Sweet man. I’m keeping him forever.
“I was afraid,” I admit with a cringe. “Afraid that you meant more to me than I meant to you. I wasn’t thinking very clearly.”
“Neither of us was.”
With a sigh, I kiss his brow, his cheek, wherever I can. “Why is it that we’re so very good at talking and so very shitty at fighting?”
Because there’s a difference between our bickering and when we’re really mad. I don’t have to explain this to Gabriel. I know by the amusement in his eyes that he understands me perfectly.
He nips at my earlobe. “Maybe it’s because we hate fighting and fall to pieces when we try. Truthfully, I’d rather wear polyester suits for the rest of my life than have another row with you.”
I gasp. “Don’t even joke about polyester!”
He chuckles against my skin, the sound sending little shivers of pleasure dancing down my body.
But then he grumps again. “And of all the places you have to go. Australia?”
Guilt twinges in my belly. I was so stupid leaving. “I needed to clear my head.”
“Clearing one’s head means taking a walk. Not going to the opposite side of the planet.” He eyes me with suspicion, but his expression is too happy and content for him to pull it off properly. “I’m beginning to think you wanted to torture me.”
“I was about to get off the plane to find you, Sunshine. Because being away from you is torture.” Which is the absolute truth. “So reassess that comment.”
As he hums dubiously, I snake my hand down his body to cup him. A choked gasp has me grinning. “Besides,” I say, giving him a light squeeze. “I have better ways to torture you.”
His hand settles over mine. “Behave yourself, Darling.” But he doesn’t move my hand away.
I feel him grow thicker against my palm. “I still can’t believe you got on a plane to Australia,” I say, subtly kneading him beneath our joined hands.
He shifts a bit, nudging up into my touch. “It’s my grand gesture, as Killian says. If you don’t understand how much I love you after this, there’s nothing for it.”
Smiling, I press my lips against his arm. “My grand gesture is going to be giving you head at some point during this flight.”
His cock twitches as I stroke it, and his voice comes out a tad rough. “Sexual acts on a plane are illegal, Darling.”
“Then you’ll have to be very quiet while I suck you.”
I love the strangled sound in his throat and the way his dick goes rock hard against my palm, despite his weak protests.
“Sophie,” he says, returning to the stern tone I love. “You never actually gave me an answer.”
“Mmm?” I stop my exploration and meet his gaze. He waits, one brow raised, a muscle ticking on his jaw. “Oh, you mean the ‘cocked up’ proposal?”
“Darling…”
“I’m going to want babies,” I tell him with a smile. “And to dress them up as Princess Leia or Han Solo on Halloween.”
His answering smile is so pleased, the look in his eyes so anticipatory, that it makes me a little dizzy. “I look forward to giving you babies. And I vote for a Spock costume.”
“Okay. Then you can dress up as Han Solo and I’ll be captured Princess Leia in that little gold bikini.”
“I love you,” he declares in a rush. “So very much. The luckiest day of my life was when I sat next to you on that plane.”
With a happy sigh, I snuggle closer. “I’m going to marry you, Gabriel Scott.”
He releases a breath and presses his lips to the top of my head. “And I’m going to love you until the day I die, Sophie Darling.”
“You know,” I say. “If I take your name, I won’t be Darling anymore.”
Gabriel swoops down and captures my mouth. The kiss is slow and just a little bit dirty, his tongue plunging deep. I’m lightheaded and needy when he pulls back. The hot, knowing glint in his eyes doesn’t help.
“You will always be my darling,” he says against my lips. “My Sophie darling.”
Epilogue
Gabriel
* * *
“I think I’m going to refer to this house as The Shoebox,” Sophie calls from the terrace.
She has a point. The bulk of the house is one long, clean rectangle jutting out toward the harbor with glossy wood floors, soaring ceilings, and retractable glass walls that let in the breeze. Compared to being stuffed in a plane, this airiness is paradise, as far as I’m concerned.
Following the sound of her voice, I find her leaning against the reinforced glass rail that runs around the terrace. Behind her, Sydney Harbor glitters in the fading evening light, its iconic bridge and—if you squint—the white sails of the opera house visible just to the right.
But I only have eyes for Sophie, her curvy body golden and tanned, the breeze picking up the ends of her hair and sending them dancing about her smiling face.
Sophie’s hair is pink now. She tells me it’s the color of true love and pure passion. It looks more like cotton candy to me, but I’ll never tell her. I’ve learned at least that much about women along the way. And besides, I’ll always equate Sophie with delicious treats, so her hair color is fitting in that regard.
I move behind her and wrap my arms around her shoulders. Her skin is cool, and she nestles back against my chest with a sigh.
“I still can’t believe you bought a house here.”
“Twenty fucking hours in a plane to get to Australia. You’d better believe I’m taking my time about going back to London. We might as well be comfortable for the interim.”
“Hey, a good many of those hours were spent fucking, so it couldn’t have been that bad.”
