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"But … "

"I'm showering." My free hand fumbles for the taps and turns them on.

"You just turned the water on."

God, her voice. This is wrong. So wrong. Squeezing my eyes shut, I keep  tormenting my knob, denying him the satisfaction of the real thing.

"Can I just step in and get it before you start?"

Already started, love. Why don't you come in and finish me off?

The image of her lips wrapping around my pulsing head is so vivid, a  surge of pre-come leaks onto the panties in my hand. My come on Sophie's  panties. I suck in a breath. "If you don't move away from this door,  I'll watch my entire collection of Star Trek movies on the next leg of  the trip. All thirteen of them."

I hear a gasp. "That's just cruel."

Cruel is fucking silk when I could be in the real thing. Hot, tight, slick. My teeth grind together.

"There will be a quiz at the end of it," I say in a strangled voice.

I'd pin Sophie down, question her on all the ways she likes to be  pleasured, and then do them one by one. Unable to hold back, I beat  myself off hard and fast, biting my lip so she can't hear me.

"Fine," she says, oblivious to the tremors wracking me as my balls draw  tight and lust sucks me down. "I don't know why you have to be so  snippy."

Her voice follows me into oblivion. I come in hard jets that splatter  over my abs and chest, as I milk every last drop of profane, stolen  pleasure I can. I swear I whimper.

Silence rings out on the other side of the door. I sag to my knees and  try to catch my breath. Behind me, the shower roars and steam fills the  room.

I crawl into the stall and let the hot water wash away my sins. It's  only after I reach for the soap that I realize I'm still clutching her  panties as if I'll never let them go. I swear this woman is going to  kill me.







Sophie







Things to love about Madrid: The architecture. Gorgeous, ornate,  timeless. The food. Savory, salty, rich, spicy. The café con leche.  Don't get me started. So rich and creamy, it's like coffee-flavored hot  chocolate. I drank three cups of it one day and reached for another  until Gabriel dryly pointed out that I was hopping around like an  overexcited bunny.

But the best thing about Spain? Siestas. God bless any country that has  decided yes, we shall shut down business and take a long nap in the  middle of the day. How can you not love them for that?

This means I have a government-sanctioned excuse to sleep cuddled up  next to Gabriel for most of the afternoon. Yesterday, when I pointed  this out, he grumbled about it once, and not very convincingly. Not when  he was fast shedding his jacket and slipping into the bathroom to  change into a T-shirt and sweats.

Pervy me wants to suggest he quit with the coy hiding himself away to  change and just strip down in front of me. Hell, I want to help him out,  unbutton his crisp shirts and slowly pull the zipper on his fine  slacks. But it would upset the status quo, and I have no idea which way  the scales would tip.         

     



 

It's strange not knowing. Normally I'm excellent at reading men. They're  fairly simple creatures, after all. Most of them are, anyway. They want  you, they make it known.

Gabriel? He's not most men. True, a man as stunning as Gabriel never has  to work at getting a woman. He can attract invitations just by standing  still. I've seen it happen. Many times. Women take one look at him, and  it's on.

Only he never bites. Never even bothers to fully look at whoever is  hitting on him. His expression is always bland with a hint of boredom as  he casually yet politely gives her the brush off. It's an art form,  really, how effectively he rids himself of unwanted advances. I've taken  notes.

And I'd be inclined to think he was asexual at this point, except he's  not. Not even close. Not given the amount of times his gaze collides  with mine and the heat in his expression takes my breath. God, it burns,  the way he watches me. It's covetous and possessive.

He looks at me as if he's mentally stripping off my clothes. With his  teeth. He looks at me, and the bottom falls out of my belly. My heart  swoops down to my toes, and my nipples go so hard so fast it almost  hurts. Almost, because it feels so freaking good-that tight throb,  knowing that the only thing that will make it better is his mouth, wet  and hot, pulling on them.

I think those dirty thoughts-of Gabriel on his knees, his cheeks  hollowing out with the force of his sucks, his hands on my hips, holding  me still so I can't move to alleviate the pressure between my legs-and I  get a little lightheaded.

