The room is fairly dark, only a bedside lamp glowing and the flicker of embers dying in the fireplace. The chill of the rain is gone now, and my body is warm and relaxed.
Idly, I wander over to his bed. It's huge and plush. The flax linen duvet is slightly rumpled, as if Gabriel had been lying down on the covers, trying to get comfortable, before getting up. Oddly, I can't imagine him allowing himself to relax enough to actually sleep. Which is ridiculous; even gods have to sleep sometime.
I sit on his bed. It feels like a sin, something naughty. I can't help but smile at the thought of him frowning at me invading his personal domain. I run a palm over the covers, smoothing out the wrinkles. They're soft and cool, giving under my hand. And suddenly, it's far too easy to lower myself onto his bed, let his plump pillows cradle my head. Because everything is just too heavy now: my body, my limbs, my eyelids.
His bed smells of fresh linen. So soft. The rain drums against the roof, the dying fire crackles. My eyes close. I take a deep breath, try to open my eyes again. But I'm so comfortable. Everything is still, calm here. And Gabriel is just down the hall. Whatever he thinks of me, he'll make certain I'm safe, watched over. He's a steady rock.
My legs straighten, moving farther onto the bed. With a sigh, I settle down. I'll just rest my eyes until he returns.
Chapter Seven
Gabriel
There are only so many times you can ask yourself what the fuck are you doing before the question becomes pointless. Being a tenacious bastard, I give up only after the hundredth time. Fuck it. I want Sophie here. Denying it is stupid. The moment she agreed to come over, the hard compression that's a near constant on my breastbone eased. It got lighter still when I saw her standing on that foggy street, her white blond hair frizzing in the damp, the lilting sound of her voice and that unflinching honesty of hers working like a balm.
It damn near lifted entirely when I rolled on top of her and pressed my cock between her legs. Her lips had parted in shock, those soft brown eyes widening. I meant what I said when I told her I wasn't after sex. It would be the height of stupidity to get involved with that woman. But there's a perverse sort of pleasure to be had in shocking Sophie Darling.
I find myself wanting to do it all the time.
For fuck's sake, I'm making tea. For the insane chatty girl I met on a plane. If I haven't fallen off the cliff already, I'm certainly teetering on the edge of it.
I finish up the tea tray and carry it to my bedroom. I should call Sophie down here, have tea in the relative formality of my living room. But I won't lie to myself; I want to keep her in my bedroom, where her scent will linger long after she's gone, and maybe I'll be able to breathe a little easier for a while longer.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, at thirty-five thousand feet, she wrapped herself around me, and my brain decided to equate her scent, the sound of her voice, the feel of her skin, with comfort.
I have no idea how I'm supposed to dissuade myself of this notion, and I am not yet ready to try. So we'll have tea in the sitting area of my room. And then I'll take her back to the hotel, whether I want to or not.
The tea cups rattle slightly as I angle myself to slip into the bedroom. It's too quiet. I expected her chatter as soon as I entered. The reason for the quiet is soon obvious: she's asleep on my bed, her pale hair haloed on my pillow. A proverbial Goldilocks making herself comfortable in an unknown lair.
I set the tray down and move to her side. She sleeps the way a child might, sprawled pell-mell and thoroughly invested in the act. She's clutching one of my pillows to her chest, half on her stomach, her plump arse in the air, legs spread.
"Sophie," I murmur, halfheartedly. I don't really want to wake her. It seems cruel given the smudges under her eyes.
She doesn't move. Doesn't even flinch.
Gingerly, I sit on the side of the bed. In sleep, her expression is somewhat perplexed, and I wonder if she's dreaming. What would this woman's dreams be like? I imagine something Seussian with pink trees, whohoopers and trumtookas, and I fight a grin.
Outside, the rain keeps tapping on the windows. The soft sounds of Sophie sleeping fill the void. She's a mouth breather, and each breath she exhales stirs a lock of hair hanging over her lip.
With the tip of my finger, I brush the hair away and give waking her one more weak try. "Chatty girl?"
