopted that philosophy, but still.

  “No. Of course not.” He threads his hand through his collar-length hair, brushes it back. “I appreciate your candor. Truly I do. But . . . I’ve been back in England for barely a week and spent very little time of that with my family, busy as I’ve been picking up the pieces at Winterleagh. With the death of our father, the drama surrounding our mother, the fire, I haven’t had a chance to get the lay of the land.”

  And here I’m acting like a needy bitch. I touch his arm. “No. Please don’t apologize. I’m the one in the wrong. I’m being totally self centered and talking about my problems when we should be talking about you.”

  “No. It’s fine.” He hurries to say. “I want to help you. I do. But first I have to hear what Gabe has to say. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course. He’s your brother, after all. You owe your allegiance to him.”

  A sadness flows over him. “Yes. My allegiance.”

  Curious as to what caused that shadow in his eyes and eager to make amends for my earlier faux pas, I blurt out, “So what did you in Mexico? How did you pass the time?”

  “I taught English and . . . painted as well.”

  His phone rings, stopping what he’s about to say.

  “Royce?” He listens for a few seconds. “Yes, of course. Be right there.” After clicking off, he addresses me. “He wants to have a drink before we join the rest for dinner. Talk more later?”

  What can I do but agree. “I’d like that,” I say with a smile.

  After he leaves, I spot a big spit up from Andrew on my top. Geez, and Edward let me blather on without saying a thing. Dinner’s not for an hour so I have time for a quick shower. I go into my closet, rifle through my clothes for something to wear. Most of my wardrobe consists of pregnancy outfits. Gabriel kind of went overboard on that. He was so proud of me being pregnant. The dress I wore at the Ragin’ Cajun. The Christmas day gown. All beautiful, but no longer appropriate. And my pre-pregnancy wardrobe looks so old and dowdy. Next to his sartorial splendor, I’m sure to look like a frump. My old clothes just don’t cut it any more. I’ll need to buy new ones before I start my job.

  I finally choose something not too bad. A low cut, but not overly so, dress Gabriel’s sure to like. Or maybe he won’t. As I debate the wisdom of wearing a revealing decolletage, I catch the time on the clock. Oh, geez. Only half an hour before dinner, and I still need to bathe.

  I ditch my clothes and jump in the shower, soap up, shampoo. As I reach for the conditioner on the uppermost tier of the stall, soap blinds my vision. Darn. I’m hunting blindly for it with my eyes closed, when the shower door springs open and cool air hits my hiney.

  “Here, let me.”

  Gabriel.

  Chapter 6

  ______________

  Gabriel

  KNOWING EDWARD HAS ARRIVED, I get to the penthouse a tad early, wanting to welcome him home. But he’s not anywhere. Maybe he popped down for a drink with Royce or Bri. I’m not the only sibling he needs to catch up with, after all.

  As I enter the dressing room to change into more comfortable clothes, I hear the sound of water running in the bathroom. At this time of day, no servant would be brave enough to invade my inner sanctum. And neither would anyone else. Except for . . . Elizabeth.

  Turned away from me, she doesn’t notice my entrance when I stroll into the bathroom. The glass-enclosed shower reveals every inch of her luscious back. Her beautiful hair streams to the middle of her spine in a wet tangle of dark curls. Her curves, even more womanly after the birth of our son, captivate me. And her backside? My cock throbs at the sight of her round, firm arse.

  Eyes closed she hunts for the moisturizer, but located on a high shelf, it’s beyond her reach.

  I only take time to ditch my shoes before, fully dressed, I walk into the shower stall. “Here. Let me.”

  Gasping, she whirls toward me. “Gabriel!”

  “Expecting someone else?” I smile down at her. All I want to do is kiss her, hold her, and tell her how much she means to me. But I agreed to no intimacy while we work things out. And I intend to keep my promise. Even if it kills me.

  She brushes the soap from eyes gone wide. “Oh, my God. Your beautiful suit. You ruined it. Parker is going to kill you.”

