“I can’t leave you, Darling. You’re always in here.” Gently, he takes my hand and touches it to his head.
With a shiver, I thread my fingers through his hair. It’s thick and silky, and he makes a sound of appreciation, nuzzling my neck with his nose as he continues to kiss his way around my jaw.
“And you’re in here,” he tells me, moving my other hand to his chest where his heart pounds against the solid wall of muscle.
“Sunshine,” I whisper, turning to kiss his cheek.
A tremor runs through his frame, and his arm wraps tight around my waist. I kiss him again, finding his jaw. His crisp scent and the slightly salty taste of his skin make me want more and more. But he’s holding me too close, shaking as he takes increasingly deeper breaths.
The pad of his thumb finds my bottom lip, and my breath stutters as well. For a long moment, he simply runs his thumb lightly over my lip, tracing its curve, opening my mouth a bit more. And with every sweep, I grow hotter, the sound of my blood rushing through my ears.
My lips feel swollen and dry. Without thinking, I lick them and catch the blunt tip of his thumb.
Gabriel grunts, his hand clenching. But he leaves his thumb there, pressing against my lip, pushing just slightly into my mouth as if asking for another lick. I taste his skin, suck the tip.
He groans low and deep, his body clenching. His eyes find mine, and the heat in his sears my skin.
We stare at each other, both panting, and then his gaze lowers to my mouth.
“Sophie—”
Someone bashes into us. Gabriel braces, but the spell is broken. He turns to glare over his shoulder.
“Sorry!” a guy in an ill-fitting white suit shouts.
Gabriel straightens, his hand sliding down to cup my elbow. I feel the loss of his body heat acutely.
The guy does a double take and moves closer. “Scottie! Just the guy I’ve been looking for.”
I’m beginning to suspect dude knew exactly who he was bumping into, and by the grim expression on Gabriel’s face, I’m guessing he thinks so as well.
“Andrew,” he says, his voice clear over the music.
Stage lights flicker over Andrew’s face, and I realize he’s one of the record executives. I take a step back, knowing the moment is over and Gabriel needs to talk business. But his clasp tightens, and he turns toward me with a frown.
“Go work,” I tell him.
His frown grows. He shakes his head in refusal.
I squeeze his hand. “I don’t want it to be here.” Because if he kisses me now, I won’t be able to stop—I won’t want him to stop.
For a second, I don’t think he’ll let me go. But then the mask falls in place, and he gives me a tight nod. I start to move away, but he suddenly pulls me back, bending down to growl in my ear.
“One hour. Come home, or I’ll find you and bring you back myself.”
Chapter Twenty
Sophie
* * *
We are in a hotel tonight. My hands are shaking as I let myself into the suite. He’s waiting for me; I feel it in my bones.
The living room is empty, only a side lamp on, illuminating the buttery, cream leather chairs, glossy wood tables, and soft gray sofa. French doors flank one wall, a pair of them open, and the gauzy white curtains flutter in the warm night breeze.
The sound of a door opening comes from the bedroom.
“Chatty girl?” A second later, Gabriel walks out.
And my mouth falls open, a faint squeak escaping. “Holy fucking hell.”
He stops short, halfway into the room. “What’s wrong?”
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—