Managed:a VIP novel(17)

We stand there, gaping at each other as the deluge swamps us. And then I  laugh. Hard. Because what else can I do? Rain falls into my eyes, my  mouth. I might drown. I'm sure as shit being drenched.

Gabriel is a statue, utterly gorgeous when wet, his black hair plastered  to his head and rainwater sluicing over the sharp planes of his face,  shining in the streetlight. He blinks, his long lashes spiky now.

"Of course," he says with a raspy huff of breath.

"You aren't going to blame this on me, are you?" I shout over the roar of the rain, still laughing.

"Everything from the plane trip on out is because of you, Sophie  Darling." He grabs my hand. "Come along, chatty girl, before we drown."

We make a run for it, scampering across the slick pavers that make up  the London sidewalk. I'm laughing, breathless. He glances over his  shoulder at me. Everything is a blur but his features, which are somehow  crystal clear in the moment, and my heart turns over in the cage of my  ribs when I see glee in his eyes.

He gives my hand another tug, my fingers warmly wrapped up in his. We  turn a corner, and then it all goes south. Gabriel skids, his shoes  sliding in the wet. One of his arms windmills, his grip on me flexing.  My mouth forms the word no! but it comes out in a squawk.         

     



 

He's going down, all that hard-bodied mass toppling, taking me with him.  In my mind, it happens in slow motion. In reality, it's so fast we're  both just flailing limbs and falling bodies.

I land on him, and my hip jars against his. He expels a hard Oof! before  strong arms wrap around me, locking me into place on top of him.

Rain splatters around us, and he blinks up at me.

I pant, trying to get my breath. "Fuck."

My breath deserts me entirely when he flashes a grin, all white teeth and dazzling male beauty. "See?" he murmurs. "Your fault."

"Mine? You fell. You and those posh shoes."

"Posh," he scoffs. The world upends as he spins. My shoulders meet the  wet pavement, rain gets in my eyes. Then he's over me. I part my thighs  without thinking, and his hips move between them. I'm treated to that  hard, long body pressing into mine, firm, warm, heavy. Thoughts scatter.

"You distracted me," he says, a heated glint in his eyes.

He's close enough that I feel the soft warmth of his breath, catch a whiff of his skin.

He cants his hips, and for one hot second, his cock is against my sex,  grinding a sensitive spot that sends my body into overdrive. Heat  sparks, my thighs spread wider, and I gasp. God, he's thick there, and I  swear he's more than half-hard. Or maybe it's all in my head, because  he's already jumping up in that lithe way of the very fit.

I'm rendered stupid on the ground, my breasts heavy, nipples tight, sex hot.

Gabriel's expression is back to bland, but there's something smug in the  way he looks at me. Fucker. He extends a hand and hauls me up before I  can even think.

"Now stop messing around." Yep, he's definitely smug, and laughing at me. "Tea won't make itself."

He tows me the rest of the way in a daze.







Gabriel's townhouse is gorgeous. No surprise there; this area of London  is beautiful. His is fairly modest in size, compared to the others, and  is tucked in along a quiet square, all the houses surrounding a small  park with flickering Victorian gas lamps. Again, I yearn for my camera. I  could happily spend all hours catching little slices of London.

He pushes past a waist-high iron gate and strides up the front walk.  Inside, the floors are mellow, worn hardwood planks that have clearly  withstood the passage of centuries, and I'm afraid to drip all over  them. He doesn't appear to mind. Maybe because he's dripping all over  them too.

After kicking off our shoes, we walk past brilliant white walls,  eclectic mixes of framed art works-most of them black and white photos  of the guys, backstage and on the road. I expect to find pictures of  other famous people Gabriel has undoubtedly met, but there are none.  Just his boys and Brenna. All of it mixed up with images of other cities  and sprawling countryside. There's even a small postcard from Brighton  framed. I'd linger, but Gabriel hasn't slowed his brisk stride.

We head directly up a narrow set of stairs that creak under our weight.  This floor is clearly the main level of the house. I spy a living room, a  dining room that has been converted into a library, though it still has  a dining table, and another lounge-all of it done in comfortable yet  slightly funky furnishings. And then we're going up again.