  My lips twist in a wry smile. My valet will indeed have something to say. “He can order a new one. Plenty of cloth out there.”

  She worries her bottom lip as her eyes signal apology. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I shouldn’t be in your bathroom. But I was running late, and I thought it’d be faster to shower here than in Bri’s apartment.”

  “It’s not my bathroom; it’s ours. And I don’t mind, love.” Grabbing the conditioner from its shelf, I pour the liquid over her head. Its fragrance fills the confines of the stall as I massage it into her scalp. Soon, another scent imbues the air, that of wet wool.

  “Ugh.” She wrinkles her nose. “Better lose the clothes, Storm.” Her tone might be businesslike, but an undercurrent of something else, something hot and primal, runs beneath it. Has she changed her mind? Is she eager to break her own rule?

  Eager to find out, I claw off my tie, peel off my jacket, toss the mess out the door to splat on the marbled floor.

  When I go to unbutton my shirt, she pushes my hand out of the way. “Here, let me.” She slides her palms underneath the placket and rips open my shirt.

  Bloody hell! How fucking hot is that? “Parker’s going to murder you.”

  “Then we can be buried together.” Her siren voice whispers. She unhinges the belt prongs, yanks, and in one slow pull strips me of the fine leather strap. Opening the door, she sends it flying along with the ruined shirt. I tear off my socks and fling them on top of the pile.

  All that’s left are my trousers and boxer briefs.

  She strokes down the placket of my trousers, beneath which my cock throbs with insistent need. “So beautiful,” she whispers.

  “My trousers or my erection?”

  She looks up through her lashes in a witch’s spell of a glance. “Both.”

  She lowers the zipper, unbuttons the waist, kneels and shimmy slides the clothes off me.

  When my cock bobs up hard and randy, she bites down on her mouth, licks her lower lip.

  Jaysus, Mary and Joseph. I’m going to come just from the look on her face.

  But then she pauses. Standing up, she turns her back to me.

  “Elizabeth?”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—no sex, remember?”

  Christ. I yank on my hair. Is she really going to leave me hard and randy for her? After she set me on fire? Not knowing what else to do, I pluck the body wash from the shower caddy, pour it over the loofah, brush it down her skin.

  “I’ve already—”

  “I need to touch you.” My voice’s gone gravelly. No wonder, hard with need as I am. “Give me this much. Please.”

  She glances over her shoulder but doesn’t deny me. I rub the pad over her shoulders, her collarbone, down the valley between her breasts
. Down her glorious backside, her legs. But it’s not enough. I have to touch her skin to skin.

  I ditch the loofah and squeeze body wash into my hands. Cupping her breasts, I thumb their peaks.

  “Gabriel.” She offers in a strained voice. “You agreed.”

  “I’m just bathing you.”

  Standing behind her, I slip a finger between her pussy lips, clean her clit.

  She moans and her scent intensifies. No doubt in my mind what she desires.

  But I gave her my word. Even though my body’s screaming for release, I step back. “There all done.”

  She turns and faces me. Her eyes smolder with passion. Her breath hitches with need. She’s as desperate as I am. Yeah, I’ve taken total advantage of the situation, but I’ve gone through hell for the last several days without her in my bed.

  “You drive me crazy, you know,” she says.

  “Ditto.”

  She takes me in from head to toes. No way she can miss the strength of my passion. My dick’s curled up all the way up almost to my navel. The damn thing’s aching so hard I’m almost seeing stars. But it’s worth it. If she gives us what we both want.

  “So what will it be, love?” I’m on the verge of losing it. If she says no, I’ll walk away, jerk off in the dressing room.

  “Fuck me, Gabriel.”

  I slide down until my knees hit the tiles. Her mons beckons me to pet it, consume it, make her come. I part her pussy lips, bury my tongue in her heat. God. The taste of her. I lick up her clit, nip her flesh.

  She pulls my hair, groans. “Harder, bite me harder.”

