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He sighs at the doorway, pausing to turn and glance back at me. “What, kitten?” He shrugs, shooting me a withering look. “Don’t flatter yourself. I call lots of women kitten.”
Wow, thanks, ass.
Gabriel draws in a deep breath.
“Here’s the thing, Fumi,” he growls. “This nonsense between us is business, and nothing more. Believe me, you don’t want anything to do with me in that regard. And I do not want to fuck you. ”
12
GABRIEL
Yes I fucking do.
13
FUMI
What an arrogant asshole.
Groggy, fresh out of bed, I stare blearily at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I’m exhausted because I slept like shit, for two reasons.
The first is that I kept replaying my exchange with Gabriel over and over in my head.
Don’t flatter yourself.
I do not want to fuck you.
I’ll buy you a vibrator if you’re so hard up.
I mean fucking sit on a tack, douchebag.
Shamefully, I’ll admit that his obnoxious need to remind me that he has zero interest in me romantically or sexually is made worse by the fact that I have seen that side of him.
Felt his touch.
His aggression. His dominance. His control.
All of which brought me to my knees, literally and figuratively.
That brings us to the second reason I slept like crap last night: I woke up about a dozen times from fever dreams involving Gabriel, the red and black room at Club Venom, and his rough touch turning my thighs slick with desire.
Desire that I—shamefully—“took care of” somewhere around three in the morning to shake those desires away so I could sleep.
It didn’t help. Actually, I think I made it worse.
Exhaling heavily, I shove my fingers through my messy bedhead hair. I scowl at the bags under my eyes and my generally haggard appearance.
Great, when today of all days I’m stepping in front of a billion cameras to tell the world I’ll be at Gabriel’s side as his wife when he runs for Governor.
I’d say “shoot me”, but I don’t think even a bullet would stop this train now.
Exhaling, I remind myself yet again why I’m doing this. Last night, before bed, I went over to my dad’s new place a few blocks away—which is stunning, incidentally. It’s a gorgeous and light-filled filled apartment with big windows, a huge kitchen, and a private terrace already landscaped with herbs, flowers, and even a small koi pond.
I also met Tate, Dad’s new full-time nurse, who will be living in the apartment right below. I don’t know where the hell Gabriel found him, but he’s freaking perfect for the job.
My dad, obviously, speaks perfect English. But Tate is apparently a fluent Japanese and Korean speaker, and a former Army Medic. If that wasn’t enough, he’s a fan of the same jazz greats as my father and was losing his shit over Dad’s vinyl collection when I went over.
Yeah, they’re going to get along just fine.
