Managed: A VIP Novel Part 36

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 s.h.i.+ft of his hips, he prods my belly with that hard d.i.c.k, 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, b.u.t.tery soft. They're designed to hold your a.s.s 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 b.u.t.ton, 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 s.e.xy 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 s.e.xier."

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.

It's afternoon when we arrive in Positano, a town so picturesque it brings a lump to my throat. Colorful stucco buildings that look almost Moorish in architecture cling to the steep green mountains that plunge toward the turquoise sea. The air is fresh, tinged with hints of sweet lemon and salty ocean.

Gabriel's house is a little way out, nestled between the crags of two mountain outcrops and guarded by a tall gate. You can't tell much about it from the drive, but inside it's all crisp white stucco walls, airy s.p.a.ces that face the blue sea, with endless French doors open to the breeze.

A small, elderly lady greets us. Gabriel kisses her cheeks and talks to her in Italian. I've never had a fetish for foreign languages until I heard him speak in one. He introduces her to me. Martina, who is both cook and housekeeper, doesn't speak English, but she doesn't need to. Her welcoming smile says enough. She leaves us, bustling off toward the back of the house.

"How many languages do you know?" I ask him. I've heard him speak French and Spanish on the tour.

"English, of course. Italian, French, Spanish, a little German, and a bit of Portuguese. A few phrases in j.a.panese."

"You're killing me."

"Languages always came naturally to me." A smug smile unfurls. "Your expression, Darling... You like that?"

"I'm going to demand that you speak to me in Italian in bed."

His expression goes thoughtful and he leans down and whispers in my ear, his voice hot cream. "Sei tutto per me. Baciami."

I swear my knees go weak. "Jesus, give a little warning. What did you say?"

His smile grows secretive. "I said 'kiss me'."

It sounded like more than that, but I lift to my toes and place a soft, lingering kiss on his lips. He kisses me back, keeping it light and gentle.

"Come on," he says. "Let's get you fed before you become hangry."

"You know me so well."

Hand to the small of my back, he guides me out to the terrace. It's enormous, surrounding the property and carved out of the hill. It's part garden with lemon trees and rustling palms, part slate-lined terrace with an infinity pool hovering along one cliffside, and a dining area shaded by a trellis covered in bougainvillea. Sunlight filtering through the fuchsia blooms tints the air pink.

Gabriel watches me take it all in, then comes to stand by my side, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"You own a slice of paradise," I tell him, staring out at the sea.

His shoulder brushes against mine. "Paradise is a state of mind, not a location."

"Fair enough. You own the perfect place to evoke paradise."

Behind us, Martina sets the table. She waves off my offer to help, and we're soon sipping icy limoncello.

"This tastes like summer in a gla.s.s," I tell Gabriel.

He lounges in his chair, stretching his long legs out before him. "Wait until you taste Martina's food."

When she plunks down two bowls of pasta, I can see why. Clams and mussels tangle with linguine, all glossy with olive oil and fragrant with little bits of garlic, parsley, and lemon zest. It's the best thing I've eaten in my life, and I sop up the juices with crusty white bread.

For a while, we are silent, simply enjoying the food and the sea breeze that cools our skin. When we're done eating, Martina comes and takes the plates away, and Gabriel says something to her again.

It's fairly ridiculous how much I swoon when he speaks; he's probably saying something ba.n.a.l like, hey, thanks for the meal. But it sounds like pure s.e.x coming from his mouth.

I sit back with a sigh. He seems equally content, his hands folded over his flat belly, his expression calm as he stares at the sea.

"I don't understand it," I find myself saying.

He looks my way. "Don't understand what?"

"This." I wave my hand around. "You have this stunning house that you rarely visit, and other houses that are presumably equally gorgeous, and yet none of the guys has been to any of them. Why bother?"

A frown wrinkles the s.p.a.ce between his brows. "Killian's dad once told me the best thing a man can invest in is property. It is tangible, true, eternal. I agree."

"I get that, but why have these properties if you're never going to enjoy them, never bring your friends here?" I lean forward. "Why don't you let them in, Gabriel? They love you, and you keep them at arm's length."

A flush tints his cheeks, and he lurches up from his chair to pace. "I'm not a social man, Sophie. You know that about me."

I watch him walk. "I'm not talking about hosting wild parties. I'm asking about you systematically building a wall between you and the people who mean the most." He glares at me over his shoulder, and I soften my tone. "And I think you know that."

