Gabriel

THERE IS a game I play with myself: delayed gratification. If there’s something I really want, I hold off on having it. My first nice car, I waited for a year, told myself it didn’t matter if I had the car or not; my life wouldn’t be any better or worse for purchasing it. I indulged only in glancing at pictures of the Aston Martin DB9 now and then to feed my need. I let myself pick a color—slate gray with red brake pads—and then finally, finally, when the year was out, I bought the car. By that time, the thrill had dampened, my need for the car muted. I had conquered my desire. I’ve done the same with every nonessential need in my life: cars, houses, a small Singer-Sargent painting I coveted. And it has served me well. When you do not yearn for anything, nothing can let you down. And I know full well this stems from losing my mother at an early age. I do not need to sit on a couch to know I use control to protect myself. And I don’t

give a flying fuck what it says about me. It works, end of story.

I tell myself this again as I prowl my living room. The house is silent around me. Too silent. I can hear myself think, and who the bloody hell wants to hear himself at one in the morning?

I should go to bed, but I can’t sleep. As in literally cannot fall asleep. I’ve been this way since arriving in London. Awake at night, exhausted come morning. In short: I’m in sleep-deprived hell.

Swearing, I take another turn around my room like some sort of deranged character in an Austen novel. Only I’m alone. I’m in the first house I bought myself. Eight million pounds to secure a private sanctuary in Chelsea. I love every inch of the place, every floorboard and old plaster wall. And yet standing in the middle of a room I paid a decorator to furnish, it feels like a tomb.

I should call one of the guys. Someone must be up; they’re all night owls. But I don’t want to talk to them. I want someone else entirely.

“Hell.” I pull at my collar. The cashmere lays light and warm on my skin, but I feel suffocated all the same.

She’ll be up. I know it. I can feel it in my bones.

It’s so silent, the sound of my feet striding across the floor echoes. I pick up my phone before I can stop myself. Don’t do it. Nothing good can come of engaging. She is an employee.

I put the phone down and circle the room three more times before my feet take me right back to the sideboard where it lies. My hand hovers over the damn thing. Just let it go. She’ll read too much into it.

“Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.” I grip the back of my neck where the muscles clench in angry protest.

In my head, I hear her light laugh. I see her face and the way the bridge of her nose wrinkles just a bit when she grins. My gaze drifts around the room, with its comfortable furniture and pictures of me and the guys on the wall. Despite the decorator, I had my say in every design decision made here. This house is a reflection of me at my most personal. What would she say about it? Would she find it cold or welcoming?

And why do I give a bloody damn?

“Because you’re finally cracked, mate.” And talking to myself as well.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Sophie

MY ROOM IS SO CUTE, I’m still half-convinced I’m dreaming. Cream, white- paneled walls, earthy sisal rugs, a four-poster spindle bed. There’s even a clawfoot Victorian tub opposite the bed. It’s too romantic, really. The kind of setup where I’d be bathing in a seductive manner while my man reclined on the bed to watch until he couldn’t stand the torture any longer and crawled in to join me. We’d make a mess of the floor, spilling water, laughing while we fucked.

A nice picture.

Only I’m alone in the dark beneath crisp linens, utterly awake and watching the lights of passing cars below trail across the ceiling. I should be sleeping, but jet lag has snuck upon me with a terrible vengeance. I’m so freaking awake, my body hums with the need to get up. Bad idea. Sleep is needed.

I’m concentrating so hard on trying to fall asleep, the ping of my phone startles me. Fumbling, I reach for it on my nightstand. I’m not even sure who I expected to be texting me at 2 am. But I certainly didn’t consider him.

Sunshine: If you don’t sleep now, you’re setting yourself up for even worse jet lag.

I immediately bite back a ridiculous grin, as if he’ll see me through the phone.

Me: If you’re so worried about my sleep, you shouldn’t text me in the middle of the night.

He pings back an answer.

Sunshine: Small chance of waking you. I knew you’d be up. Me: Oh? You psychic?

Sunshine: No. Just awake as well. And remembering your inability to calm down.

Me: False! I can do calm!!!!!

Sunshine: As exhibited by your subtle use of exclamation points.

I laugh in the dark of the room, drawing my knees up to my chest. My heartbeat has accelerated. I’m giddy like a damn schoolgirl. And isn’t that a bitch?

He’d stuck me firmly in employee land, then he brought me a sandwich. I’m not even sure he trusts me, and yet here he is, texting me in the middle of the night. Maybe he’s lonely. Or maybe he’s looking for a hookup. He’s nothing like the men I’ve been with before, so I can’t be sure. But I can’t pretend I don’t enjoy flirting with him, even if it ends up leading nowhere.

