Managed (VIP #2)(84)

As it nears eight, room service arrives with cappuccino and a little bowl of extra creamy, ridiculously thick yogurt, topped with roasted hazelnuts and drizzled in golden honey. It’s not something I’d have thought to try, but I scrape up every little bit clinging to the glass bowl.

Determination steels my spine. I’m supposed to be taking care of Gabriel, helping him relax, and here he is pampering me, arranging every step of my morning without even being present. I cannot let myself forget that I’m contending with a professional manager of people’s lives. I need to step up my game.

I’m not remotely surprised when a bellhop arrives at eight forty-five to take my bags and escort me down to the lobby. Mr. Scott, he tells me, is waiting.

Wry amusement puts a bounce in my step as I walk through the lobby. Were I someone into high fashion, my heels would be clicking on the marble. But I’m in white flip-flops and a red, cotton eyelet sundress. Gabriel has warned that it will take about four hours to get to Positano, and I intend on being comfortable.

The bellhop leads me out to the front drive, and my steps slow as I catch sight of Gabriel waiting for me.

“Oh, f*ck me,” I blurt out.

At my side, the bellhop makes a gurgled sound of shock. I’m too busy staring at my man to care.

Dressed in a crisp white polo shirt, which shows off the deep gold of his skin and stretches around the bulge of his biceps, and slouchy, gray slacks that highlight the narrowness of his hips and drape over his thick thighs, he leans against a red Ferrari, his hands tucked into his pockets.

Move over Jake Ryan.

When Gabriel smiles—a full one, complete with that cute dimple on his left cheek, the corners of his eyes crinkling in joy—I’m tempted to look around before mouthing, “Who me?”

But I don’t do that. I run to him like a loon. He catches me with a soft oof and wraps me up in his arms as I kiss his cheeks, the corner of his eye, the edge of his jaw. Chuckling, he captures my mouth and gives me a proper kiss.

He tastes faintly of tea. His body is warm and solid, and he is mine.

I give his lip one last nibble before pulling back. “Sexy beast, you’re going to melt me on the spot one day, you know.”

He gives the tip of my nose a quick kiss. “If you’re taking requests, I prefer that you melt on my mouth.”

“Sweet talker.” I glance at the car, truly taking it in now that I’ve had my Gabriel fix. “Holy shit, that’s a Ferrari 488GTB Spider.”

He blinks, swaying a little. “You’ve just given me a hard-on.”

He’s not lying; I can feel it rise against my belly. I grin, pressing into him just a little.

“Will you be able to drive? Or should we take care of it now?”

His lips purse, but there’s a glint in his eye that promises retribution. With a subtle shift of his hips, he prods my belly with that hard dick, then moves me away from him.

“Get in the car, chatty girl, before I call this trip off and take you to bed instead.”

“As good as that sounds, the car is calling my name.” And Gabriel needs this vacation. I have plans for him. Most of them dirty, all of them fun.

Gabriel opens the door for me. “Thrown over for a car, lovely.”

I grin. “Not just any car.”

And oh what a car it is. The bucket seats are dark grey leather, buttery soft. They’re designed to hold your ass in place as the car zooms down the road, but I’m not complaining. I touch the gray and red dash as Gabriel closes my door.

He tips the bellhop after the luggage is placed in the front trunk, and a moment later, he’s sliding into his seat. With a push of a button, the car purrs to life.

“Is this what you were picking up?” I ask, stroking the seat leather.

“Yes.” For a second, his expression is so pleased he looks almost boyish, but it soon morphs into the cool loftiness he uses when giving a lecture. “If we’re going to drive along the Almalfi coast, we’re going to do it in style.”

So very Gabriel.

“How did you get your hands on one of these babies? Aren’t they, like, impossible to buy?”

“Not if you’re on a list,” he says as he pulls into traffic.

Good Lord, there is something sexy about a man who knows how to handle a car. If Ferrari execs saw Gabriel driving this, I’m certain they’d try to hire him as a spokesmodel.

“Of course you’re on a list. Why am I not surprised?”

He glances my way. “How do you know about this car, anyway? From what I’ve heard, you don’t even know how to drive.”

“Hey, a lot of New Yorkers don’t.”

“This sad state of affairs must be rectified as soon as I buy a proper car to teach you in. Now, answer the question.”

“I read your car magazines when I got bored one day.” I turn a little in my seat to face him. “You realize they’re the male equivalent of Vogue.”

He gives me a sly grin. “But far sexier.”

The drive goes quickly, in part because the car is speedy and luxurious, in part because the scenery is so blindingly beautiful, but mostly because I’m with Gabriel.

We never run out of things to talk about, whether it be music or movies or speculating on history as we drive by through the area where they’ve excavated parts of Pompeii and Herculaneum—both sites he promises to take me on day trips to explore. And I realize that no one else sees him this way, as the man who has tons of tidbits of knowledge stored up, the man who smiles frequently and with ease, and who teases me with jokes as lame as my own.