Managed: A VIP Novel Part 12

My breath deserts me entirely when he flashes a grin, all white teeth and dazzling male beauty. "See?" he murmurs. "Your fault."

"Mine? You fell. You and those posh shoes."

"Posh," he scoffs. The world upends as he spins. My shoulders meet the wet pavement, rain gets in my eyes. Then he's over me. I part my thighs without thinking, and his hips move between them. I'm treated to that hard, long body pressing into mine, firm, warm, heavy. Thoughts scatter.

"You distracted me," he says, a heated glint in his eyes.

He's close enough that I feel the soft warmth of his breath, catch a whiff of his skin.

He cants his hips, and for one hot second, his c.o.c.k is against my s.e.x, grinding a sensitive spot that sends my body into overdrive. Heat sparks, my thighs spread wider, and I gasp. G.o.d, he's thick there, and I swear he's more than half-hard. Or maybe it's all in my head, because he's already jumping up in that lithe way of the very fit.

I'm rendered stupid on the ground, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s heavy, nipples tight, s.e.x hot.

Gabriel's expression is back to bland, but there's something smug in the way he looks at me. f.u.c.ker. 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 pa.s.sage 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 furnis.h.i.+ngs. 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 a.s.s, his clothes clinging and covered in street muck. Doesn't mar the picture in the slightest. I'd t.i.tle 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 ma.s.sive 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 Kardas.h.i.+an 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-s.h.i.+rts. He hands me a pair of sweats and the white s.h.i.+rt, 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, was.h.i.+ng in the ma.s.sive, gla.s.s-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 a.s.s and thighs to a cringe-worthy degree.

The T-s.h.i.+rt fits better, but basically looks like a sack. s.e.xy, 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 s.e.x.

A flash of us on the street streaks through my mind, his hard body and thick c.o.c.k 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 G.o.ds 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.u.c.k are you doing before the question becomes pointless. Being a tenacious b.a.s.t.a.r.d, I give up only after the hundredth time. f.u.c.k 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 d.a.m.n near lifted entirely when I rolled on top of her and pressed my c.o.c.k 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 s.e.x. 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.u.c.k'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 a.r.s.e 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?"

A m.u.f.fled snort answers me, and her knee draws up as if she's cold. With a resigned sigh, I tug the duvet out from under her feet and cover her. She immediately snuggles down, her features smoothing.

Reaching for my cup, I stay by her side and drink my tea. She's close enough that the heat of her body warms my skin, and scent of my soap on her tickles my nose. She doesn't smell like me, however. Somehow she's managed to make the scent entirely her own.

She stirs again, and her thigh presses against my back. Through the covers, the contact is warm and solid.

Lethargy steals over me, settling on my shoulders like a heavy hand. I'm so b.l.o.o.d.y tired at this point, everything hurts. But sitting here with Sophie, the old resistance to sleep starts to crumble. I can barely lift my teacup to my lips.

Setting the cup down, I hunch over and rest my head in my hands. For the first time in days, I want to sleep. I should get up, go to the guest room.

Sophie makes another small snuffle, and the covers rustle as she turns in dramatic fas.h.i.+on. I glance over my shoulder to find she's rolled to the middle of the bed, almost as if she's giving me s.p.a.ce to lie down.

A snort escapes me. I'm making excuses. And I don't b.l.o.o.d.y care. Sweet relief washes over me as I ease into the bed, slipping under the down cover. I don't even try to talk myself out of turning off the bedside light.

At my side, Sophie stirs yet again, turning my way. My body stiffens, my breath going sharp. I have no idea what I'll say. Sorry, love, didn't see you there in my bed? You're imagining the whole thing; go back to sleep?

But she doesn't wake. No. She snuggles up to me as if we sleep this way every night. And d.a.m.n if my body doesn't immediately yield to hers-my arm lifting, so she can rest her head on my shoulder, before settling around her and bringing her closer.

Everything within me relaxes. This. This is what I needed. She is soft and fragrant, warm and welcoming. I know if she woke, she'd just laugh in that light way of hers and tell me to go with it, enjoy the moment. So I do.

I close my eyes and allow myself to sleep.

Sophie