“Women need us to acknowledge their hurts,” Killian says, digging the knife in farther.
“You think I don’t know as much?”
His dark eyes are suddenly solemn, and I know he’s about to gut me. “She missed you when you weren’t here. As much as you hide, Sophie sees right through it and still cares. Don’t fuck that up, man. Trust me on this.”
I don’t nod. I don’t have anything to say. I’ve already fucked it all up.
* * *
Sophie
* * *
“You’re taking the night off.” Brenna’s tone brooks no argument.
Doesn’t mean I’m not going to try. “That’s ridiculous,” I say, dabbing a bit of her concealer beneath my eyes. No way in hell am I allowing Gabriel to see me with puffy, bruised eyes.
I haven’t cried over him, but I did spend a good chunk of last night drinking vodka tonics and cursing his name while a sympathetic Brenna and Jules agreed that the man can suck it. “I’m fine.”
Brenna slicks on a deep plum lipstick before handing me a tube of rosy red. “I know. Doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy a night off.”
We stare at each other’s reflection in the mirror of Brenna’s bathroom, both of us wearing stubborn expressions.
Jules pops her head in. “Yeah, read a book, watch cheesy movies.”
Cheesy movies just makes me think of Gabriel and his threat to force a Star Trek marathon on me. Less than twenty-four hours, and I miss him like a lost limb.
“If I stay here,” I tell them, “I’ll go batty.”
Brenna smoothes her hair into her trademark high ponytail. “So go to the concert and enjoy it as a fan.”
The idea doesn’t sit well with me; I’ve been hired to do a job, not wuss out because my feelings have been hurt.
Unfortunately, if I want to work, I have to go back to the bus and get my equipment. That’s not happening. Maybe I am a wuss, because I need to lick my wounds a little longer.
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
Brenna is at least three sizes smaller than I am, and Jules is four inches shorter.
“Excuses, excuses,” Jules says. “I’ll find you something. Hold up.”
Her bright head disappears, and then she comes back with a flowing green, stretchy jersey skirt and white tank top. “The skirt is mid-calf on me so it will probably be at your knees, but it’s better than chocolate ice cream-stained clothes.” She grins wide, showing her dimples.
“Don’t remind me.” Last night ended with a raid on their emergency ice cream stash. I’m still feeling a little queasy.
I put on the skirt and top and frown down at myself. “I look like I’m headed to the beach.”
“You look hot,” Jules says, giving my butt a slap. “I’m off. A certain man who shall not be named just texted that he’s at the stadium, and he gets pissy if his employees aren’t on time.”
She shakes her head, but there’s no real irritation in her expression. If I’m not mistaken, she looks eager to start her night as she hurries off. I envy her.
With a suppressed sigh, I run a hand through my hair. Still rose gold, it falls in waves to the tops of my shoulders. A small line of darker blond roots shows. I’ll have to pick another color soon, but at the moment, I’m just tired.
“Fine, I’ll go,” I tell Brenna. “But I’m doing so under protest.”
She smiles. “So noted. And look, about Scottie…”
“Don’t worry,” I cut in, not liking the pity in her eyes. “I’m over it.”
“No, you aren’t.” She shakes her head, smiling softly. “But that’s okay. He’s…well, yes, he can be an ass, but he’s one of the best people I know. Behind all that starch is a marshmallow who any one of us would kill for.”
I slump against the counter. “I know that. Too well, unfortunately. It’s just the asshole part is getting in the way at present. How do you let yourself care for someone who won’t let you in?”
Brenna’s pretty face closes up, and she makes a production of quickly putting her makeup back in her travel case. “I think we’d all be happier if we knew the answer to that question.”
“Hell. Let’s just go back to ‘men can suck it’ and leave it at that for now.”
Brenna laughs. “Yeah, except part of the problem is that we love it when men suck it.”
“True.”
Laughing together, we head out for the venue. And I pretend the whole way that I’m not both dreading and anticipating seeing Gabriel again.
Having worked multiple concerts at this point, I know the places he haunts backstage and how to avoid him. That doesn’t stop me from catching glimpses of his sharp, stern profile now and then. And each time I do, my stomach cramps, and my heart gives an unruly thump.
I want to look longer, but I know he’ll notice me if I do. I swear the man has a sixth sense that way. Even skulking in the shadows, I can tell he’s scanning the area, a dark scowl on his face. Looking for me? Or just in his usual work mode? It’s hard to tell without studying him for too long.
And I hate that my awareness is constantly on him. I barely notice the concert as I tuck myself behind a stack of crates on the far to the side of the stage. Leaning against a concrete wall, I close my eyes and let the music pour over me, the pulsing throb of it vibrating my bones.
I don’t think I can stand it if Gabriel seeks me out, only to apologize and expect everything will go back to normal. I cannot go back to what we were.
Maybe it’s because my eyes are closed and my other senses are more alert, or maybe it’s because I’m just that attuned to him, but I feel it the second Gabriel comes to stand next to me.
I don’t have to look to know it’s him; even in the dank humidity of backstage, I catch his scent. And no one else but him makes my skin tighten and my heartbeat go into overdrive just by being near.
He stands so close, my shoulder blade brushes against the sleeve of his jacket.
Keeping my eyes closed, I swallow hard and try to remain passive. My body betrays me, sending happy little zings of pleasure through my chest and along my skin.
I’m pissed at him, yet it doesn’t stop me from thinking, Finally, you’re here. What took you so long?
We stand there, listening to “Apathy,” neither of us moving, even though the crowd is going wild. The song ends, and Jax and Killian begin to talk about a new song they’re going to play.
Backstage, it’s quiet enough that I hear Gabriel when he speaks, his words stilted as if he’s forcing each one out.
