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My brain stutters on the word fuck coming from his lips in that crisp  accent. He's used the word before, but we were fighting at the time. Now  I'm paying attention. It's so tempting to ask him to repeat himself  that I have to bite my inner cheek.

"What is that look all about?" he asks, catching my struggle. "I've learned many of your looks. But not that one."

"You know my looks? I don't think so."

Gabriel nudges me with his elbow. "You're blushing."

"Like hell." My cheeks burn.

The low rumble of his amusement lifts the little hairs along my arms,  and my nipples tighten. Damn it. He's not allowed to affect me like  this.

"The guys were giving me shit," I blurt out, my common sense weakened by  his nearness. "About you. They implied that you were a cold fish where  sex is involved. That you don't … er … do that anymore."

God, I can't look at him. I brace for his ire, but he laughs. Not long  or very loud, but his chest shakes, and he wipes a hand over his face as  he tries to get control of it.

"And you, what?" he asks, his eyes gleaming with mirth. "Thought I was a virgin?"

"No." I kick his foot lightly. "No. I just … Gah! You said fuck, and it got me thinking about it."

"Fucking?" he asks, grinning wide enough to flash his white teeth.

I look away so I can't be charmed any further. "I hate you."

"No, you don't," he teases in a tone so unlike him-so like me-that I meet his gaze.

"No, I don't," I agree quietly.

And it's his turn to squirm. He stabs at his crumble with his spoon but doesn't take a bite.

"Is it true?" I can't help asking. "Are you … abstaining?"

"Jesus," he says, letting the spoon clatter to the side of the bowl.  "Please, for the sake of my appetite, refrain from trying to phrase  things delicately, chatty girl. It is painful to witness."

He'd look pretty good wearing that dessert right about now. "Then answer the question, sunshine."

For a second, I think he'll refuse, but he sighs in defeat and rests  against the headboard. "Sex for me has always been … " He frowns as if  trying to think of an explanation, then shrugs. "A release, I suppose.  Hard, fast, mutual but impersonal satisfaction."         

     



 

That really shouldn't sound appealing, but it does-at least when I  picture him doing it. He's strong enough that it would be brutal in the  best kind of way. I sit back as well, crossing my legs before me.

Gabriel continues in a dispassionate tone. "Living this life, looking  the way I do, it's easy to get off whenever, however I want. I won't  lie. I took advantage often. But then Jax happened." He stares down at  his hands as they close tight around his bowl. "Everything felt false,  ugly. Like we were all tainted by a lie, and those around us were liars.  The amount of supposed close friends who jumped ship, turned their  backs on Jax was staggering."

He glances my way, and his eyes are red at the edges. "Don't  misunderstand; I expected it. I simply didn't expect it to bother me."

"Of course it would. They're your family. Anyone can see that you love them."

He stills as if he's absorbing my words. "Most people believe I'm incapable of feeling anything."

Outrage punches through my chest like a burning fist. In that moment, I  know I'd go to war for this man. Even if he hated every second of it. No  one should have to face the world without someone at their back.  Especially not someone as dedicated as Gabriel.

"Idiots," I snarl.

He slowly shakes his head. "No, love, it's what I want them to see."

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"It helps. I was never particularly affectionate. But after Jax, I  couldn't stand to have anyone touch me. Especially strangers. It makes  my skin crawl, smothers me."

With a groan, I flop into the pillows. "And there I was on the plane, wrapping myself around you like cling film."

His mouth quirks, and he looks at me from under the thick fringe of his  lashes. "Yes, well, I'm all cured of you. Call it a trial by fire. Or  aversion therapy."

"Lovely. I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy now. No." I hold up a hand. "Don't hold back how you really feel."

He snorts and grabs my hand, his long fingers wrapping around my smaller  ones. He gives me a squeeze before gently setting my hand down on my  thigh and moving his away.

"Our situation aside, casual contact irritates me, which means casual  sex no longer holds any interest. In truth, I find it repellant now."

