Storm Damages

by Magda Alexander

  “Leftovers from two nights ago.” He explains.

  I dish out the food and nuke it until it’s hot, serve it to him on a nice placemat while he hunts up a bottle of wine. When he offers me a glass, I decline. I’ve had three, one more than my limit.

  “You don’t keep any overnight staff?” I ask while he tucks into the meal.

  “Only Parker, my all-around houseman. By now, he’s hiding in his private room on the other side of the penthouse watching the telly. The rest go home at night. They prefer it that way, and frankly, so do I. I like my privacy.” He pronounces the word with a short e.

  “In the United States, you pronounced privacy the American way, with the long e.”

  “I find it easier to deal with Americans if I pronounce words the way they do. I also use their vernacular for most things.”

  “You did in the office, but not when you were in my house.”

  “Smart as well as beautiful.” He tangles a finger around my hair. “Your hair’s longer.”

  “I let it grow.”

  He smiles.

  Not about to let him think I did it for him, I say. “I’ll cut it when school starts.”

  “When do you return?”

  “In six weeks. I made law review.” I proudly blurt out.

  “Good for you.” I can tell by his smile he’s truly happy for me.

  “It’ll mean even more work, but I’ll juggle things around. I’m no longer Mr. Carrey’s AA. He’s made me his paralegal. The firm created a new position for me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I do research, draft pleadings, craft arguments.”

  “A law internship.”

  “Yes. Except I get paid.” In days of old, law interns worked for free, but that’s something I can’t afford.

  “How many more years of school do you have?”

  “Three. Nighttime takes a year longer.”

  “And then?”

  “Hopefully, a job at Smith Cannon. As long as I keep up my grades, that is. Mr. Carrey is very pleased with my work.”

  As soon as he finishes eating, I take the dish to the sink and hand wash it along with his wine glass. While I dry the dinnerware, he stands behind me, sweeps my hair away from my neck, drops a kiss on my nape.

  I shiver and drop my head, suddenly terrified of my growing emotional attachment to him. His sister’s story cracked open a soft spot in my heart, one which has no business being there. Twirling around, I lay a hand on his chest. “You need to deal with your sister. It’s late. I should leave.” I need time alone to think.

  His arms curl around my back and pull me to him. “Why do you fight me, love? Fight us?” His tone is soft, a balm to my aching heart, almost torn asunder by his sister’s tale.

  “If someone found out.” I trot out my same old tired excuse, rather than tell him about my fear.

  He cups my cheeks, brushes his lips against mine. “No one here but you and me.”

  “And Brianna.”

  “She’d never betray us.” He licks my lips, nibbles them, reminding me how clever he is with his tongue.

  I curve into him, my body conveying the message my lips refuse to spill. I want him more than my next breath. I slide my hands into his hair, explore every corner of his mouth. “Take me to bed, Storm.”

  He rests his forehead against mine. “Gabriel.”

  “What?”

  “My name’s Gabriel. I want to hear my name on your lips.” He brushes a thumb across them.

  “I can’t. What if in a business meeting I forget to call you by your last name?”

  “You won’t.” Our gazes collide. “Say it. Gabriel.”

  “You’re a bastard, you know that.”

  He chuckles “Not even close. Gabriel.” He flashes the same boyish grin I first saw in the conference room. And suddenly, I’ll do anything to help him keep that carefree look.

  “Let’s go have sex . . . Gabriel.”

  The look he sends me brims over with tenderness. “No, darling. Let’s go make love.”

  Love. A four-letter word if I’ve ever heard one.

  Chapter 20

  ______________

  Gabriel

  I WAKE UP WITH ELIZABETH IN MY ARMS, my legs tangled with hers. First time I greet a new day with a woman in my bed. The musky scent of our marathon lovemaking arouses my hunger, and I rub my cock against her sweet arse. What can I say? I’m a randy bastard, especially when it comes to her.

  “Morning.” I kiss her shoulder, and she rolls over to gaze at me out of those mesmerizing black-ringed, emerald eyes of hers.

