Managed (VIP #2)(75)

Wrong? Nothing. Not a single thing. I swallow hard for fear my tongue is hanging out.

He’s taken off his shoes, socks, belt. The button of his fine slacks is undone, showing the black band of his briefs—I don’t know if they’re boxer briefs or regular. I want to know. As in, my fingers actually twitch with the urge tug his zipper down and explore.

But that’s not what has me dumbstruck, heat flaring along the backs of my thighs. No. His jacket and tie are gone, and his shirt is unbuttoned and open.

In all this time, I had yet to see Gabriel without a shirt. He hides his body like a pious Victorian, never letting me see anything other than him fully dressed and polished. Now I know why. Had he let me get a glimpse, I might never have been able to form a coherent thought around him.

This man’s chest is a work of art. It’s every fantasy I’ve had about a man’s body made real. I don’t even know how that’s possible, but I’m not about to complain. God, he looks touchable. Olive skin, tight little brownish nipples, a smattering of dark chest hair over the most incredibly honed—

“You’re staring.” His tone is dry.

“Yes, I am.” I drag my eyes up and find his expression bemused.

A thick brow lifts. I try to mimic the look and fail when both of my brows lift as one. His lips twitch in amusement.

He shifts his weight, causing his abs to clench. Good Lord. He’s not some overdeveloped gym worshiper, just solid and strong, that perfect balance between defined musculature and healthy male—

“You’re still staring, Sophie.”

“You think it’s easy looking away from all this splendor?” I ask his belly button, licking my lips when he huffs out a laugh and just a little bit more of his lower abs are revealed, slanting toward the thick bulge of his cock, which is lamentably hidden behind his slacks.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters, though there is humor in his voice. He strolls farther into the room and then practically kills me when he sits in one of the low-slung armchairs. That body, sprawled out on display, those thick, long thighs braced as if to take me in his lap—it’s too much.

I want to straddle him and lick my way from the hollow of his throat to the tip of his cock.

He eyes me as if he knows what I’m thinking, and the air thickens. So many things we left unsaid. I’m remembering his lips now, surprisingly soft, but strong with purpose.

From the way his lids lower, I wonder if he’s remembering things as well. But he doesn’t move. Tension glides over his body and snakes around the room. I feel it in my throat and down my spine. We’re closing up again, retreating.

Slowly, I toe off my shoes and set my gear down, never breaking eye contact. “I was being completely honest,” I tell him. “I see you like this and I want to stare forever.”

He snorts, shaking his head even as he rests his temple on his knuckles. “What do you mean ‘like this’?”

“Undone.”

He tenses. It does lovely things to that chest. I focus on his face, mainly to maintain some semblance of decorum.

“You think this is me undone?” he asks quietly.

“It’s a start.” I reach for my camera bag. “Will you let me photograph you?”

There is safety to be found with the camera between us. A way for both of us to hide until we’re comfortable around each other again.

“You’re serious?”

“You sound surprised.” Holding my camera, I sit in the sofa opposite him. “Don’t tell me no one has asked to take your picture before.”

“They’ve asked. I never saw the point.” He shrugs. “I’m not the story.”

You’re my story. You always were.

“This is just for me,” I say instead. “No one else.”

His shrewd gaze pins me. “Why do you want this?”

So I can have a bit of you forever. “Pictures capture moments in time. I want this one—when you finally let me see a sliver of the man behind the clothes.”

His nostrils flare on an indrawn breath, and he slowly lets it out. When he speaks, his voice is a rasp. “Take the pictures.”

So I do, testing angles. The warm glow of the lamplight highlights the planes and hollows of his body. He sits still, a king lounging on his throne, granting me this small whim.

He doesn’t love this; his muscles tic with each click of the shutter. But he doesn’t stop me either, just watches as I work.

It’s too easy, taking shots of him. The camera loves him. But more than that, I have a valid excuse to look at him to my heart’s content.

“I feel like a bellend,” he grumps.

“A what?”

High color paints his cheeks. “A prick head. An idiot. A poseur. Take your pick.”

I have to laugh. “So sensitive.”

“You try being on the other end of that thing.” He gestures toward the camera with his chin.

“I won’t apologize,” I tell him. “You are beautiful, Gabriel.”

His expression shutters. “It is only a veneer. Nothing of what I am on the inside.”

My fingers tighten around the smooth edges of the camera. “You think I don’t see you?”

He simply stares, blue eyes startling and intense beneath the dark sweep of his brows. I’ve never seen so much power in a man’s face; sheer grit and determination forge the lines and curves of his features.