Managed (VIP #2)(11)

As soon as my finger rests against the little circle, the air seems to grow thicker. My body seems heavier, somehow, as if intent has made it laden and hot.

Because I feel the firm abs beneath his shirt, and I now know a way in. What gets me even hotter? I realize he knows this as well. We both seem to hold our breath.

I pluck the button open.

It’s as if I’ve plucked a chord instead. Tension vibrates between us so strong, I can nearly hear it. Gabriel stiffens, his abs clenching, his fingers halting their exploration of my hair.

What the hell are you doing, Sophie? Stop now. My fingers don’t seem to get the message. They slip through the open space in his shirt to find the hot, smooth skin beneath.

Oh, hell. Because he is hot, his skin firm and tight, and I want more of it. My fingers barely move. As if, by being sly, he won’t notice that I’m feeling him up. Nice dream.

I clear my throat, searching for my voice. It comes out rusty. “Red hair is always fun. So many shades to work with.”

Yes, talk and you won’t come off as such a creepster perv. Brilliant idea.

I can’t seem to shut up. “Bright red. Auburn. Strawberry red.” Great, you sound like the Bubba Gump of hair coloring.

He grunts, his body stiff, unyielding, but he doesn’t protest my roaming fingers. Doesn’t say a damn word. Which speaks volumes, really. Because this guy is not the type to remain silent if he doesn’t want to.

A band of heat clenches low around my belly at the realization that he’s letting me explore.

Gently, I stroke the small patch of skin I can reach. The tip of my finger glides over smooth skin to find rough hair.

Jesus on a motorcycle, he has a happy trail.

The urge to follow that trail down is so strong, I nearly moan. I clench my teeth, take a breath. “I’ve also had purple hair. Green doesn’t do anything for me, though.”

Without my permission, my fingers slink downward to the where the next button is secured, waiting for me to open it. His whole body stills, as if he’s just willed himself not to move. But when I start to free that small button, he expels a breath and his hand comes down on top of mine.

It is warm, firm, and clearly states, no more.

And nothing is more effective at snapping me out of this madness. Because, really, what the hell am I doing? I don’t even like this guy. Well, I kind of do. Which just blows. Dead end might as well be stamped on Gabriel Scott’s forehead.

The plane has started to rattle hard again. Gabriel shudders, our awkward pause forgotten, and clings to me once more, his breathing erratic.

Comfort. Don’t grope. Just comfort.

That I can do. I think.



* * *



Gabriel



* * *



Oh, how the mighty have fallen. If anyone had photographic evidence of my current predicament, my reputation as a fearsome bastard would be dead in the water. I can almost hear the snickering now—the great, implacable Scottie wrapped around a woman as though she was his woobie.

Killian would never let me hear the end of it. I don’t even want to imagine the shit I’d get from Brenna.

In some ways, plummeting to my death would be preferable.

That was a stupid thing to think. Terror arcs through my body, making my insides swoop and my limbs tingle. And I find myself clinging just a bit more tightly to the strange, softly rounded woman at my side. Perhaps this truly is a nightmare; nothing seems real or makes much sense.

I do not engage in continued conversations with strangers, especially ungovernable, chatty, irreverent women. And I most certainly do not cuddle. I cannot remember the last time I held a woman. The sensation is so foreign, yet pleasurable.

My entire body seems to be straining for greater contact, my skin sensitive and hot beneath my clothes. I want them off with a fierce agitation. I want to feel skin on skin, the warmth and plush give of her flesh.

I will not think about the fact that she snuck her fingers beneath my shirt to stroke my abdomen. The phantom of her touch still burns like a brand on my skin.

The second she played with the buttons of my shirt, I went intensely and painfully hard. I very nearly let her find that out. And if she had? I’d have begged her to give it a squeeze, a friendly stroke and tug. I’d probably have promised her anything if she’d only continue to touch me.

Alarming to say the least. I haven’t a clue what this woman will say or do from one moment to the next. For a man whose life revolves around exerting control over all things, this flicker of attraction is unwanted and unsettling.

Yet for all that, it’s preferable to the well of mindless fear I’d been in before Sophie Darling latched onto me like a limpet.

I take the opportunity of our close proximity to really observe her. At first I thought her pleasant to look at, but nothing remarkable. I was mistaken.

Her profile, clear against the gray of my vest, is a study of graceful curves, gentle swoops, and delicate lines—not merely pleasant but sweetly pretty. However, it is her skin that captures my attention.

I’ve been with women of all skin colors—from deep rose brown to the palest milk white—and that never factored beyond being a basic framework of the woman’s overall beauty. In short, skin as a singularly attractive feature never entered my mind.

But Sophie Darling’s skin is a thing of beauty. Because it’s luminous, extremely smooth, and fine, not a blemish in sight. Its buttery golden hue reminds me of shortbread biscuits. Then again, everything about Sophie reminds me of some sort of sweet treat: tempting but ultimately bad for one’s health.