Managed (VIP #2)(30)
I’m rendered stupid on the ground, my breasts heavy, nipples tight, sex hot.
Gabriel’s expression is back to bland, but there’s something smug in the way he looks at me. Fucker. He extends a hand and hauls me up before I can even think.
“Now stop messing around.” Yep, he’s definitely smug, and laughing at me. “Tea won’t make itself.”
He tows me the rest of the way in a daze.
* * *
Gabriel’s townhouse is gorgeous. No surprise there; this area of London is beautiful. His is fairly modest in size, compared to the others, and is tucked in along a quiet square, all the houses surrounding a small park with flickering Victorian gas lamps. Again, I yearn for my camera. I could happily spend all hours catching little slices of London.
He pushes past a waist-high iron gate and strides up the front walk. Inside, the floors are mellow, worn hardwood planks that have clearly withstood the passage of centuries, and I’m afraid to drip all over them. He doesn’t appear to mind. Maybe because he’s dripping all over them too.
After kicking off our shoes, we walk past brilliant white walls, eclectic mixes of framed art works—most of them black and white photos of the guys, backstage and on the road. I expect to find pictures of other famous people Gabriel has undoubtedly met, but there are none. Just his boys and Brenna. All of it mixed up with images of other cities and sprawling countryside. There’s even a small postcard from Brighton framed. I’d linger, but Gabriel hasn’t slowed his brisk stride.
We head directly up a narrow set of stairs that creak under our weight. This floor is clearly the main level of the house. I spy a living room, a dining room that has been converted into a library, though it still has a dining table, and another lounge—all of it done in comfortable yet slightly funky furnishings. And then we’re going up again.
My heartbeat goes erratic when I realize we’re headed to the bedrooms. Ridiculous. Of course we are; we’re dripping wet and in need of towels. My bare feet slap on the soft wood floors. Gabriel hasn’t spoken a word, so I stare at his broad back and firm ass, his clothes clinging and covered in street muck. Doesn’t mar the picture in the slightest. I’d title the shot: Dirty when wet.
Snorting softly to myself, I almost miss the fact that hardwood has given way to lush, fawn-colored carpeting. We’re in his room.
I pause at the threshold. I can’t help it; entering Gabriel’s room feels like I’ve just been granted the way into El Dorado or discovered Atlantis. When he stops and quirks a brow in my direction, I tell him so.
He looks at me askance, as if he isn’t quite sure what to make of me. “You have the wildest imagination of anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Imagination. Right. I’d bet good money you’re the only one who has ever been in here,” I counter. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
He offers a sly smile. “Wrong. There were the decorators. And the maid.”
“Cheeky.” I laugh softly as I take a step inside.
I can believe decorators were here. Instead of white walls, the room is a dark chocolate brown. Soft, creamy plaid drapes cover the windows, and a massive bulky leather bed dominates the far wall. It screams rich man cave. I can easily imagine him in here, seated by the ivory marble fireplace, drinking scotch.
“It’s perfect.”
“Perfect?” His brow wrinkles as if confused.
“This room.” I gesture around. “I couldn’t dream of a more perfect room for you if I tried. It is intrinsically you.”
His frown grows. “I can’t decide if that’s a compliment or not.”
“Are you fishing for one?”
“No.”
“Hmmm…”
He scoffs in annoyance and heads toward another door.
My toes sink into the carpet as I follow. “I love your room, Gabriel.”
He grunts in response as we enter a walnut-paneled dressing room. It smells of wood, wool, and spicy cologne. It smells of him. I resist the urge to draw in a deep breath and instead let my gaze trail over the endless rows of suits, glossy leather shoes, and a rainbow of silk ties.
“It’s like the man version of a Kardashian closet.” I touch the sleeve of a charcoal wool suit.
“I’d like to think I have better taste,” he says, opening a drawer. He pulls out two sets of pale gray sweat pants and then two T-shirts. He hands me a pair of sweats and the white shirt, taking the black tee for himself. “You can change here. Feel free to use the shower.”
I’m covered in grime, just as he is. My skin is cold and clammy, and a shower sounds like heaven.
He points out the bathroom, just through another doorway. “I’ll take the guest bath.”
He doesn’t wait for me to protest that I should take the guest bath—I’m the guest, after all—but walks out the door with his fresh clothes in hand.
So I help myself to Gabriel’s ultra-modern bathroom, washing in the massive, glass-walled shower and using his fancy shower gel that smell like him. It all feels like a dream. A really weird dream. It might very well be. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that I’m here. That he’s brought me here.
I dry my hair with one of his thick, fluffy towels and pull on his clothes.
You know those books and movies where the girl wears a guy’s pants and they hang on her tiny frame? Yeah, I’m not sure what sort of pixies populate fiction, but not so much for me. Oh, the legs are too long, and I have to roll them. But the pants stretch tight over my ass and thighs to a cringe-worthy degree.