This is true. Struggling to be quiet, and the fear of being caught, made for some truly spectacular make-up sex. I’m such a fan now, I plan on bickering with Sophie tonight in some public place so we can find a way to do it again.
“You know, I might be cured of my fear of plane travel,” I tell her, bending to kiss the curve of her neck. “However, we’ll have to conduct experiments on our return trip to make certain.”
Sophie nudges her sweet arse back against my waking cock. He stirs, wanting to say hello.
“I hear there’s a first-class flight that now has a full shower on board.” Her hands reach back and slide up my hips. “That could be interesting.”
“Sod it, let’s shower now,” I demand, inching up the hem of her skirt.
Rye’s voice breaks through my happy bubble. “Oh, God, my eyes. They burn.”
I sigh against Sophie’s skin. “Why did I invite them here again?”
“Because you love them,” she whispers against my cheek.
“I love you. I tolerate them.”
“I want the old Scottie back,” Whip whines.
Sophie laughs at that.
“Jesus,” I grumble. “They’re all behind us, aren’t they?”
She cranes her head to look around me. “Yep. All of them.”
“Scottie has left the building,” Jax tells them. “You now have Gabriel to contend with, and he appears to be a randy bastard.”
At that, I smile, because he isn’t wrong. “It’ll happen to you too, John.”
“Don’t count on it.”
Poor sod, he doesn’t know what he’s missing.
Finally, I turn and tuck Sophie against my side. Jax, Rye, Killian, Liberty, Brenna, and Whip have all managed to leave their appointed rooms and congregate in the massive living room.
Killian and Libby are tucked up on the sofa as Brenna hands out some sort of fruity-looking cocktail. They’ve taken over my house. And it isn’t uncomfortable or strange to see. It feels right. It feels good.
Rye and Whip appear to be bringing out a small drum kit and portable keyboard. Only then do I notice that Jax and Killian have their guitars.
“Planning to sing for your supper?” I ask.
Jax plucks at his guitar’s strings. “For Sophie.” He gives her a wink. “Beca
use she’s the best hostess.”
She blows him a kiss.
“Any requests?” Jax asks.
“Yes.” I lean in to tell him the song I have in mind, adding, “‘From me to you.”
He shakes his head, grinning wide. “No, man, that one is definitely from me to you.”
I pull Sophie onto my lap, and we make ourselves comfortable in a low-slung chair as the guys fiddle with their instruments. Though I rarely let it show, hearing my mates play, seeing their progression from bumbling lads who could barely coordinate a sound to seasoned musicians who create transcendent music, fills me with pride.
Sophie lights up as they begin to play “With a Little Help From My Friends.”
“Beatles for joy,” I tell her softly.
Her head rests on my shoulder, and she places a hand over my heart. “And for love.”
I close my eyes and let the music wash over me. “Always for love.”
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* * *
Liberty
* * *
There’s a bum on my lawn. Maybe I should use a better term, something more PC. Homeless person? Vagrant? Nope, I’m going with bum. Because I doubt he’s actually homeless or without means. His current state seems more a choice than a situation.
The big black-and-chrome Harley that’s smashed into my poor front fence is proof enough of some wealth. Fucker tore the hell out of my lawn on its way down. But it isn’t the bike’s fault.
I glare at the bum. Not that he’d notice.
He’s sprawled on his back, arms akimbo and clearly down for the count. I might wonder if he’s dead, but his chest lifts and falls in the steady pattern of deep sleep. Maybe I should worry about his health, but I’ve seen this before. Too many times.
God, he stinks. The cause of his stench is obvious. Sweat soaks his skin. Vomit trails down his black T-shirt.
My lip curls in disgust, and I swallow rapidly to keep from gagging. A snarl of long, dark brown hair covers his face, but I’m guessing the dude is youngish. His body is big but lean, the skin on his arms firm. Which somehow makes him all the more depressing. Prime of his life, and he’s fall-down drunk. Lovely.
I pick my way around him, muttering about drunk-driving assholes, and then march back with hose in hand, taking careful aim. Water shoots out at high speed, hitting its target with a satisfying hiss and splatter.
The bum jerks and rears up, sputtering and flailing around, searching for the source of his torment. I don’t let up. I want that stench gone.
“Get off my lawn.” Because he’s filthy all over, I aim lower, drenching his pants and crotch.
“Mother fucker!” He has a deep voice, and it’s raw. “Would you fucking stop?”
“Yeah…no. You smell like shit. And I sincerely hope you did not actually shit yourself, bud, because that is a seriously low point to come to.”
I draw the jet of water up his lean body to his head. Long, dark hair whips in all directions as he sputters again.
And then he roars. The sound rings my ears, and really ought to put the fear of God in me. But he’s too weak to stand. One muscled forearm swings up, though, slapping the wet hanks of hair back from his face.
