Managed:a VIP novel(31)

We near the car, and he glances my way. "And when they began their band,  their talent was brilliant, even then. But their organization was shit.  So I stepped in, promised their parents I would do my mates right.  Always."

I stop short. "Gabriel."

He stops as well, his brow quirking. Framed against the French Rivera,  the massive yachts and sleek sailboats resting in crystalline waters,  his pale suit cut to perfection and highlighting his dusky skin, he  looks every inch the international playboy. I can't even picture him  poor and struggling. Until I meet his eyes.

Such beautiful eyes. But the fine lines around them, and the weariness  that always seems to linger in those stark depths, tell me a new story  now. All he knows is to fight and protect, both himself and those loyal  to him.

"It wasn't your fault."

He blinks, a slow sweep of long lashes, and his expression goes blank.

"I mean it." I take a step closer. "None of it. Not your mom. Not Jax."

It's as if I've slapped him. His head jerks back, and his lips flatten.  For a second, I think he might shout at me. But then he gives me a one  of those fake-ass polite looks he saves for sponsors and record  executives.

"This conversation has run away from me. I hadn't meant to go on a poor-me walk down memory lane."

"Stop." I touch his cheek and find him so tense, I imagine he might  shatter. "We don't have to talk about this any more. But I'm not backing  down from what I said. We can't control the actions of others. It will  never happen. We can only control our own. Kill John would not be what  they are without you. And those guys wouldn't love you like they do if  you weren't worthy."

His shoulders don't lose their starch. If anything, he seems to harden  all over, his armor forming right in front of my eyes. But then the  corner of his mouth lifts.

"Is this how it's going to be?" he asks in a slightly husky voice. "You championing me, whether I want it or not?"

"Someone has to do it, sunshine." I give his cheek a gentle pat then get my ass in the car before he can say another word.





Chapter Thirteen





Gabriel







"Why … the … fuck … did I agree … to go on this death run with you?" Jax's  panting whine is pathetically weak as we make our way through El Retiro  Park in Madrid.

"You asked to go," I say, not breaking stride. Perspiration trickles  down my skin; my heart pumps steady and sure. "Said you needed the  exercise." I glance at Jax stumbling along beside me, his chest shining  with sweat. "You weren't wrong."         

     



 

He gives me the finger, apparently past talking, and I take pity on him, slowing down.

"Enjoy the scenery." I nod toward the manmade pond that reflects the  monument to Alfonso XII. Couples row around it, laughing, kissing, or  lounging in the sun.

I wonder if Sophie has been here yet. She'd probably head straight for  the boat, demanding that I row as she took pictures of it all.

I shake my head. I do not row women around in boats like some sort of cliché sap.

But you'd do it for her. Lie to yourself all you like. You'd do it and love every second.

I tell myself to shut it.

"I can't appreciate the scenery," Jax grumps, "when my legs are on fire  and my lungs are waving the white flag. I mean, what the fuck? I perform  every night on stage. For fucking hours."

Jax doesn't have an ounce of fat on him, but he's kept so much to  himself this past year and a half that he's grown weaker than he once  was.

"Different type of endurance, mate."

He grumbles, and we fall silent. Despite his complaining, I'm glad he  chose to come out with me. Though he never ran with me before, we used  to lift weights together, spotting each other because we were of a  similar strength then. It was one of the few things we did as friends,  without business taking centerstage.

I haven't thought of it until now, but I miss that time with him. I run a  few more beats. "Perhaps it's best if you find an alternate form of  exercise."

Though I'm not looking his way, I hear his scoff loud and clear. "Don't  you dare go easy on me, Scottie boy. I count on you to kick my lazy  ass."

It's a struggle to keep a straight face. "Very well then, move that lazy arse, and stop complaining."

We pick up our pace once more. Or I do. Jax groans and plods along with terrible form.

The hotel looms in front of us.

"I'm warning you now," I tell him as we pass slow, strolling people. "I'm taking the stairs to my room."