  I oblige and she yanks my head toward her. I’m buried so far in her pussy, all I can breathe is her delicious scent. I lick, nibble, nip her some more. Her legs give out and she crumbles. But before she hits the floor, I rise and lash my arms around her. Lifting her leg, I notch my thick erection into her opening.

  She locks her other leg around my waist. Her glance telegraphs desperate need. “Do it. Right now. Fuck me, Storm.”

  Aiming to please, I press her against the titled walls and bury my cock in her hot sheath.

  We both shout.

  Eager to possess every inch of her, I seal my lips over hers, lick, savour, ravage her mouth. She tastes like hot-blooded woman. She gives back as much as she gets tangling her tongue with mine, sucking and nipping the edge. But soon our primal need is too much. Breaking the kiss, I bury my face against her neck, unhinge my hips and go at her full tilt.

  “Storm!” All of her trembles, her legs, her arms locked around my neck. Her sheath ripples with her imminent climax.

  I redouble my efforts. My bad leg’s screaming for ease, but it’s nothing to the passion roaring through me. Shouting curses, I pound her again and again and again until she comes in one glorious shudder, screaming my name. When I spill my seed in her, I whisper hers.

  We breathe hard for several seconds. Afraid to let go, afraid of what I’ll see, I remain buried in her heat. After our heartbeats return to a more normal rhythm, she unlocks her legs, slides to the floor. Pain-filled eyes gaze at me. She doesn’t have to say a word. Her glance speaks for her. She regrets what we’ve done.

  Chapter 7

  ______________

  Elizabeth

  GABRIEL AND I ARRIVE IN THE LIVING ROOM to find his brothers and sister waiting for us. Their conversation stops as soon as we step into the room.

  “Sorry we were late. We were . . . detained,” Gabriel says, heading for the liquor cart.

  Identical grins pop up on his brothers’ faces. Given my disordered state, I can imagine what’s going through their minds. Although no fault can be found with my dress, my hair riots down my back in a clump of wet curls, and Gabriel, dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt, has the look of a well-fed canary. We look like we just fucked. Which, let’s face it, we have.

  “Yes. Quite,” Edward says. He may have been out of England for five years, but he still possesses the British gift of understatement.

  I lean over to buss Bri’s cheeks. We might be roomies, but I can’t skimp on this pleasantry. Not when I’m playing hostess for tonight’s dinner.

  “Hello, darling,” Brianna offers, studiously ignoring Gabriel. She hasn’t forgiven him for branding their father a murderer. Her bright complexion doesn’t hint at what she experienced last night. But she’s not sporting her usual sleeveless sheath either. So maybe some bruising remains. “You look wonderful.”

  She would notice. Nothing like a bout of raunchy sex to put a bloom on your cheeks.

  Marisol drifts in with a tray of appetizers—mushroom caps, stuffed with Dungeness crab and cream cheese—offering a diversion of sorts. Starving after our vigorous rout, I gobble one down. “Ummm. These are delicious. Marisol. Please thank Jorge for making them.”

  “I will, Mrs. Storm. He knows they’re your favorites.”

  “Want something to drink, darling?” Gabriel asks.

  I do the math in my head. I fed Andrew at five. My next shift will not come up again until roughly eleven. I could have a glass of alcohol. “Wine, but I’ll wait until dinner.”

  “Marisol, we’ll need the Kathryn Hall Cabernet Sauvignon. Could you have Jorge decant three bottles? They will go well with the steak au poivre.”

  “Of course, Mr. Storm.” She nods before disappearing from view.

  “Steak au poivre?” Edward exclaims, rubbing his hands. “One of my favorites.”

  A smile lights up Gabriel’s lips. “That’s why I asked Jorge to prepare it.” After he pours himself a glass of the Macallan Scotch, he drops on the sofa. Curling an arm around my shoulders, he tucks me next to him.

  More smiles surface on his brothers’ faces. Their relations might be strained due to time and distance on Edward’s part, and resentment on Royce’s for the way Gabriel treated Bri after the funeral, but they are happy for him. A strange notion that. Bri, however, is not so forgiving. But then she’s still grieving from her father’s death.

