Managed (VIP #2)(56)

* * *



Sophie



* * *



Things to love about Madrid: The architecture. Gorgeous, ornate, timeless. The food. Savory, salty, rich, spicy. The café con leche. Don’t get me started. So rich and creamy, it’s like coffee-flavored hot chocolate. I drank three cups of it one day and reached for another until Gabriel dryly pointed out that I was hopping around like an overexcited bunny.

But the best thing about Spain? Siestas. God bless any country that has decided yes, we shall shut down business and take a long nap in the middle of the day. How can you not love them for that?

This means I have a government-sanctioned excuse to sleep cuddled up next to Gabriel for most of the afternoon. Yesterday, when I pointed this out, he grumbled about it once, and not very convincingly. Not when he was fast shedding his jacket and slipping into the bathroom to change into a T-shirt and sweats.

Pervy me wants to suggest he quit with the coy hiding himself away to change and just strip down in front of me. Hell, I want to help him out, unbutton his crisp shirts and slowly pull the zipper on his fine slacks. But it would upset the status quo, and I have no idea which way the scales would tip.

It’s strange not knowing. Normally I’m excellent at reading men. They’re fairly simple creatures, after all. Most of them are, anyway. They want you, they make it known.

Gabriel? He’s not most men. True, a man as stunning as Gabriel never has to work at getting a woman. He can attract invitations just by standing still. I’ve seen it happen. Many times. Women take one look at him, and it’s on.

Only he never bites. Never even bothers to fully look at whoever is hitting on him. His expression is always bland with a hint of boredom as he casually yet politely gives her the brush off. It’s an art form, really, how effectively he rids himself of unwanted advances. I’ve taken notes.

And I’d be inclined to think he was asexual at this point, except he’s not. Not even close. Not given the amount of times his gaze collides with mine and the heat in his expression takes my breath. God, it burns, the way he watches me. It’s covetous and possessive.

He looks at me as if he’s mentally stripping off my clothes. With his teeth. He looks at me, and the bottom falls out of my belly. My heart swoops down to my toes, and my nipples go so hard so fast it almost hurts. Almost, because it feels so freaking good—that tight throb, knowing that the only thing that will make it better is his mouth, wet and hot, pulling on them.

I think those dirty thoughts—of Gabriel on his knees, his cheeks hollowing out with the force of his sucks, his hands on my hips, holding me still so I can’t move to alleviate the pressure between my legs—and I get a little lightheaded.

And Gabriel must know. He must see what he does to me. I’m a blonde. I blush like one, all pink and sweaty. Too many times, I’ve seen that hot blue gaze of his stray downward, lingering on my horny nipples. They aren’t exactly shy about showing themselves, damn it all.

His nostrils always flare just a little bit, and then a sharp, deep breath, as if he’s bracing himself. But it inevitably ends there and then. Because he’s unwilling to go any further.

And yet that thick, hard cock of his pokes at my ass every time we crawl into bed. He never pulls away to hide his erection, nor does he grind himself against me to move things along. No, he just leaves it there, snug on my ass, his big, wide hand gently molding itself to my belly, his chin on the crown of my hair. He holds me like a lover might, tender yet lingering. But he treats me like a friend, respectful, kind, never taking advantage.

And I let him do it. I lie there, day after day, night after night, my body yielding to his, soaking up his heat, reveling in his possessive hold. It’d be so easy to turn in his arms, press my lips to his, slide my hands down his waist to slip under his lounge pants. I’ve imagined grasping his big dick—and I know it’s big at this point— so many times that my palms tingle with phantom memories.

Today, however, there will be no napping. Gabriel has gone out on a run instead. Odd, since he already went on one this morning.

God, this morning… My cheeks burn at the memory. Okay, so I interrupted his “man time” by knocking on the bathroom door. I shouldn’t have done that; Lord knows I’d be pissed if he had done the same. But I hadn’t expected him back so soon and went to go get detergent. Imagine my horror when I returned and realized he was locked away with my dirty underwear.

And clearly he found them. He hasn’t been able to look me in the eye since he finally got out of his shower, practically grunting out answers every time I bothered to talk to him.

So embarrassing. I don’t even know why I thought cleaning them in the bathroom was a good idea. I didn’t even bother washing my undies after Gabriel left the room, but stuffed them all in a bag and sent them down with housekeeping. Only, they lost my favorite pair—the cute boy shorts with cherries on them. And no one on staff can find them. So, joy all around today.

I’m so worked up now, when my phone rings, I almost jump out of my skin. Sad that I hope it’s him. But it’s my friend Kati from New York.

“Hey you,” I answer with a smile. “Isn’t a little early to be calling me?”

It’s two in the afternoon here, which means it’s eight in the morning in New York, and I know Kati is a late sleeper like me.