Gabriel washed my panties? Why?
A naughty thought runs through my head: Gabriel touching my dirty panties and what he might have done with them that would necessitate cleaning.
Oh, yes, please, and can I watch next time?
But, no, he couldn't have. Not cool, collected Gabriel Scott. Could he?
Maybe he found them on the floor of the bathroom and washed them for me.
But he kept them. Hid them away as if he might … What? Want to use them again?
Flushing hot, I press the cool, damp silk to my cheek. And promptly flush again.
"Sophie? Hello? Are you there?"
"Shit," I gasp, plunging back into reality. "Sorry. I … ah … dropped the phone down the front of my shirt. I hate when that happens, don't you?"
Kati laughs. "Goof."
"Sorry." I stare at my contraband panties in wonder. "What were you saying?"
"I said Martin has been talking about you being on the Kill John tour."
All thoughts of panties flee, and I sit up straight, my heart pounding. "What?"
"Yep. He came into my office the other day and started spouting off about how proud he was of you being able to get on the tour. That he didn't realize you still had it in you to be such an opportunist. His words." Her tone is dry and disgusted.
"That asshole. I'm not trying to take advantage of the band. I'm in charge of their social media, for fuck's sake." That I even have to say so burns. Can a person ever truly shake their past? Or will we always be judged by it?
"If he had a brain in his head, he'd know that," Kati says, clearly trying to reassure. "I only mentioned it because you know how he gets. He's interested now and smells a story. I don't know if he'll try to make contact. But I thought I'd warn you."
"Thanks, K."
I hang up with Kati as soon as I can, because I'm fairly certain I'm going to be sick. Martin and I have been history for a long time. He can't hurt me. I know this. But just the thought of him brings back the ugliness of who I used to be.
I'm a better person now, someone who takes responsibility for her actions. I'm no longer flitting through life like a modern-day Scarlett, vowing to think about repercussions tomorrow instead of today.
But am I truly different? I still don't have a set goal in life other than to enjoy it. My natural inclination is to laugh and tease first, be serious later.
Suddenly, I no longer care about pilfered panties or suppressed sexual needs; I want Gabriel to be home. I want to cuddle up and have him hold me. And yet part of me doesn't want to look him in the eye.
Gabriel isn't trusting by nature. In this business, he shouldn't be. And yet I'd been insulted and hurt when he didn't want me on the tour.
Looking at my past dead in the eye, I understand the full extent of what Gabriel has done by welcoming me into the band-into his life. He let me in, despite my mistakes, and never once has he tried to use me for anything other than comfort and companionship.
He cares about me. He trusts me.
The weight of that settles around my shoulders like a plush blanket. I'd teased him before about being his champion, wanting to lighten the moment and make him smile. But the truth is Gabriel Scott has become my top priority in life. Whatever we are, whatever we'll be, that will not change.
Chapter Fourteen
Gabriel
"Which one is better?" Sophie asks, her voice soft in the stillness of the room. "Star Wars or Star Trek?"
We're lying face to face on the bed in our suite. Just outside the open terrace doors is Barcelona and the harbor. Sounds of laughter from late-night revelers and the occasional cry of gulls drift in with the briny scent of the sea.
In here, however, it is quiet, peaceful. The ambient light from the street below paints Sophie's curves in a palette of soft blues and grays. There is a gleam of relaxed happiness in her eyes that only I am privy to. Because this is our time, no one else's.
"Which one is better?" I scoff, even though I secretly love her line of questioning. "First off, Star Wars is a space opera. Star Trek is a space odyssey. They're completely different storytelling approaches."
It's going on three in the morning, and I've been up since five. The irony isn't lost on me that Sophie's here because I need her to sleep. But the best part of each day is when I am in bed with her, and I refuse to waste it by sleeping more than I have to. Especially now that she's in a chatty mood.