A muffled snort answers me, and her knee draws up as if she's cold. With a resigned sigh, I tug the duvet out from under her feet and cover her. She immediately snuggles down, her features smoothing.
Reaching for my cup, I stay by her side and drink my tea. She's close enough that the heat of her body warms my skin, and scent of my soap on her tickles my nose. She doesn't smell like me, however. Somehow she's managed to make the scent entirely her own.
She stirs again, and her thigh presses against my back. Through the covers, the contact is warm and solid.
Lethargy steals over me, settling on my shoulders like a heavy hand. I'm so bloody tired at this point, everything hurts. But sitting here with Sophie, the old resistance to sleep starts to crumble. I can barely lift my teacup to my lips.
Setting the cup down, I hunch over and rest my head in my hands. For the first time in days, I want to sleep. I should get up, go to the guest room.
Sophie makes another small snuffle, and the covers rustle as she turns in dramatic fashion. I glance over my shoulder to find she's rolled to the middle of the bed, almost as if she's giving me space to lie down.
A snort escapes me. I'm making excuses. And I don't bloody care. Sweet relief washes over me as I ease into the bed, slipping under the down cover. I don't even try to talk myself out of turning off the bedside light.
At my side, Sophie stirs yet again, turning my way. My body stiffens, my breath going sharp. I have no idea what I'll say. Sorry, love, didn't see you there in my bed? You're imagining the whole thing; go back to sleep?
But she doesn't wake. No. She snuggles up to me as if we sleep this way every night. And damn if my body doesn't immediately yield to hers-my arm lifting, so she can rest her head on my shoulder, before settling around her and bringing her closer.
Everything within me relaxes. This. This is what I needed. She is soft and fragrant, warm and welcoming. I know if she woke, she'd just laugh in that light way of hers and tell me to go with it, enjoy the moment. So I do.
I close my eyes and allow myself to sleep.
Sophie
The walk of shame is ever so much more fun when you're leaving the boss man's house. My hair, because I fell asleep with it half dry, is a rat's nest, and that's being kind. I've no makeup, and my eyes look puffy and wan without camouflage. At least I'm wearing my own clothes. Gabriel left them neatly laundered and folded at the foot of the bed.
Gah, the bed. I woke up in his bed, well rested, comfortably warm, and alone. And yet I know he slept with me. At some point during the night, I turned and found myself wrapped in gloriously strong arms, my cheek pressed against a firm chest. And it felt like heaven. So good that I didn't even question it in my sleepy haze but snuggled in, sighing in contentment when he held me more securely, as if he too reveled in the contact.
But that had been in the dark cover of night, when my brain takes a vacation and the wants of my body hold sway. Now? Now, I'm awake and squinting in the rare London sunlight as I try to sneak into the lobby of my hotel without being seen. It's too early for me to say I've been out and about already, and there's my hair, my stupid hair. No one is going to overlook this cotton candy crown I've got going.
Luckily, the lobby is deserted. Only the concierge is on duty, and she's not paying me any mind. I breathe a sigh of relief as I ride the elevator up. I want to be annoyed at Gabriel for not being there when I woke, but at least he left me breakfast-a boiled egg, a ginger scone, and a pot of tea on a tray, all covered with a warming cloth. The note pinned on it had instructions to eat it all, as breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
Gabriel Scott, mother hen hiding in a ten-thousand-dollar suit.
I'm snorting my amusement when the elevator doors open, and I come face to face with Rye. Shit.
His brow quirks as he looks me up and down. "Sophie Darling," he drawls. "Doth my eyes deceive me or are you doing the long walk ‘o shame?"
I push past him. "I don't know what you're talking about. I always look this way."
"Ridden hard and put to bed wet?"
My steps halt, and I glare at his smugly grinning face. "That is not something you want to say to a woman who can nut you in two seconds flat."
He winces but doesn't look very contrite. "Brenna's always saying I need to learn better manners."
"You should listen to her."
"Where's the fun in that?" He follows me down the hall as I march to my room. "Anyway, I'm all for you getting some. Touring is exhausting. Have your fun when you can, you know?"