"Oh, fuck no," Jax says, looking horrified. "I'm stopping in the lobby."  He flashes a rare, wide smile. "I'll pace around panting and guzzling  water. Probably take me under a minute to find someone to rub me down."

Of course he will. I'd have to be willfully blind to miss the attention  we both receive, even now, as we sweat under the hot Spanish sun.  Wherever we go, eyes follow.

I could do the same as Jax. It'd be easy as snapping my fingers to find  sexual release. These days, my body is aching for it, my balls sore from  lack of fulfillment. And yet the thought of finding some willing woman  in the hotel lobby makes my stomach lurch. Needing sex isn't precisely  the problem; it's more an issue of being constantly tempted by one,  certain woman.

As soon as we enter the hotel, I leave Jax to his hunting and take the  stairs, pushing myself to go faster, harder. My thighs scream in  protest, my lungs burning as I pound along. I don't stop. I want the  pain. I want to be so exhausted that my body gives up asking for what it  can't have, and I can go through the day with an ache in my muscles,  not my cock.

By the time I get to the room, I'm so spent, I'm nearly stumbling. It's  blissfully Sophie-free in the cool of the room. I grab a bottle of water  from the mini fridge as I pace around, my chest heaving. My blood  rushes through my ears, my vision a haze as I bumble my way into the  bath, drinking as I go.

Shoving my shorts down and toeing off my trainers, I turn to reach for  the taps and knock down a small laundry basket sitting on the sink.

I rub the sweat out of my eyes and find myself facing yet another batch  of Sophie's knickers, now scattered all over the floor in a patchwork  rainbow of silk.

Fucking fuck. A pair of little white panties patterned with tiny red  cherries rests on my foot. My hand closes around cool silk, and my cock  rises so swift and hard, I actually groan.

I'm not prepared; I'm too weak this time. Too fucking weak to stop  myself from lifting the panties to my nose and breathing in deep. A wave  of lust slaps through me so hard, my knees nearly give out.

Because these are Sophie's dirty knickers. And I'm the perverted bastard who's getting off on the musky scent of Sophie's pussy.

Another groan tears out of me as I fall against the cold tile wall. I  close my eyes tight, fighting the urge to take another breath. Don't do  it, mate. Drop them and get the hell in the shower.

But I can't. My cock is so hard it throbs in time with my frantic  heartbeat. God, her scent … the tart-sweetness of her perfume lingers,  calling the golden hue of her skin to mind. Only this time, I picture  her on the bed, wearing noting but these cherry panties, her tits thrust  in the air, her thighs spread wide. Just waiting for me to nuzzle  between them.         

     



 

Without my permission, my hand slides over my chest, rubbing those dirty  little knickers on my skin, as if I can soak up that scent and make it  part of me.

I'm shaking, my breath disjointed and deep as my hand descends. Smooth  silk wraps around my cock. I fist it and squeeze my eyes tight as I give  myself a hard tug.

Sweat trickles down my stomach, my pulse thrumming on my neck. I jerk at  my needy cock, my sore muscles bunching with each pull. It feels so  damn good, and not nearly good enough. I almost hate her in this moment.  Hate her for making me this needy. Only, I don't. Not even a little  bit.

I want. I want. I want.

It's a refrain in my mind as I fuck her panties like some naughty  schoolboy. If she knew what I was doing …  Heat licks down my spine, up my  trembling thighs.

"Gabriel?" The sound on her voice, and the knock on the door, stops my heat.

For a hard second, every muscle freezes. My gaze snaps to the door in horror. I locked it. Didn't I?

"Are you in there?"

Fuck, don't try the door.

"Yes!" I shout in a gurgle of desperation. "Christ. Use the other toilet."

If she opens this door, I'm done for. I'll have her on her back and my  cock balls-deep in her heat in seconds. I almost want that door to open.

Her muffled voice sounds slightly put out and slightly amused. "Testy. I was just going to say I left my laundry in there … "

I look down at the white silk clutched in my fist and the swollen, angry  head of my prick peeking out. I shiver and give it a slow stroke, my  eyes fluttering in agonized pleasure as I do.

"Go away, Sophie."