The last day and a half, Sophie has been subdued and a bit downcast. Since I've been avoiding direct eye contact after tossing off in her panties, guilt sits heavy in my gut. But perhaps her mood isn't about me at all. She seems happy now, content even. So I fight sleep and drink in the sight of my chatty girl basking in the plush comfort of our bed.
"You are such a dork," she says grinning. "They're both about space and laser guns."
"You're taking a piss," I tell her with a laugh. "I refuse to believe you can't tell the difference between the two."
"I'm not … " She puts a hand up and finger quotes, "‘taking a piss.' I'm just don't see what the big deal is. Pick a favorite, already."
"No. It's like that old dilemma of trying to choose between The Beatles and The Stones. It can't be done."
Her blunt nose wrinkles, and I have the overwhelming urge to kiss it. "Of course it can be done," she says, oblivious to my thoughts. "The Beatles for joy or nostalgia. The Stones for drinking or sex."
At the word sex my cock jumps as if to remind me that I've been ignoring him and he is not amused. I tilt my hips toward the bed and press my irritable cock to the mattress. The randy bastard jerks in protest. I empathize with my needy willy. Truly. But some things are worth more.
Keep telling yourself that, mate.
"Why not The Beatles for sex?" I can't help asking. Mistake. Turning any conversation towards sex is playing with fire. But apparently I like the sweet pain of being slowly burned.
Sophie shrugs, sending the white sheet farther down the curve of her shoulder. "Name one Beatles song that's sexier than a Stones' song."
I stare at her shoulder. Her fucking shoulder has me enthralled. And it isn't even bare. Every night, she wears an over-sized t-shirt and little boy-short panties to bed. I'm fully aware she believes this to be as sexless an outfit as she can manage to sleep in-I've tried the same, usually wearing loose lounge pants and a t-shirt-but she is wrong.
Her breasts, unfettered by a bra, are soft and round. Trying not to notice them sway and bounce beneath thin cotton that lovingly clings to her shape is impossible. Every fucking night, I imagine rolling her onto her back and sliding the shirt up over her fantastic tits.
I've pictured it so many times, holding her hands over her head so her back arches and lifts those plump mounds high. I'd drink in my fill, just looking, making her squirm as she waits for first contact. I'd take it slow, pepper kisses over every inch, leaving the buds of her nipples for last when she's whimpering for me to suck them.
The notion of sucking on Sophie's tits has my tongue pressing to the roof of my mouth. Shit. I clear my throat, try to focus on her question. What was the question again?
"I can't think of an answer," I tell her truthfully.
She makes a sound of triumph. "See? I'm always right."
"Keep telling yourself that, chatty girl. Won't make it true."
Our hands are so close that our fingers nearly brush. I keep still. And it is an act of will, an exercise I endure every night. There are rules: I can hold her, but I cannot explore. No stroking of her skin, no drifting of my hands. I can tuck her up against my side or press her back to my stomach, but no letting my hard cock grind into her plump arse.
And when we lie together like this, talking deep into the night, I never, ever focus on her mouth. That mouth, plush and rosy, always moving-talking, pursing, smiling. I want to lick up her smile, suck in her words, her laugh.
And yet it is her smile and her laugh that holds me back from taking what I want. Because this isn't solely about sex; if it was, I'd have fucked her already. This is uncomfortably more.
I have never experienced intimacy. I did not know how good it felt to simply be with someone and let everything else melt away. The world can fuck off when I'm with Sophie Darling. There is only us. I don't have to be anyone else but Gabriel.
If I give into my base wants it will complicate things. I do not know how to be a boyfriend. Hell, I hate that sodding word. It sounds juvenile and inadequate. If I claimed Sophie, she'd be mine. I'd be hers. And I'd cock it up.
My life is Kill John. Where would that leave Sophie? With a cold, emotionally stunted bastard who's barely there?
"I love Spain," she whispers now, breaking me out of my brooding.
I watch her in the dark. "Why do you love Spain?"