“I am a cold man. Any happiness or warmth I’ve felt died when Jax tried to take his life. Until you.” His ragged breath gusts over my cheek. “You are my warmth.”
My heart stops, my breath hitching painfully.
His voice gains strength. “The second you are out of my sight, I want you back where I can see you.”
I want to turn and tell him I miss him too. All the time.
But then he moves. The tips of his fingers skim the curve of my shoulder, and I stiffen in shock. We have held each other night after night, without hesitation or fear. But outside of bed, Gabriel rarely makes prolonged physical contact.
And this touch isn’t friendly or fleeting. It’s an exploration, tender but possessive. My knees go weak, my head falling forward as he caresses my neck, a slow sweep over my skin as if savoring the moment.
His voice is low but powerful at my ear. “If I can see you, know that you’re all right, I can breathe a little easier, feel a little human.”
I lean into his touch and he cups my nape, holding me steady. Holding me. I need his touch so much it hurts.
“Then why did you leave me?” My voice isn’t strong; I can’t seem to find my breath.
His fingers tighten a fraction. Before he can answer, another song starts up. Music crashes over us, and there is no more talking. I can only stand there in the dark with Gabriel.
He does not move for a few beats, and then his fingers slide slowly up into my hair to
cradle me. I don’t resist when he eases me closer, turning me into him.
With a sigh, I lean against his side, my head on his shoulder as he massages me with steady strokes.
Unable to help myself, I rest my hand on his firm stomach. A sigh rumbles through him, and though he does not move, it feels as if his whole body is melding with mine.
In the dark, we are hidden. Music pulses around us—loud, rhythmic sounds of angst and rage and defiance—but here there is stillness. I close my eyes, breathe him in. Fine wool, spicy cologne, the indefinable scent of Gabriel’s body. He is my drug of choice.
When he touches my cheek, all the nerves along my skin prickle with awareness. He is a man of business and should have smooth hands, but his skin is slightly rough and very warm.
The tips of his fingers press into my jaw as he tilts my head back. I catch the the pained look on his face, as though he’s hurting, and the regret, as if he’d do anything to make us right again. His expression subtly shifts to one of intent.
I can’t breathe. Because that look wants to own me. It reaches into my heart and takes hold of it.
And then he bends down. His lips ghost over my cheek, pressing light kisses along my temple. I clutch the edge of his jacket and hold on. I’ll sink to the floor if I don’t. Because Gabriel is touching me as if he’s been aching to all along.
He nips my earlobe, and my body jerks in response, pushing against his. Warm breath tickles my skin.
“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—
“You’re staring.” His tone is dry.
“Yes, I am.” I drag my eyes up and find his expression bemused.
A thick brow lifts. I try to mimic the look and fail when both of my brows lift as one. His lips twitch in amusement.
He shifts his weight, causing his abs to clench. Good Lord. He’s not some overdeveloped gym worshiper, just solid and strong, that perfect balance between defined musculature and healthy male—
“You’re still staring, Sophie.”
“You think it’s easy looking away from all this splendor?” I ask his belly button, licking my lips when he huffs out a laugh and just a little bit more of his lower abs are revealed, slanting toward the thick bulge of his cock, which is lamentably hidden behind his slacks.
“You’re impossible,” he mutters, though there is humor in his voice. He strolls farther into the room and then practically kills me when he sits in one of the low-slung armchairs. That body, sprawled out on display, those thick, long thighs braced as if to take me in his lap—it’s too much.
I want to straddle him and lick my way from the hollow of his throat to the tip of his cock.
He eyes me as if he knows what I’m thinking, and the air thickens. So many things we left unsaid. I’m remembering his lips now, surprisingly soft, but strong with purpose.
From the way his lids lower, I wonder if he’s remembering things as well. But he doesn’t move. Tension glides over his body and snakes around the room. I feel it in my throat and down my spine. We’re closing up again, retreating.
Slowly, I toe off my shoes and set my gear down, never breaking eye contact. “I was being completely honest,” I tell him. “I see you like this and I want to stare forever.”
He snorts, shaking his head even as he rests his temple on his knuckles. “What do you mean ‘like this’?”
“Und
one.”
He tenses. It does lovely things to that chest. I focus on his face, mainly to maintain some semblance of decorum.
“You think this is me undone?” he asks quietly.
“It’s a start.” I reach for my camera bag. “Will you let me photograph you?”
There is safety to be found with the camera between us. A way for both of us to hide until we’re comfortable around each other again.
“You’re serious?”
“You sound surprised.” Holding my camera, I sit in the sofa opposite him. “Don’t tell me no one has asked to take your picture before.”
“They’ve asked. I never saw the point.” He shrugs. “I’m not the story.”
You’re my story. You always were.
“This is just for me,” I say instead. “No one else.”
His shrewd gaze pins me. “Why do you want this?”
So I can have a bit of you forever. “Pictures capture moments in time. I want this one—when you finally let me see a sliver of the man behind the clothes.”
His nostrils flare on an indrawn breath, and he slowly lets it out. When he speaks, his voice is a rasp. “Take the pictures.”
So I do, testing angles. The warm glow of the lamplight highlights the planes and hollows of his body. He sits still, a king lounging on his throne, granting me this small whim.
He doesn’t love this; his muscles tic with each click of the shutter. But he doesn’t stop me either, just watches as I work.
It’s too easy, taking shots of him. The camera loves him. But more than that, I have a valid excuse to look at him to my heart’s content.
“I feel like a bellend,” he grumps.
“A what?”
High color paints his cheeks. “A prick head. An idiot. A poseur. Take your pick.”
I have to laugh. “So sensitive.”
“You try being on the other end of that thing.” He gestures toward the camera with his chin.
“I won’t apologize,” I tell him. “You are beautiful, Gabriel.”
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