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“You can still touch the bottom,” he says into my ear, but he pulls my hips tight and I don’t care if I can, as long as he’s got me. “Go on,” he whispers in my ear. “I think you’ve earned a reward. Use me to get off.”
His name is on my lips, coming off on a breathy little laugh as I grind against him. His hands slide to my waist and he holds me. I’ve never felt safer than when I’m in his hands. My nipples press against his chest, the fabric of my bikini rubbing deliciously between us, and this right here, is what I want. Midmorning orgasms with Gabe, in his pool under the hot California sun. Just the two of us in this beautiful place.
He breaks off the kiss, holding me tighter, thrusting against me as I continue to rock into him. One arm bands around me, his other hand sliding between us to grab my breast. He shoves it up and I lean back, supported by his arm, still holding his neck, and his hot mouth closes around my nipple through the thin fabric. He squeezes and sucks and thrusts against me as I grind against his cock and I shatter with a gasp, pushing myself into him because nothing has ever felt as good as Gabriel Sinclair, hard against my body. Except maybe Gabriel Sinclair, hard inside my body.
I collapse forward, onto his shoulder, biting into solid muscle because goddammit, I’m never going to feel like this with anyone else, ever, and I want to leave a mark on him too. He growls and carries me through the water to the shallows where it’s waist-deep, setting me against the edge of the pool.
In a heartbeat, he has my bikini top off. It slaps against the water somewhere behind him as his eyes drink me in. Two fingers land on my shoulder, lightly pushing, and I sink against the wall, watching him because I love the way he watches me.
“There,” he says when I’ve lowered myself enough that the water laps at my collarbone. “Push them together.”
I don’t need to ask. While he frees his dick from his swim trunks, I cup my tits, lifting and squishing them. He steps closer, straddling me as I crouch, tilting my chin up with two fingers, his other hand stroking his length under the water. “Is this okay? Would you be more comfortable out of the water?”
“This is perfect.”
“Tell me if that changes.”
It won’t unless he shoves me under in his haste to get off, but Gabe would never. I’m safe with him.
As soon as he slides his cock between my tits, his large hands go to the edge of the pool, gripping tight as he tests me with a long, slow thrust. I watch as he does it again, and again a little faster, a little harder, pushing me against the pool wall. The sight of him smothered in my cleavage is hot, even distorted by the rippling water. His abs contract in front of me, water droplets glistening off his chest, falling like rain as he leans over me. I want my hands free to touch him, or maybe myself, but I can’t let go. I settle for kissing his abs, trailing my tongue along the salty grooves.
He murmurs my name and within a minute he’s gasping it as he comes hot against my chilled skin. When he’s finished, he rinses me off in the pool and swims away to retrieve my top, helping me put it back on.
We spend a few minutes kissing and laughing before he teaches me how to tread water. It’s easier than floating, possibly because I can keep my head out of the water. When I’ve had enough, we climb out and spend the next hour dozing in a massive sun lounger.
I don’t know what we’ve done to each other, but he’s not the same person he was in New York. I’m not either.
This is a highlights reel I want to replay.
We have lunch on a shaded patio overlooking the Pacific. Salads, because Gabe’s diet is strictly controlled from now until filming wraps. We take a few photos and post one on my social media—our lunch, the ocean in the background, our joined hands in the foreground.
“What did your agent have to say?” he asks after a few minutes of peaceful silence.
I pull my eyes away from the ocean, frowning at my salad. “Nothing much. Yours?”
His brows knit as his eyes drift to the ocean. He shrugs. “A couple of scripts to look over. The usual.”
“Oh.” The guilt in those two words,the usual, tells me fake dating is working out better for him than it is for me. Somehow, that’s not surprising.
Gabe hesitates. “Maybe I could—”
Whatever he’s about to offer me, I don’t want it. Not like this, not from him. Time to change the subject. “My parents broke up. My mom left about a hundred messages on my phone.” She’s stopped, for now. She’ll start calling sometime today, I’d wager.
“Does she even know where you are?” he asks harshly.
I laugh. When I told him about my parents, I spoke about my childhood, not about the situation these days. The only thing that’s changed is that I’m no longer an innocent pawn.
“I’m serious. They weren’t at the wedding, were they?”
“No, there’s bad blood between them and my aunt and uncle.” Guilt coils in my gut at the role I played, and I let out a breath to ease the discomfort.
“Did they call you after we were photographed together?”
I laugh again. I don’t know why I keep laughing like something about the sound turns this into a harmless little nothing. Another piece of armor I wear to remind the world I’m in control. I can’t be hurt because I don’t care and in that lies power. “No, they were still together, so they didn’t need me.” If they even saw the photo or any tabloids or clickbait or trending social media topics. “My parents are selfish, narcissistic assholes. Explains a lot about the way I am,” I add as a joke, trying to lighten the mood. My parents are a deadweight to any conversation.
Gabe puts his hand on my leg, halfway up my thigh. “You’re not that bad.” He says it in a light tone with a flirty smile, and I hear the words underneath. I’m not bad at all.
I want to believe him.