  “So, Edward, what did you do in Mexico for five years?” he asks.

  That same shadow I saw earlier crosses Edward’s face. Something traumatic happened to him while he was away. “I taught English, painted. Took a siesta in the middle of the day.” He stares down at his glass. “I led a much simpler life than the one I enjoyed in England.”

  “And how did you occupy your evenings?”

  “Visited the local cantina where the locals gathered to exchange gossip and listen to the occasional Mariachi band. A lovely singer sang there as well.”

  “Oh, ho,” Royce interjects. “There’s a tale there, I’m willing to bet.”

  Edward swirls the ice in his tumbler. “There is, but it’s not a story for mixed company.”

  “Spoilsport,” says Brianna, sounding a bit like her former self.

  Edward says nothing, but simply smiles. There’s more to his refusal than an unwillingness to discuss sexual conquests.

  A scream sounds in the distance. Royce bounces up from his seat, spilling his drink. “What the bloody hell is that?”

  Gabriel and I share a look. Parker must have discovered the ruined suit. “Disregard it. It’s nothing,” he says.

  “Nothing?” Edward asks, tossing a worried glance toward the shriek’s direction. “Sounded like somebody was being murdered.”

  Gabriel calmly sips his drink. “Something was. My suit. Parker must have found it.”

  “Your suit?” Edward asks.

  “Yes. I’m afraid it got wet.”

  “Wet? But it hasn’t rained for days.” Brianna remarks, a confused look on her face.

  I’m biting my lip, trying to keep from laughing.

  Gabriel pins an exasperated glance on them. “If you must know, I walked into the shower fully dressed.”

  “What?” Edward asks, not quite able to fathom what occurred.

  Royce on the other hand has no problem figuring it out. “You dog!” He exclaims, toasting Gabriel.

  “Yes, quite.” Gabriel’s heat
ed gaze finds mine, and my face flushes with heat. Wish he’d cut that shit out. He knows what that look does to me.

  Just at that moment, Marisol strolls into the living room. “Dinner is served.”

  Thank you, God.

  During the meal, I can’t help but be fascinated by them. They’re so alike in some ways, different in others. While Gabriel and Brianna resemble each other the most, Edward’s looks remind me of his mother. But there’s a sweetness to him I never saw in his mother. And then there’s Royce, the rogue. Yes, that moniker suits him. There’s a sparkle in his eyes that hints of deviltry.

  After the main course is served, Brianna suggests an official welcoming party for Edward. The three glasses of wine have mellowed her and put her in a jollier mood. “Just the family and a few former close friends of Edward. Elizabeth can plan the whole thing.”

  I choke on the wine. “Me?” I haven’t got the foggiest idea how to throw a formal dinner party. The extent of my hostess duties in D.C. consisted of putting out chips and dip and serving beer and wine when friends dropped in.

  “Yes, darling, you. You’re the Countess of Winterleagh. Who better to plan a welcome home party for your brother-in-law?”

  I keep forgetting, as Gabriel’s wife, that title applies to me. “But how do I—What should I—”

  “Not to worry. Bentley will know what to do,” Brianna replies.

  “Bentley?”

  “Our family butler at the London family mansion. The dinner should be held there, don’t you think?”

  “Of course,” Gabriel agrees. “Its dining table can hold more guests than this one.” He stares into the distance for a second or two. “Twenty-four will be a good number. So with the five of us, William and his wife, you should invite seventeen guests.”

  Twenty-four? Granted several will be family, but how will I juggle that many people, many of whom are bound to be members of the upper class. Sweat trickles down my back. “When should this dinner party be held?”

  Gabriel temples his hands over his plate. “A couple of weeks from now, I would think. Does that work with your schedules?”

  Edward’s calendar is probably wide open, but Royce and Brianna are bound to have an event or two to attend, busy as their social lives are. Color me surprised when they both nod in agreement. Guess blood trumps everything else.