My heartbeat goes erratic when I realize we're headed to the bedrooms.  Ridiculous. Of course we are; we're dripping wet and in need of towels.  My bare feet slap on the soft wood floors. Gabriel hasn't spoken a word,  so I stare at his broad back and firm ass, his clothes clinging and  covered in street muck. Doesn't mar the picture in the slightest. I'd  title the shot: Dirty when wet.

Snorting softly to myself, I almost miss the fact that hardwood has  given way to lush, fawn-colored carpeting. We're in his room.

I pause at the threshold. I can't help it; entering Gabriel's room feels  like I've just been granted the way into El Dorado or discovered  Atlantis. When he stops and quirks a brow in my direction, I tell him  so.

He looks at me askance, as if he isn't quite sure what to make of me.  "You have the wildest imagination of anyone I've ever met."

"Imagination. Right. I'd bet good money you're the only one who has ever been in here," I counter. "Tell me I'm wrong."

He offers a sly smile. "Wrong. There were the decorators. And the maid."

"Cheeky." I laugh softly as I take a step inside.

I can believe decorators were here. Instead of white walls, the room is a  dark chocolate brown. Soft, creamy plaid drapes cover the windows, and a  massive bulky leather bed dominates the far wall. It screams rich man  cave. I can easily imagine him in here, seated by the ivory marble  fireplace, drinking scotch.         

     



 

"It's perfect."

"Perfect?" His brow wrinkles as if confused.

"This room." I gesture around. "I couldn't dream of a more perfect room for you if I tried. It is intrinsically you."

His frown grows. "I can't decide if that's a compliment or not."

"Are you fishing for one?"

"No."

"Hmmm … "

He scoffs in annoyance and heads toward another door.

My toes sink into the carpet as I follow. "I love your room, Gabriel."

He grunts in response as we enter a walnut-paneled dressing room. It  smells of wood, wool, and spicy cologne. It smells of him. I resist the  urge to draw in a deep breath and instead let my gaze trail over the  endless rows of suits, glossy leather shoes, and a rainbow of silk ties.

"It's like the man version of a Kardashian closet." I touch the sleeve of a charcoal wool suit.

"I'd like to think I have better taste," he says, opening a drawer. He  pulls out two sets of pale gray sweat pants and then two T-shirts. He  hands me a pair of sweats and the white shirt, taking the black tee for  himself. "You can change here. Feel free to use the shower."

I'm covered in grime, just as he is. My skin is cold and clammy, and a shower sounds like heaven.

He points out the bathroom, just through another doorway. "I'll take the guest bath."

He doesn't wait for me to protest that I should take the guest bath-I'm  the guest, after all-but walks out the door with his fresh clothes in  hand.

So I help myself to Gabriel's ultra-modern bathroom, washing in the  massive, glass-walled shower and using his fancy shower gel that smell  like him. It all feels like a dream. A really weird dream. It might very  well be. I can't wrap my head around the fact that I'm here. That he's  brought me here.

I dry my hair with one of his thick, fluffy towels and pull on his clothes.

You know those books and movies where the girl wears a guy's pants and  they hang on her tiny frame? Yeah, I'm not sure what sort of pixies  populate fiction, but not so much for me. Oh, the legs are too long, and  I have to roll them. But the pants stretch tight over my ass and thighs  to a cringe-worthy degree.

The T-shirt fits better, but basically looks like a sack. Sexy, I am  not. I'm also not wearing a bra because mine is soaked and cold. I don't  think the fact that my girls are free-swinging does much for the cause.  I'm just frumpy with limp, damp hair and no makeup.

I laugh though, because does my appearance even matter? The way Gabriel  looks at me never seems to change with my outfits. And he's made it  clear this is not about sex.

A flash of us on the street streaks through my mind, his hard body and  thick cock pressing into me for one heady moment. That was real. But was  it a reaction to me? Or just the fact that he was between a woman's  legs?

"You do think too much," I mutter to my reflection and then return to his room.

He isn't there. I absolutely do not imagine him showering. I'll have to  face him soon enough, and I don't need that image in my head when I do.