Me: Your sarcasm smells of slain interns’ blood and the souls of missing record execs.

Sunshine: False. That is what I eat for breakfast. Keep up, Darling.

I laugh, though he can’t hear me. I can almost see his expression, always deadpan but with that hint of crinkle at the corners of his eyes and full lips. That infinitesimal twitch of a smile most people clearly miss. The world fascinates Gabriel Scott, but he does a hell of a job pretending it doesn’t. That much I know already.

Me: Aw…terms of endearment already? Sunshine: It’s your name.

Me: A convenient excuse. Sunshine: A legitimate answer

Me: I’ve never had anyone call me by my last name. Should I call you by yours? Call you Scottie like the others do?

Sunshine: No.

I’m half teasing, because I don’t want to call him Scottie. That’s not his name to me. That’s a stranger’s name. But the emphatic force of his reply makes me wonder why he doesn’t want me to use it, when everyone in his circle does. My thumb shakes a little as I tap out a reply, adopting a more serious tone, because really, what the hell am I doing flirting with the big boss?

Me: Well, you caught me. I can’t sleep for shit. I’ll have to live with the consequences.

Little dots form at the bottom of my phone screen. They disappear, then start up again. I wonder what the hell he’s trying to write and if he’s erasing his text.

I almost send him a message just to prod his ass into whatever it is he’s trying to say, when his message finally pops up. And I gape. And gape. My heart stops and then picks up pounding. I’m not seeing things; it’s there, clear as day:

Sunshine: Would you like to come over?

What. The. Hell?

I’m clearly stuck in shock mode too long because he texts in a barrage of tense explanations.

Sunshine: For tea.

Sunshine: To help you sleep. Sunshine: I make good tea.

He makes tea? Gabriel I’ve-no-time-for-mere-mortals Scott actually makes tea? And drinks it? Shut the front door and call me Mama.

He’s still texting.

Sunshine: Hell. Clearly sleep deprived. Sunshine: Ignore request.

I type fast, putting the poor guy out of his misery.

Me: Where are you?

Me: Your house, I mean. Where is it?

He pauses. I know he’s frowning at the phone. Probably has been for some time now. I bite back another smile.

Sunshine: A few blocks away. I could send a car. Me: No. I’ll walk.

Sunshine: You will not. I’ll meet you.

My grin actually hurts my cheeks. I’m already out of the bed and scrambling for my jeans.

Me: Okay. Where?

Sunshine: In front of your hotel. Ten minutes.

“This is crazy. This is crazy,” I mutter as I haul on my jeans and root around in my suitcase for a bra and top. I don’t bother with the light as if it might kick-start my common sense and I’d text Gabriel back to say forget it. Because what the hell am I doing?

Does he really want to make me tea?

Yes. I know he does. Gabriel says what he means. He’ll make me tea.

But does he want more? Why invite me over?

“Stop thinking.” Talking to myself can’t be good. I slip on a loose, cream-colored long-sleeve top and toe into my Chucks.

I’m in the lobby before I realize I forgot to put on makeup or brush my hair.

“Shitballs.”

The night concierge glances as me as if I’m off my nut, and I give him a tight smile before hurrying past. There’s no time to go back to my room, anyway; I might miss Gabriel. He might chicken out if he has to wait.

I love the weather in London. I don’t care if I’m the only one in the world who does. It’s crisp and cool, with enough damp to make the ends of my hair frizz. And damn if there isn’t an actual layer of fog creeping along the pavement. At two in the morning on a weekday, it’s also fairly quiet, the streets abandoned.

My hands itch for my camera. That need grows when Gabriel walks out of the shadows, hands tucked deep in the pockets of his dark slacks. A gray cashmere sweater hugs his broad shoulders and big biceps. This man could sell boats to desert dwellers just by standing there, looking pretty.

He strolls toward me, his chin slightly down, peering at me from under those sweeping brows of his.

I almost swallow my tongue. “Hey, sunshine.” “Chatty girl.”

He stops a few feet away, and we stare at each other. My heart is going like a metronome. His gaze flickers over me, then steadies on my face. I don’t know what to say. Take me now, probably wouldn’t be appropriate. Or smart.

His voice is low and aggravated. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

I should be offended. But since he’s basically mirroring my own thoughts, I can’t throw stones. I fight a smile instead; he’s just so disgruntled.

“You texted, asked me to tea at two in the morning, then offered to pick me up.”