  “Morning.” Rather than be offended by my rude awakening, she climbs over me all smiles.

  I think I won the sexual lottery until she lands on the floor, plucks the sheet from the bed, and scampers to the bathroom with the cotton draped around her, laughing all the way. Nature call. That’s all it is. Anticipating all the things I’ll do when she returns, I stretch and lay back. Until the sound of water reaches me. She’s taking a shower? Now? When I’m hard enough to pound nails? Fuck.

  I roll out of bed and trudge to the bathroom. Yep, there she is wet and delicious inside the glass-enclosed shower stall. I glare at her while I brush my teeth, not that she notices with her back to me.

  I stand rooted to the spot while she squirts some bath gel into a washcloth, bends and rubs it up and down her legs. Her perfectly perfect ass wiggles as she runs the washcloth up and down her legs—right, left, right again—and, bloody hell, every one of her toes. She turns and rubs that blasted washcloth over the front of her—arms, neck, belly—and then the witch squirts more soap into the cloth and rubs it over her luscious breasts.

  Enough.

  Practically breaking the sound barrier to get to her, I thrust open the shower door handle and crowd into the space and fill my hands with those same plump, delicious breasts.

  Sexy as hell, she peeks at me from beneath her luscious lashes. “What took you so long?”

  “Witch.” I grab that luscious arse of hers, lift her, but she wiggles free.

  “Nuh-uh, cleanliness before—”

  “I fuck you.”

  “—I take you into my mouth.”

  Waving the white flag of surrender, my arms shoot up. “Clean away.”

  She reels out a husky laugh. Yeah, I’m pretty much her bitch at the moment.

  She tugs on my biceps. “Bend your arms. I can’t reach you.”

  She wants to clean my arms when more important body parts are clamoring for attention?

  “Gabriel.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I lower my arms so she can get to them.

  “Such a good, good boy.” She soaps my forearms, biceps, shoulders.

  I steal a kiss only to get a sudsed up washcloth in my mouth for my troubles. I spit out the soap and wink at her. “You know what they say about good boys.”

  Her eyes spark merrily at me while the cleaning cloth hits my chest, my stomach. “No. What do they say?” She twirls me around and slides it over my back, my rump.

  “When I’m good I’m very, very good, but when I’m bad””—I swivel back and face her—“I’m better.” I grab her arse and wiggle my iron hard erection against her belly.

  “You’re a dirty, dirty boy, aren’t you?”

  “Nope. I’m squeaky clean, practically a choir boy.”

  “Bet you never had to sing for your supper.” She bends and I’m treated to a view of her delicious backside while she soaps up my legs. Unable to resist such sweet temptation, I drop a hand on her sweet cheek, roll a finger down her crack right into her sheath.

  She gasps. “Stop that.”

  “Change of plans.”

  “Nope.” Somehow she manages to extricate my finger from her pussy. The washcloth hits the shower floor and so do her knees.

  “Wait.” I thrust open the shower door, grab a towel from the rack, fold and drop it on the floor. “Kneel on that.”

  “Such a gentleman.”

  Her m
outh is right there hovering over my cock. The son of a bitch is practically begging her to take him into her mouth.

  She curls her hand around the base, slides it to the top of my cock, licks the drop at the head weeping for her. “Ummm, you taste good.”

  I curl a trembling hand around her hair and gently tug back so I can see her face. “What do I taste like?”

  “Salt and man and you.” She licks and caresses my balls until they tighten up. When her hot mouth engulfs my head and she suckles, I pump air out of my lungs to keep from coming. Her pink tongue darts out to flick the head, and then she swallows me whole. Fuuuuuccccck. Clamping on to the door latch and the shower rack, I rock back and forth, trying hard not to force my cock down her throat. For several mind-numbing seconds, I enjoy the warmth of her mouth curled around my veined length, licking, sucking the crown head. When she clamps on to my butt cheeks and squeezes, I groan as semen pulses from me. It’s time to stop, before I forget myself. I take a step back and my penis pops out of her mouth.

