Managed (VIP #2)(31)

The T-shirt fits better, but basically looks like a sack. Sexy, I am not. I’m also not wearing a bra because mine is soaked and cold. I don’t think the fact that my girls are free-swinging does much for the cause. I’m just frumpy with limp, damp hair and no makeup.

I laugh though, because does my appearance even matter? The way Gabriel looks at me never seems to change with my outfits. And he’s made it clear this is not about sex.

A flash of us on the street streaks through my mind, his hard body and thick cock pressing into me for one heady moment. That was real. But was it a reaction to me? Or just the fact that he was between a woman’s legs?

“You do think too much,” I mutter to my reflection and then return to his room.

He isn’t there. I absolutely do not imagine him showering. I’ll have to face him soon enough, and I don’t need that image in my head when I do.

The room is fairly dark, only a bedside lamp glowing and the flicker of embers dying in the fireplace. The chill of the rain is gone now, and my body is warm and relaxed.

Idly, I wander over to his bed. It’s huge and plush. The flax linen duvet is slightly rumpled, as if Gabriel had been lying down on the covers, trying to get comfortable, before getting up. Oddly, I can’t imagine him allowing himself to relax enough to actually sleep. Which is ridiculous; even gods have to sleep sometime.

I sit on his bed. It feels like a sin, something naughty. I can’t help but smile at the thought of him frowning at me invading his personal domain. I run a palm over the covers, smoothing out the wrinkles. They’re soft and cool, giving under my hand. And suddenly, it’s far too easy to lower myself onto his bed, let his plump pillows cradle my head. Because everything is just too heavy now: my body, my limbs, my eyelids.

His bed smells of fresh linen. So soft. The rain drums against the roof, the dying fire crackles. My eyes close. I take a deep breath, try to open my eyes again. But I’m so comfortable. Everything is still, calm here. And Gabriel is just down the hall. Whatever he thinks of me, he’ll make certain I’m safe, watched over. He’s a steady rock.

My legs straighten, moving farther onto the bed. With a sigh, I settle down. I’ll just rest my eyes until he returns.





Chapter Seven





Gabriel



* * *



There are only so many times you can ask yourself what the f*ck are you doing before the question becomes pointless. Being a tenacious bastard, I give up only after the hundredth time. Fuck it. I want Sophie here. Denying it is stupid. The moment she agreed to come over, the hard compression that’s a near constant on my breastbone eased. It got lighter still when I saw her standing on that foggy street, her white blond hair frizzing in the damp, the lilting sound of her voice and that unflinching honesty of hers working like a balm.

It damn near lifted entirely when I rolled on top of her and pressed my cock between her legs. Her lips had parted in shock, those soft brown eyes widening. I meant what I said when I told her I wasn’t after sex. It would be the height of stupidity to get involved with that woman. But there’s a perverse sort of pleasure to be had in shocking Sophie Darling.

I find myself wanting to do it all the time.

For f*ck’s sake, I’m making tea. For the insane chatty girl I met on a plane. If I haven’t fallen off the cliff already, I’m certainly teetering on the edge of it.

I finish up the tea tray and carry it to my bedroom. I should call Sophie down here, have tea in the relative formality of my living room. But I won’t lie to myself; I want to keep her in my bedroom, where her scent will linger long after she’s gone, and maybe I’ll be able to breathe a little easier for a while longer.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, at thirty-five thousand feet, she wrapped herself around me, and my brain decided to equate her scent, the sound of her voice, the feel of her skin, with comfort.

I have no idea how I’m supposed to dissuade myself of this notion, and I am not yet ready to try. So we’ll have tea in the sitting area of my room. And then I’ll take her back to the hotel, whether I want to or not.

The tea cups rattle slightly as I angle myself to slip into the bedroom. It’s too quiet. I expected her chatter as soon as I entered. The reason for the quiet is soon obvious: she’s asleep on my bed, her pale hair haloed on my pillow. A proverbial Goldilocks making herself comfortable in an unknown lair.

I set the tray down and move to her side. She sleeps the way a child might, sprawled pell-mell and thoroughly invested in the act. She’s clutching one of my pillows to her chest, half on her stomach, her plump arse in the air, legs spread.

“Sophie,” I murmur, halfheartedly. I don’t really want to wake her. It seems cruel given the smudges under her eyes.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch.

Gingerly, I sit on the side of the bed. In sleep, her expression is somewhat perplexed, and I wonder if she’s dreaming. What would this woman’s dreams be like? I imagine something Seussian with pink trees, whohoopers and trumtookas, and I fight a grin.

Outside, the rain keeps tapping on the windows. The soft sounds of Sophie sleeping fill the void. She’s a mouth breather, and each breath she exhales stirs a lock of hair hanging over her lip.

With the tip of my finger, I brush the hair away and give waking her one more weak try. “Chatty girl?”