His lips firm. “I don’t…I don’t socialize.”

No shit. “Yet here we are.”

Something sparks in his eyes. “Apparently so.” He doesn’t move.

Another annoyed grunt tears from his throat. “I can’t fucking sleep.”

That he reached out to me because of it sends a rush of warmth through my chest. “So, let’s go do something.”

He obviously doesn’t want to like that. His shoulders bunch beneath his sweater. “This isn’t about sex.”

I laugh. “I hope not. It would be awkward to have to turn you down.”

Liar, liar, your knickers are on fire.

His lips twitch. “Sorry. I’m shite at this.” “Stating the obvious, sunshine.”

With a snort, he turns his head, but I see the smile flit over his lips before he hides it. Then he nods sharply as if coming to some decision.

“Shall we?” He gestures toward the way he came with a tip of his chin.

We walk together in silence, close enough that our shoulders brush every few steps. I don’t mind the silence. It gives me a place to hide my racing thoughts.

“Just around the next corner,” he tells me in a low, gruff voice. “Are you really going to make me tea?”

“Haven’t I said I would?” His gaze clashes with mine. “What’s wrong with tea?”

“Nothing. It’s just…” I search for the right word. “Grandmotherly.”

He laughs at that, a short chuff of sound. “I’m English. Tea is the remedy for all our problems. Had a bad day? Have a cup of tea. Head hurt? Tea. Boss a wanker? Tea.”

“Ah,” I say with triumph. “So I do have a reason to drink tea.”

Gabriel’s step stutters, and he peers at me. “Are we agreeing that I am your boss? Or does your head hurt?”

“Don’t know. Are you going to agree that you can be a wanker?” I smile so wide and fake my cheeks strain.

“A wanker who brings you lunch and is going to make you tea,” he points out mildly before nudging me with his elbow.

I’m about to nudge him back when a sharp crack rents the air. It’s so loud that I squeak, nearly jumping out of my shoes. Gabriel’s hand touches mine in an abortive move. I don’t know if he meant to grab on to me or he just flinched in surprise as well. Our fingers brush as light flashes across the sky. And then it opens up. Rain falls so swiftly and so very cold that I lose my breath.

We stand there, gaping at each other as the deluge swamps us. And then I laugh. Hard. Because what else can I do? Rain falls into my eyes, my mouth. I might drown. I’m sure as shit being drenched.

Gabriel is a statue, utterly gorgeous when wet, his black hair plastered to his head and rainwater sluicing over the sharp planes of his face, shining in the streetlight. He blinks, his long lashes spiky now.

“Of course,” he says with a raspy huff of breath.

“You aren’t going to blame this on me, are you?” I shout over the roar of the rain, still laughing.

“Everything from the plane trip on out is because of you, Sophie Darling.” He grabs my hand. “Come along, chatty girl, before we drown.”

We make a run for it, scampering across the slick pavers that make up the London sidewalk. I’m laughing, breathless. He glances over his shoulder at me. Everything is a blur but his features, which are somehow crystal clear in the moment, and my heart turns over in the cage of my ribs when I see glee in his eyes.

He gives my hand another tug, my fingers warmly wrapped up in his. We turn a corner, and then it all goes south. Gabriel skids, his shoes sliding in the wet. One of his arms windmills, his grip on me flexing. My mouth forms the word no! but it comes out in a squawk.

He’s going down, all that hard-bodied mass toppling, taking me with him. In my mind, it happens in slow motion. In reality, it’s so fast we’re both just flailing limbs and falling bodies.

I land on him, and my hip jars against his. He expels a hard Oof! before strong arms wrap around me, locking me into place on top of him.

Rain splatters around us, and he blinks up at me. I pant, trying to get my breath. “Fuck.”

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 cock is against my sex, grinding a sensitive spot that sends my body into overdrive. Heat sparks, my thighs spread wider, and I gasp. God, 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 breasts heavy, nipples tight, sex hot.

Gabriel’s expression is back to bland, but there’s something smug in the way he looks at me. Fucker. 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 passage 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 furnishings. 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 ass, his clothes clinging and covered in street muck. Doesn’t mar the picture in the slightest. I’d title 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

massive 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 fishing 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 Kardashian 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-shirts. He hands me a pair of sweats and the white shirt, 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, washing in the massive, glass-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 ass and thighs to a

cringe-worthy degree.

The T-shirt fits better, but basically looks like a sack. Sexy, 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 sex.

A flash of us on the street streaks through my mind, his hard body and thick cock 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 gods 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.