  She shoots a confused glance at me. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?”

  “Too much, darling girl.”

  “Then let me—”

  “I’d rather be inside you another way.”

  I raise her to her feet, turn her so her back is to me. After I bend her forward and nudge her thighs apart, I slide into her sheath, and her heat welcomes me home.

  With a lazy rhythm, my hips swing back and forth, a little deeper each time. I’m afraid to thrust hard into her. Even after making love three times last night, she’s tighter than a drum. My breathing harshes with the need to linger, to stretch this moment out, so I won’t forget the joy of fucking Elizabeth.

  But she won’t let me. With each sway, she pushes back. “Let go, Gabriel.”

  “Elizabeth. No.”

  “I won’t break. Let go.”

  She flicks her clit and her inner muscles grip me with a heated purpose. My balls tighten and lightning shoots up my cock. No help for it now. I clutch her hips and batter into her unaware of where I end and she begins. Together we reach past the breaking point. As she keens a cry, and I shout with feral passion, the sounds of our passion echo across the marbled space. Spent, we collapse to the shower floor.

  “Wow,” she whispers, breathless.

  Fighting to regain my own breath, I gather her against my side and drop a kiss on the top of her head. Wow indeed.

  Chapter 21

  ______________

  AFTER WE DRY OFF, I take her hand and walk toward my dressing room, one side of which opens into the bathroom. But before we get there, she jerks free.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  Breaths burst in and out of her. She’s staring into the closet as if she expects the boogeyman to jump out at her. “I” ——she gulps— “I don’t do closets.”

  Along with elevators. Is this where her fear of enclosed spaces stems from? “It’s only four walls.” I gather her into my arms, and am surprised to find her body’s gone tight and cold.

  She lays her head against my chest. “And a door which can be locked.”

  What the hell happened to her? “Somebody lock you inside one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “My mother.”

  Another evil witch. Knowing we shared similar childhoods doesn’t help. If anything it fuels the sudden rage which erupts with a singular intensity. “Tell me.”

  “No.”

  I crook a finger and raise her chin. “Tell me.” Only by bleeding the poison, can she drain her fears.

  “You don’t want to talk about Honduras. Well, I don’t want to talk about closets.”

  “All right.” She won’t talk. Not when she’s dug in her heels. So I let it go. For now. But sooner or later, I’ll get it out of her.

  After a swift detour into the bedroom, I walk into the dressing room, leaving her on the outside looking in. Today being Sunday I go for a pair of button fly jeans, rather than my usual suit.

  As I slide into them, she bites down on her lower lip, and her eyes turn hot and steamy.

  My cock hardens, as if it hasn’t just had the best sex of its life. “You keep looking at me like that and we’re never leaving this bedroom.”

  Her cheeks bloom an adorable pink. And she shifts her interested gaze away from me into my dressing room.

  I grab a blue t-shirt and slip it over my head. As soon as we’re done eating, I’m taking her back to bed.

  “Ooohhh. That’s so beautiful.”

  I turn in the direction she indicates. Whatever she’s pointing to, it’s not me. “What?”

  “The suit.”

  The suit? “Which one?” I’ve racks filled with them.

  “That dark gray one.” The three-button suit delivered a couple of days ago. Parker didn’t position it next to the others, but hanged it by itself on a stand-alone garment rack to allow it to ‘breathe.’ I’ve never understood that concept.

  Seeing the opportunity to lure her in, I extend my hand. “Come and feel it.”

  She shakes her head and her glorious hair riots in disarray.

  I stroll to the edge of the opening between the dressing room and the bedroom. “Close your eyes.”

  A panicked look. Two short breaths. And then her luscious lashes drift close.

  Taking her hand, I walk backwards. When her breathing grows labored, I urge. “I got you. Nothing here will hurt you. Now breathe. In. Out. In. Out.” Miraculously, she obeys.

  When we reach the object of her desire, I caress her cheek with the jacket sleeve, and whisper in her ear. “It has a vest.”

