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Raquel
While I’m glad I’m not dead, the raging headache makes me wish I was. The pounding pressure behind my eyes is so overwhelming that I’m nauseous. Gulping air, I summon all the strength I can muster and sit upright in bed. The blanket slips from my shoulders and bunches around my stomach. It’s then, and only then, that I realize I’m wearing nothing but a man’s oversized shirt. I don’t even have underwear or pants on.
Someone undressed me.
Heat floods my cheeks, my rabbit heart racing like it has a marathon to win. Embarrassment weighs heavily in my chest as questions race through my head.
Where am I? Where are my clothes?Whoundressed me?
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”
A man’s deep voice rumbles straight through me. I crane my neck to the side, startled to find a man seated casually in an armchair next to my bed. I have half a mind to scream, but then my memories rush back in with the force of a tidal wave.
The explosion. My getaway. Crashing through someone’s front yard because I drove straight through the night and could barely stay awake.
I instinctively clutch the blanket to my chest with a gasp.
The man simply chuckles. “Relax. I had to patch up your wounds and make sure you didn’t ruin the sheets.”
My tongue doesn’t work. No matter how hard I try to speak, I can’t bring myself to form sounds. This man is drop deadgorgeous. If I weren’t feeling like a splintered mass of bones, I’d already be on my way to steal him from a criminal’s private collection because —damn— is he a work of art!
He has cropped chestnut brown hair and green eyes. His strong jaw is accentuated by a seductive five o’clock shadow. There’s an air of severity to him, a stoicism and silence that is actually a bit uncomfortable to sit in for too long. I think it’s the concentration of his gaze and the way that he sits completely still, a statue of fine marble caught in a contemplative pose. He looks to be around Dad’s age, maybe in his early forties, though his rigid stature and seemingly permanent scowl makes it hard to tell.
The longer I stare at him, the hotter my skin burns. He smells delicious, like vanilla and sandalwood. A wet heat pools between my legs at the thought of being surrounded by his sheets inhisbed. He said he patched up my wounds, so does this mean he was the one to take my clothes off?
I don’t know why the idea turns me on so much.
“Gabriel?” I whisper, unsure.
He nods. “Yes. Though I must ask that you call me Pierre while you’re here. The other members of the household don’t know me by that name.”
I momentarily get lost in the sound of his voice. His English is almost perfect, though he has a slight accent where any hard R’s are concerned. It’s the most seductive thing I’ve ever heard in my life.
“Uh, okay… How long was I out?”
“Three days.”
“Three days?” I echo, my stomach flipping uneasily. “Shit. Shit, did my phone—” I look around. “Where is it?”
He lifts the black flip phone from his pants pocket and tosses it gently onto the bed by my thigh. “No calls,” he assures.
I want to get out of bed, but I’m uncomfortable with the idea of standing half naked before him. I haven’t been given pants. I look down and inspect my hands. Gabriel’s taken great care to clean my cuts and wrap them in fresh bandages. While I’m grateful for his efforts, I’ve never been with a man before. The thought of Gabriel —a stranger— handling me in my sleep…
My pussy throbs with another pulse of wet heat.
I suddenly can’t stop thinking about his big, rough-looking hands.
I want them all over me.
Wait, what?
“W-where are my clothes?” I stammer.
“Tossed them.”
I frown. “Excuse me?”
“There was no salvaging what you arrived in. I’ve sent my housekeeper out shopping for you. She’ll be back shortly.”
