Managed (VIP 2)

At that, his eyes finally slide to mine, and his skin actually pales. “That’s just cruel, Darling.”

“Stop calling me that.” I steal his spoon.

“It’s your name.”

“Are you sure that’s what you’re calling me by?” I ask suspiciously, as he moves his bowl out of reach.

“What else would I be doing?” There’s a glint in his eye that leads me to answer in a sing-song voice.

“A term of endearment? Declaring your undying lurve for me.”

His nose wrinkles. “You’re going to put me off my pudding.”

“Pudding? Is that what you’re eating?” I lunge for the bowl, but he’s too quick, and I end up sprawled across his chest.

We both go still, me clutching the spoon in one hand, my other palm pressed against the firm swell of his pec, him with one arm still outstretched, his other one pinned beneath me.

His breathing goes deep and strong as he peers down at me. My attention drifts to his lips, beautifully sculpted and softly parted. How would he kiss? Would he start off slow, taking little nibbles, testing the waters? Or would he be the type to go all in, possess my mouth with his?

Heat floods my body, fluttering through my belly.

Gabriel’s lids lower, and his breath catches.

In the background, someone is shouting Buffy’s name. It’s enough to snap me out of whatever fog that touching Gabriel has pulled me into.

“You smell like apple pie,” I whisper inanely.

His gaze darts from my mouth to my eyes. “It’s crumble. Apple crumble.”

“Why did you call it pudding?”

“It’s what we Brits call dessert.” He’s still staring at my mouth. Dessert indeed.

My lips part, sheer lust making them plump. “Give me a bite.”

With an audible swallow, he slowly takes the spoon from my hand. I don’t look away from his eyes as he scoops up a bit of the crumble.

The spoon shakes just a little. Cool metal slides over my lower lip, and hot crumble fills my mouth. I barely suppress a moan, my lips closing around the spoon as he slowly draws it back out. He grunts in response, a short, helpless sort of sound that he quickly smothers.

“Delicious,” I say, licking the corner of my lips.

The wall comes down once more, and he’s back to his implacable self. With gentle hands he moves me to the side. “Off you go,” he says lightly. “You’re making me miss Buffy.”

It takes me a moment to settle myself. I push my hair away from my face and snuggle back into the nest of pillows propped against the headboard. “I cannot believe you’re watching this. With pride, even.”

His big shoulder lifts on a shrug as he goes back to eating his crumble. “You’re living here now; it’s not as though I can hide my viewing preferences. And I’m not about to forego the small pleasures I get to enjoy.”

“Geeking out on sci-fi shows and eating desserts?” I make a sound of amusement. “Try to contain yourself, party man.”

He cuts me a look. “For the first few years of Kill John’s existence, I fucked, drank, and partied my way across the globe. I can safely say I’m worn out on that life and completely bored with it.”

My brain stutters on the word fuck coming from his lips in that crisp accent. He’s used the word before, but we were fighting at the time. Now I’m paying attention. It’s so tempting to ask him to repeat himself that I have to bite my inner cheek.

“What is that look all about?” he asks, catching my struggle. “I’ve learned many of your looks. But not that one.”

“You know my looks? I don’t think so.”

Gabriel nudges me with his elbow. “You’re blushing.”

“Like hell.” My cheeks burn.

The low rumble of his amusement lifts the little hairs along my arms, and my nipples tighten. Damn it. He’s not allowed to affect me like this.

“The guys were giving me shit,” I blurt out, my common sense weakened by his nearness. “About you. They implied that you were a cold fish where sex is involved. That you don’t…er…do that anymore.”

God, I can’t look at him. I brace for his ire, but he laughs. Not long or very loud, but his chest shakes, and he wipes a hand over his face as he tries to get control of it.

“And you, what?” he asks, his eyes gleaming with mirth. “Thought I was a virgin?”

“No.” I kick his foot lightly. “No. I just…Gah! You said fuck, and it got me thinking about it.”

“Fucking?” he asks, grinning wide enough to flash his white teeth.

I look away so I can’t be charmed any further. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he teases in a tone so unlike him—so like me—that I meet his gaze.

“No, I don’t,” I agree quietly.

And it’s his turn to squirm. He stabs at his crumble with his spoon but doesn’t take a bite.