And Gabriel must know. He must see what he does to me. I'm a blonde. I  blush like one, all pink and sweaty. Too many times, I've seen that hot  blue gaze of his stray downward, lingering on my horny nipples. They  aren't exactly shy about showing themselves, damn it all.

His nostrils always flare just a little bit, and then a sharp, deep  breath, as if he's bracing himself. But it inevitably ends there and  then. Because he's unwilling to go any further.

And yet that thick, hard cock of his pokes at my ass every time we crawl  into bed. He never pulls away to hide his erection, nor does he grind  himself against me to move things along. No, he just leaves it there,  snug on my ass, his big, wide hand gently molding itself to my belly,  his chin on the crown of my hair. He holds me like a lover might, tender  yet lingering. But he treats me like a friend, respectful, kind, never  taking advantage.

And I let him do it. I lie there, day after day, night after night, my  body yielding to his, soaking up his heat, reveling in his possessive  hold. It'd be so easy to turn in his arms, press my lips to his, slide  my hands down his waist to slip under his lounge pants. I've imagined  grasping his big dick-and I know it's big at this point- so many times  that my palms tingle with phantom memories.

Today, however, there will be no napping. Gabriel has gone out on a run instead. Odd, since he already went on one this morning.

God, this morning …  My cheeks burn at the memory. Okay, so I interrupted  his "man time" by knocking on the bathroom door. I shouldn't have done  that; Lord knows I'd be pissed if he had done the same. But I hadn't  expected him back so soon and went to go get detergent. Imagine my  horror when I returned and realized he was locked away with my dirty  underwear.

And clearly he found them. He hasn't been able to look me in the eye  since he finally got out of his shower, practically grunting out answers  every time I bothered to talk to him.

So embarrassing. I don't even know why I thought cleaning them in the  bathroom was a good idea. I didn't even bother washing my undies after  Gabriel left the room, but stuffed them all in a bag and sent them down  with housekeeping. Only, they lost my favorite pair-the cute boy shorts  with cherries on them. And no one on staff can find them. So, joy all  around today.

I'm so worked up now, when my phone rings, I almost jump out of my skin.  Sad that I hope it's him. But it's my friend Kati from New York.

"Hey you," I answer with a smile. "Isn't a little early to be calling me?"

It's two in the afternoon here, which means it's eight in the morning in New York, and I know Kati is a late sleeper like me.

"It would be," she answers, "if I was in New York."

I flop back on the bed. The stupid empty bed which will not be used for napping. "Where are you?"

"I'm in London at the moment. There's a certain pop star who has broken  up with her high-profile boyfriend, and everyone wants the scoop."

Kati is a reporter who covers the music industry. She was the one to get  me into celebrity photography, and also the first to support me leaving  the business when she saw how hollowed out I'd become.         

     



 

"Tough life, isn't it?" I say.

"The worst," she agrees with a laugh. "And might I add, I'm shocked to hear you're back in it."

"In a much better capacity this time, thankfully." I roll onto my  stomach, my head hanging over the bed. A tiny glint of red peeking out  between the mattress and the box spring catches my eye. Frowning, I  scoot closer. "And how did you know I was working with musicians again?"  I ask, half distracted.

"It's a small world. People talk … "

Listening to her, I reach down and touch the scrap of red fabric playing  peek-a-boo with the mattress. It's silk, and it's not just red. It's  red and white.

Kati's voice ebbs and flows in my ear. " … and not just any musicians.  Kill John? How the hell did that happen? Do they know about … well, your  pictures?"

"They know. We talked it out, and everything is cool." Biting my lip, I  tug at the fabric. It resists for a second, and then yanks free. For a  moment, I just stare at the panties dangling in my hand. White with  little red cherries on them. My panties.

They're slightly damp and completely rumpled from being crammed beneath  the mattress. On Gabriel's side of the bed. Unable to resist, I bring  them to my nose and take a cautious sniff. They smell like his shower  gel.