It's probably wrong that I'm relieved. But if I had to watch him hook up  with women during the tour, I don't know how I'd handle it. Jealousy is  not fun and also hard to control. Yet it also bothers me, thinking  about him consigning himself to being alone.

"What about having a relationship?" I ask.

"Most people bore me."

I laugh, but my heart hurts. "This you make very clear.

A frown knits his thick brows. "I've never been affectionate or normal, Sophie."

He says it like a warning, or maybe a badge of honor. And yet I hear the  worry behind it all, as if he fears he might be defective. I know that  particular fear very well.

"Hey, what's normal anyway? We're all a bit crazy."

"Some more than others," he can't seem to help but murmur with a small,  teasing smile about his lips. "And I don't usually have dessert. Crumble  is special."

That catches my attention. "How so?"

He pokes as his desert before answering with a secretive smile. "Mary made this for me."

"Mary." The name tastes of bitterness in my mouth.

He glances at me, his brows drawing together before his expression  smoothes into amusement. "Glorious woman. Excellent baker. The best,  really."

"I prefer apple pie."

The bastard gives his spoon a lazy lick. I ignore that tongue. And those  firm lips that are just a bit glossy with apple-cinnamon filling. "How  American of you. Don't fret, love. I'm certain Mary could bake a  luscious pie too."

"Maybe you should ask her to sleep with you at night. Then you can have your pie and eat it too."

"Good suggestion, Marie Antoinette. Only I think she'd turn me down.  She's constantly telling me I'm too young for her." He shrugs.  "Eighty-year-old women are prickly that way."

I grab his spoon and take an irritated bite of his beloved crumble while  he chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. I can't believe I let  him goad me.

"Ass," I tell him around my mouthful of food.

"You wear jealousy well, Ms. Darling. Makes you all flushed and breathy."

"Deluded ass," I amend. When he won't stop grinning, I poke his chest. "So why is crumble so special?"         

     



 

All the happy smugness falls off his face, and regret pangs inside my  chest. His gaze drifts off as he speaks. "My mum used to make it for me  as a special treat. The only crumble I've found that tastes even close  to my mum's is made by Mary, who owns a bake shop here. I always order a  batch when I come to town."

I want to ask him about his family and why his mom doesn't make him  crumble instead. But agitation has settled on him like a heavy blanket  he's trying to shrug off. I can't bring myself to pick at that scab.

With an ease I don't feel, I take the bowl from his unresisting hand and  help myself to another bite of crumble. It's rich and buttery, crisp  and spicy.

Kind of like Gabriel himself.

"Now then," I tell him around the mouthful, "you've completely lost points for being Team Jacob."

He snorts.

"So you'll have to redeem yourself." I wave the spoon at him threateningly. "Who was better for Buffy? Angel or Spike?"

Gabriel takes the spoon and bowl back. "Angel is a teen girl's dream,  all sad sighs and mental angst. Spike is for when she grows up and  realizes satisfaction is hers for the taking."

My grin slowly unfurls. "You, sir, are a romantic."

He glances at me in affront. "I just said all that romantic babble was childish."

"Only a romantic would put so much thought into that answer."

"You annoy me," he grumbles without heat. "And for the record, I was lying about Jacob. I think they're both prats."

I laugh and laugh, loving the way he eventually nudges me with his  elbow. I get myself a bowl of crumble and give him another serving, then  settle down next to him to watch Buffy.

I feel like I'm sixteen again, in my parents' basement with the hottest  guy in school. Only I'm on thousand-dollar sheets in a million-dollar  bus, driving through Europe. And Gabriel is no teen boy.

His long, lean body sprawls across the bed in complete repose, and I  have to ignore that fact or I'll do something rash like slide my hand  down his firm abdomen and slip it into his loose sweats.

By the time he reaches for the remote and turns off the TV, I'm a  freaking mess. My mouth is dry, and my heart is trying to pound its way  out of my chest.