Managed (VIP #2)(29)

I should be offended. But since he’s basically mirroring my own thoughts, I can’t throw stones. I fight a smile instead; he’s just so disgruntled.

“You texted, asked me to tea at two in the morning, then offered to pick me up.”

His lips firm. “I don’t…I don’t socialize.”

No shit. “Yet here we are.”

Something sparks in his eyes. “Apparently so.” He doesn’t move. Another annoyed grunt tears from his throat. “I can’t f*cking sleep.”

That he reached out to me because of it sends a rush of warmth through my chest. “So, let’s go do something.”

He obviously doesn’t want to like that. His shoulders bunch beneath his sweater. “This isn’t about sex.”

I laugh. “I hope not. It would be awkward to have to turn you down.”

Liar, liar, your knickers are on fire.

His lips twitch. “Sorry. I’m shite at this.”

“Stating the obvious, sunshine.”

With a snort, he turns his head, but I see the smile flit over his lips before he hides it. Then he nods sharply as if coming to some decision.

“Shall we?” He gestures toward the way he came with a tip of his chin.

We walk together in silence, close enough that our shoulders brush every few steps. I don’t mind the silence. It gives me a place to hide my racing thoughts.

“Just around the next corner,” he tells me in a low, gruff voice.

“Are you really going to make me tea?”

“Haven’t I said I would?” His gaze clashes with mine. “What’s wrong with tea?”

“Nothing. It’s just…” I search for the right word. “Grandmotherly.”

He laughs at that, a short chuff of sound. “I’m English. Tea is the remedy for all our problems. Had a bad day? Have a cup of tea. Head hurt? Tea. Boss a wanker? Tea.”

“Ah,” I say with triumph. “So I do have a reason to drink tea.”

Gabriel’s step stutters, and he peers at me. “Are we agreeing that I am your boss? Or does your head hurt?”

“Don’t know. Are you going to agree that you can be a wanker?” I smile so wide and fake my cheeks strain.

“A wanker who brings you lunch and is going to make you tea,” he points out mildly before nudging me with his elbow.

I’m about to nudge him back when a sharp crack rents the air. It’s so loud that I squeak, nearly jumping out of my shoes. Gabriel’s hand touches mine in an abortive move. I don’t know if he meant to grab on to me or he just flinched in surprise as well. Our fingers brush as light flashes across the sky. And then it opens up. Rain falls so swiftly and so very cold that I lose my breath.

We stand there, gaping at each other as the deluge swamps us. And then I laugh. Hard. Because what else can I do? Rain falls into my eyes, my mouth. I might drown. I’m sure as shit being drenched.

Gabriel is a statue, utterly gorgeous when wet, his black hair plastered to his head and rainwater sluicing over the sharp planes of his face, shining in the streetlight. He blinks, his long lashes spiky now.

“Of course,” he says with a raspy huff of breath.

“You aren’t going to blame this on me, are you?” I shout over the roar of the rain, still laughing.

“Everything from the plane trip on out is because of you, Sophie Darling.” He grabs my hand. “Come along, chatty girl, before we drown.”

We make a run for it, scampering across the slick pavers that make up the London sidewalk. I’m laughing, breathless. He glances over his shoulder at me. Everything is a blur but his features, which are somehow crystal clear in the moment, and my heart turns over in the cage of my ribs when I see glee in his eyes.

He gives my hand another tug, my fingers warmly wrapped up in his. We turn a corner, and then it all goes south. Gabriel skids, his shoes sliding in the wet. One of his arms windmills, his grip on me flexing. My mouth forms the word no! but it comes out in a squawk.

He’s going down, all that hard-bodied mass toppling, taking me with him. In my mind, it happens in slow motion. In reality, it’s so fast we’re both just flailing limbs and falling bodies.

I land on him, and my hip jars against his. He expels a hard Oof! before strong arms wrap around me, locking me into place on top of him.

Rain splatters around us, and he blinks up at me.

I pant, trying to get my breath. “Fuck.”

My breath deserts me entirely when he flashes a grin, all white teeth and dazzling male beauty. “See?” he murmurs. “Your fault.”

“Mine? You fell. You and those posh shoes.”

“Posh,” he scoffs. The world upends as he spins. My shoulders meet the wet pavement, rain gets in my eyes. Then he’s over me. I part my thighs without thinking, and his hips move between them. I’m treated to that hard, long body pressing into mine, firm, warm, heavy. Thoughts scatter.

“You distracted me,” he says, a heated glint in his eyes.

He’s close enough that I feel the soft warmth of his breath, catch a whiff of his skin.

He cants his hips, and for one hot second, his cock is against my sex, grinding a sensitive spot that sends my body into overdrive. Heat sparks, my thighs spread wider, and I gasp. God, he’s thick there, and I swear he’s more than half-hard. Or maybe it’s all in my head, because he’s already jumping up in that lithe way of the very fit.