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“I’d like that,” he said, with a softness that was so un-Gabriel-like I hardly recognized his voice.
Why was I getting nervous? There was no reason to be nervous.
“I think maybe we should go together tomorrow, and pick some out.” I licked my lips. “After you treat me to a fancy brunch.”
He turned toward me, bumping my leg with his knee. We both looked down to where we were touching. He didn’t pull back and he didn’t apologize. He just kept on touching my leg with his.
“What time would you like me to pick you up?” he asked.
“I thought maybe you wouldn’t have to,” I said, my stomach feeling lighter by the second. “If it’s cool that I stay?”
He smiled at me. “I’d like that.”
I took his glass and set both his and mine on the table. Then I touched his freshly-shaved cheek.
His skin was pleasantly rough against my fingertips. Heat carried over my thighs where he’d scratched me before with his cheeks.
I remembered the feel of his mouth on my belly, on my breasts, his rough chest rubbing against my back. I’d enjoyed every moment of it, but those times had felt like they’d happened between different people.
Maybe it was just me who was different, who was seeing him differently.
I looked at his mouth, admired the barely visible freckle above his lip, and I did exactly what I wanted—I kissed him.
It was soft, not needy, not desperate or commanding. I didn’t need to prove anything or conquer him. The kiss was sweet and caring, and a reassurance that even if we were supposed to have an expiration date, I wasn’t ready to reach it yet.
He tasted like wine, happiness, and all the nice things I hadn’t imagined for myself.
I’d spent so much time this past week focusing on all the reasons we didn’t work together—we were complete opposites, he drove me crazy, I drove him crazy, we lived in completelydifferent worlds—that I’d overlooked a key point that now seemed so clear.
Each of those reasons was only an obstacle. Obstacles could be overcome. If we didn’t let our differences come between us, none of those differences actually mattered.
“Take off your pants,” I told him.
He slid them down his thighs, his movements hurried. And then I did more of what I wanted. I took him into my mouth, exploring, enjoying every gloriously long inch of velvety skin.
He dug his fingers into the sofa cushion and watched with a heat in his eyes that I recognized. He was holding back, he was letting me have my win. But this wasn’t a battle.
“Come up here,” he said. “Please.”
I climbed up onto the sofa with him, and he gently guided me onto his lap.
“You’re so beautiful, and that dress—” He sounded pained again as he ran his hands over my arms, down my sides and up my thighs.
I reached between us and wrapped my hand around his base. Slowly I lifted my hand, sliding up his length, imagining what this would feel like inside of me. It would feel good. He always felt so freaking good.
He captured my lips with his, gripping my cheeks in his hands. “You make me feral. Wild. Out of control.”
I smiled against his mouth.
“We need a condom,” he said.
If I had to get up now, I was pretty sure I would die.
“I’m clean,” I told him. “On the pill.”
He looked from one of my eyes to the other. “I’m clean, too.”
With that, he reached up a little farther under my dress. I felt a sharp bite of fabric dig into my skin, and a second later, I heard tearing.