I get a glimpse of dark eyes blazing with confused rage. Time to wrap this up. Letting go of the spray nozzle, I lower my weapon. “Like I said, get off my lawn.”
His jaw ticks. “Are you fucking insane?”
“I’m not the one covered in vomit and laid out on a stranger’s property.”
My lawn bum glances around like he’s just realized he’s on the ground. He doesn’t spare his clothes notice. Seeing as they’re soaked to his skin, he’s probably well aware of their state.
“Here’s a tip,” I say, tossing down my hose. “Don’t be such a cliché.”
This gives him visible pause, and he blinks up at me, water running in rivulets over his cheeks and into his thick beard. “You don’t know me enough to slap a label on me.”
I snort. “Literally fall-down drunk, crashing your bike—which I somehow doubt you actually ride other than on weekends. Over-long hair, a face that hasn’t seen the business end of a razor in weeks—again, probably because you want the world to believe you’re a badass.” I glance at his arms. Strong, ropy with muscles. “The only thing I don’t see are tattoos, but maybe you’ve got ‘Mom’ plastered on your butt for color.”
An indignant sound leaves him. Almost a laugh but too full of anger to fully get there. “Who are you?”
It’s impressive, the layers of disdain he manages to get into that one question. Especially given the state I found him in. Humility certainly doesn’t stick to this guy. Unlike his smell, unfortunately.
“The person whose land you fucked up. I’d slap you with a bill, but I don’t want to come too close to the stench.” Wiping my wet hands on my jeans, I give him one last glare. “Now go on and get before I call the police.”
It’s safe to say I’m worked up now. I march back up the long drive to my house instead of walking with quiet dignity as I’d planned. But it feels good; my pace is freeing. I’ve been so quiet these past few months. So contained.
So maybe I have something to thank Mr. Arrogant Drunk for.
However, my charity does not extend to him following me. Which he does. I see him rise in my peripheral vision. He wobbles, then steadies before peeling off his shirt and slapping it to the ground.
A strip show. Great.
I pick up my pace, cursing that my driveway is so long—at least two hundred feet from curb to doormat.
Another movement and he’s flung a boot my way. I glance back, slightly alarmed. And there go his pants. Six-feet-something of sinewy, pissed off, naked male starts stalking up behind me. There are the tattoos I’d guessed at. Or rather, one massive one of swooping, intersecting lines that covers his upper left arm and torso.
I concentrate on that instead of the heavy length of his dick hanging between his legs, swaying like a pendulum with each step he takes toward me.
I glare over my shoulder. “You come any farther up my drive and I’ll shoot you.”
“You would have a shotgun, wouldn’t you, Elly May,” he snaps back. “Talk about a cliché. All you need is a pair of overalls and a piece of straw to chew on.”
I can’t help myself, I spin around. “Are you calling me a country bumpkin?”
He halts too. Hands low on his hips, utterly unashamed of his nakedness, my lawn bum stands there, glaring at me like he owns the world. “Are you saying you aren’t, Huckleberry Pie?”
Heat swims over my skin. I stride right up to him—well, not too near; I’m still afraid of the stench. Up close, I can admit that he isn’t bad looking. Past all the scruff, bloodshot onyx eyes, and pasty morning-after complexion, he has blunt but even features, and lashes long enough to make a girl envious. This just makes me angrier.
“Listen, buddy, stalking a woman while naked can be construed as an act of sexual intimidation.”
He snorts. “That speaks volumes for your sex life, Elly May. But don’t you worry. Even if I had the slightest interest in doing you, I have a nice case of whisky dick working, so nothing’s getting up right now.”
“Happens a lot, does it?” I wrinkle my nose, refusing to look down. “And you talk about my sexual deficiencies.”
A glint comes into his eyes, and I could swear he wants to laugh. But he smirks instead, his lip curling
in annoyance. “Give me an hour and some coffee, and then we can talk about it all you want.”
“Next thing you know, you’ll be demanding breakfast too.”
A cheeky smile lights him up. “Well, now that you mention it…”
* * *
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Acknowledgments
To Kati Brown, Sahara Hoshi, and Tessa Bailey for early reads and encouragement. Sarah Hansen for always making me kickass covers. Jennifer Royer Ocken for copy edits and being the Good Kramer. Jennifer Miller for proofing. Elisa Gioia for help with the Italian bits. For the readers who are always so awesome, and the bloggers who are always so supportive.
About the Author
Kristen Callihan is an author because there is nothing else she’d rather be. She is a RITA award winner, and winner of two RT Reviewer’s Choice awards. Her novels have garnered starred reviews from Publisher’s Weekly and the Library Journal, as well as making the USA Today bestseller list. Her debut book FIRELIGHT received RT Magazine’s Seal of Excellence, was named a best book of the year by Library Journal, best book of Spring 2012 by Publisher’s Weekly, and was named the best romance book of 2012 by ALA RUSA. You can sign up for Kristen’s new release e-mail HERE
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