Our gazes clash, but I don't blink. He curses under his breath and squeezes the back of his neck.

"Gabriel, you are a charming, witty, kind man-don't roll your eyes at me, you are." I stand and walk over to him. Not too close, because he's cagey right now. "You are kind. The guys, Brenna-they're your family, and you treat them so well, care for them better than anyone I've ever met. Why won't you let them care for you too?"

A breath bursts from him, and he whirls to face me. "I don't know how," he snaps.

"What do you mean?"

"Sodding..." He rakes a hand through his hair and grips it hard. "My mum, my dad...They...They f.u.c.king left me, yeah? The two people who were supposed to love me the most. Left. And I know the guys and Brenna love me. But if I let them in then..."

He paces away before coming back, his eyes wide and pained. "If they're fully in then I'm fully in. It will hurt more, Sophie. Do you understand? It will hurt more if..."

He looks off, scowling so hard his lips pinch.

"Gabriel, they won't leave-"

"I can barely handle letting you in. Opening up is so foreign to me; I don't know what the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l I'm doing. But I'm trying for you because you're..." He struggles for the words, looking panicked.

I wrap my arms around him and hug him close. I expect resistance, but he yields, burrowing his nose in my hair and breathing deep, hugging me as if I might disappear.

"It's all right." I stroke his tense neck. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed."

"No, you should. Protecting myself is hurting them. I see it. But I don't know how to change."

My fingertips trace the narrow groove of his spine down his strong back. "Just do what you did with me."

The s.h.i.+ft of tension in his body is subtle but significant. I can almost feel him smiling, and I definitely feel the heat building between us.

His voice grows deeper, intent. "I don't think they'd appreciate that approach, Darling."

A hand slides down to cup my b.u.t.t.

I smile. "Probably best you keep this particular treatment just for me."

"Only ever for you," he promises, his other hand moving down. He grasps my a.s.s, kneading it with a growl of approval.

I jump into his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist. "Take me to bed, suns.h.i.+ne."

He begins walking, but doesn't go into the house; he lays me down on the double-wide lounger beneath the shade of the bougainvillea before prowling over me, his lips finding my neck. One good tug at the bodice of my sundress, and my breast pops free.

"Gabriel-" I groan as he sucks my nipple into his hot, wet mouth. "Not here."

"Yes, here," he says around the stiff tip, flicking it with his tongue.

I squirm, but my fingers find their way into his hair, holding him tight as he continues to lick and suck me. Another tug at my top and my other breast is exposed.

I glance at the open doorway that leads to the kitchen. "I won't be able to look Martina in the eye if she catches us out here."

He kisses his way over to my neglected breast, and catches the stiffened nipple with his teeth, pulling just enough that I lose my mind a little. I arch up, silently begging for more.

A dark chuckle rumbles in his chest. Peppering my nipple with suckling kisses, he slides his hand under my dress and cups between my legs, where I am damp and achy. "I told her to take the rest of day off."

I rock into his touch with a moan, craning my head down to kiss his temple. "f.u.c.k... I say we give her the week off."

He hums in his throat, slips his fingers beneath my panties. "Good plan."

We don't talk for a long time after that.

"Where are you going? I'm not done with you yet." His voice is a love song, soft and tender, deep with possessiveness and the promise of luscious sin. It dances over me like a caress, and I s.h.i.+ver in its wake.

"I want to touch you," I complain, though it's not really a complaint. How can it be when he's reduced me to this quivering, boneless ma.s.s of warm lethargy?

His dark chuckle is knowing. "Later. It's my turn now."

Big, hot hands slide up my legs, cup my a.s.s. I close my eyes and hug the rumpled bed covers as those talented hands delve between my thighs and spread them wide.

Exposed. Swollen and wet. He's taken me twice now. Once on the terrace, and then on the bed, where he was slower, more thorough, taking his time, making me beg for it. And beg, I did, pleading and panting, losing my ever-loving mind.

He rewarded me for it, making me come until I wept, stroking my skin, telling me I was his good girl in that low, stern voice I'll forevermore equate with s.e.x and pleasure.

He uses it now, a weapon in its own right. "So pretty," he says, from his spot between my thighs. "I knew you'd be so pretty."

The need to please him rises up within me. I tilt my hips, lifting my a.s.s higher, showing him more of me. He hums in approval, his hands caressing my lower back, behind my knee. His breath tickles my inner thigh, and then he blows on my c.l.i.t.

I groan, fighting the urge to push down and catch his mouth.