  Her lips purse with pleasure. “Ooohhh.”

  “If you open your eyes, you can see it.”

  Her eyelids drift up, but then she snaps them close again. “How many suits do you have?”

  I chuckle. A woman’s mind is a wondrous thing. “No idea, darling girl. Over a hundred I guess.”

  For a couple of seconds, she breathes in and out. And then she takes a deep breath and darts open her eyes. This time, even though she’s shaking, she keeps them alert. With infinite care, she removes the vest from the hanger, holds it out for me to slip into. She buttons it and smooths her hand down my chest. She repeats the motion with the jacket and soon I’m standing in jacket, vest and jeans.

  She circles me, her gaze shiny bright. “So beautiful.”

  I don’t know if she’s talking about me or the suit. Either way, I’ll take the compliment.

  “How do you spare time for the fittings?”

  “They come to my office and I squeeze them in between business appointments. They have my measurements, so usually only minor alterations need to be made. Parker handles all the details.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “Your all-around houseman?”

  “Yes, he’s also my valet. He picks out something he likes, gets my approval and then calls my tailor and orders the suit made. A couple of weeks after the fitting, it’s delivered.” I lay a soft kiss on her lips. “May I take these off now?”

  She nods.

  With infinite care, she returns the jacket and vest to their spot. “Wear this tomorrow. You look hot in it.” She lovingly strokes the jacket, and my body protests, jealous it’s not the recipient of her tender touch.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I’ll wear whatever the hell she wants if only she would caress me like that.

  Turning her back on me, she moves deeper into the dressing room, stopping now and then to brush an article of clothing. Eyes open wide, she twirls around. “This place is beautiful. So many shelves. So many clothes.”

  My dressing room is as big as a small living room with alternating open wardrobes, and beveled glass-fronted drawers, all made from cedar and full-length mirrors built into the walls. In the center of it all, a chandelier presides over a small round table and matching chairs. My great-grandmother designed the space, and I’ve never seen reason to change it.

  She walks up to a glass front and opens the door. Inside th
is particular one, Parker keeps my ties, cufflinks, tie clips. She chooses one of my favorite tie clips and holds it up to the light. It winks blue fire. “I love this.”

  She loves clothes, that much is evident. And it’s probably a pleasure she doesn’t get to indulge, not with her limited salary and her school debt. If she were mine, she’d wear the finest clothing in the world, everything tailor made, and she’d have a dressing room bigger than mine where I could strip her and make hot, delicious love on the rug.

  “Ooh, this is so pretty.” Having moved to an armoire that holds pajamas and such, she’s holding a shimmering blue dressing gown. No idea why Parker buys sleepwear since I sleep in the nude. “Did you buy this?”

  “No. That’s a birthday gift from Brianna. Don’t know why she chose that color.” I slide it off the hanger and hold it out for her. “Here, put it on.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  The damn thing’s too big for her but she makes it work by looping the belt twice and tightening it around her waist. When her bright gaze turns to me, her happiness shatters me. I rub my chest to still the pain lodged in my chest. What is it about her that affects me so? I’ve dated women more beautiful, more glamorous, and, yes, even more intelligent. Yet, none captivated me the way Elizabeth does. I want to spend all my nights loving her, all my days watching over her. I want to make her mine. A dangerous thing, that, for I’m not free to make such a commitment.

  She brushes the sleeve against her cheek. “It’s beautiful. So soft. What is it made of?”

  “Silk probably.”

  She holds the cloth up to my face. “The color matches your eyes. That’s why she chose this shade.”

  When she starts to take it off, I stop her. “Wear it to breakfast.” After we eat, I’ll bring her back to the bedroom, slip her out of the robe, and make love to her. For as long as possible. In as many ways as possible. Until she tells me to stop.

  A door slams somewhere, and she streaks out of the dressing room into the bedroom where she trembles so badly, the silk fabric rustles around her, shimmering in the light.

  Baby steps, I tell myself. At least I managed to get her into the dressing room. If only for a little while.