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"I don't know. It's something in the air. I want to go dancing, eat tapas, get drunk on Sangria."

"Small list," I murmur. "Dancing, eh?"

She glances my way, her eyes flashing in the dim light. "I know it  sounds stereotypical as hell, but I think of Spain, and I imagine  flamenco dancing while wearing some frothy skirt with a flower in my  hair."

A low chuckle escapes me. "Do you know how to dance flamenco?"

"In my mind I do. And I'm fabulous."

"You always did have an elaborate imagination, chatty girl."

She gives me a happy, agreeing hum, and then spins her pillow to the  other side; something she does when she's ready to sleep. It's a cool  gel pillow she bought after falling victim to Libby and Killian's sales  pitch about this "magical" pillow and how it would give her the best  sleep of her life.

She bought me one too, because she wanted me to have the same comforts.  Little did she realize that her small act of caring tore my heart from  my chest and laid it on a platter for her to claim.

"You'd have to dance with me," she murmurs.

"In your dreams, love."

I get a pleased chuckle in response.

Oblivious to the fact that I'm slowly unraveling, she snuggles close,  her head finding the crook of my shoulder. That's her place now, tucked  up beside me, her hand lightly resting over my heart. When her finger  idly traces little patterns on my chest, my eyes close tight.

I'm in pain now, actual physical pain-in my balls, my abs, my chest.  Everything aches with a throbbing persistence, wrought from self-denial.  I want this woman more than anything I've ever wanted in my life. But I  want to keep her. I have no idea how to keep anyone close to me.  Because I have no idea how to expose my heart.

Sophie keeps drawing on me, and my closed-off heart beats faster,  harder. I need her to stop. I need her to go lower. I bite down hard on  my lip and focus on the breath moving in and out of my lungs.

"What are your plans after the tour ends," I find myself asking, if only to distract myself.

Her voice is slightly husky with sleepiness. "Not sure. I'll still help  out the band with social media. But I won't be around to take pictures,  obviously." Her slim shoulder shrugs. "Brenna's been talking to Harley  Andrews's publicist. Apparently he's looking for a social media expert."

My eyes snap open. "Harley Andrews, the movie star?" The sodding  "sexiest man alive" according to People magazine? I'm going to kill  Brenna. Throw her Louboutins in the harbor.

"That's the one. Can you believe it?" Sophie sounds so bloody happy,  while I'm fighting being ill. "He's got a movie coming out in a few  months. Set in the outback of Australia. So the idea is that he'd go on a  press junket there first. I've always wanted go to Australia."

My back teeth meet at hearing her dreamy sigh. Considering the average  flight to Australia is over twenty hours, my chances of visiting there  are nil. And Sophie wants to travel the country with Harley Sodding  Andrews and his supposed irresistible charm.

I pull her a little closer under the guise of getting comfortable, and  then clear my throat. "Sounds like a good opportunity. However, just so  you have your options open, I know that Maliah is also looking for  someone."

Ponce. You dirty, opportunistic ponce.

Sophie's head pops up. "Really? I love her music!"
         

     



 
"Oh?" I've only heard her listening to the woman a thousand times by now. "Well, I could put in a word."

"Ah, sunshine, you're the best."

Not hardly. Just a jealous prat.

She leans in to give me a quick, friendly kiss on the cheek. My body  reacts before my mind can stop it. In a blink I have her, my hands  tunneling through her hair, holding the sides of her head to prevent her  from retreating. And she stills, shock widening her eyes, her lips  hovering inches from mine.

I can't move: I just hold her imprisoned, staring at her in similar shock.

Let her go, you git.

I try to make my fingers release, but my body has locked up, protesting.  The soft warmth of her panting breaths caress my skin. She's so close, I  can almost feel her lips-those lush, pouty lips I want on me. Anywhere,  I'm not particular. No, first I want to kiss them, lick and suck their  plump curves. I want to feel the slickness of her tongue against mine.

My abdomen clenches, and I swallow down a groan, my chest heaving. A  tremor starts deep in my gut, and my cock pulses. It wants in, deep and  snug.

Let her go. Kiss her. Let her go. Kiss her.

Rage fills me that I am so cocked up, I can't act like a normal man.

I don't know what she reads in my eyes, but her lips part, a little gasp  escaping that I can practically taste. Christ Almighty, give me  strength to let her go, or let me do her right.

The choice is literally ripped from my hands when she moves back, slipping out of my frozen hold.

"I have to pee," she says baldly. The panic in her voice scrapes against  my skin, and I flinch. But she's already up, fleeing to the bathroom.

When the door shuts, I flop onto my back and let out a pained breath. What the sodding hell have I done?

Outside the open windows, a woman's laughter echoes. I wince and rest a  forearm over my eyes. I'd wanted to know how Sophie would react if I  made a move. Running to the toilet appears to be the answer.

Nausea roils in my gut.

From the bathroom comes the sound of water, and I know she'll return  soon. A part of me doesn't want her to. But I need to apologize.

She's quiet when she gets into bed, crawling tentatively under the covers.

Words clog in my throat.

For the first time since we've started sleeping together, she doesn't  draw near. I feel the absence like a cold hand along my skin. I turn to  say something, but she beats me to it.

"Good night, Gabriel."

The finality in her voice, and the clear warning that she doesn't want to talk, settles like a stone in my heart.

I swallow hard. "Good night, Sophie."

On the opposite sides, I stay silent, listening as the soft sounds of  her breathing slowly change into the steady cadence of sleep, and dread  fills me.

I can't do this any more. I cannot keep denying myself, and I clearly  cannot keep my hands off her. Yet the idea of never sleeping next to her  again fills me with inexplicable fear.

In her sleep, Sophie turns with a deep sigh, and her hand reaches out to  me. I don't move a muscle, but the whole of my being concentrates on  the brush of her fingertips against my forearm. Such a small thing, her  touch, barely even true contact, and yet I cannot pull away for the life  of me.

Be her friend. I can do that. It will torture me, but not having this  will outright end me. So I will tuck my needs away, put them somewhere  deep and dark, and turn my efforts toward making Sophie feel happy and  safe.





Chapter Fifteen





Sophie







"You okay, hon?" Jules yells in my ear. She can't be heard any other way  at the moment. Kill John is going full tilt, and music pulses around  us.

I must look miserable if she has to ask right now. I give her a wide smile that feels pained. "Just a bit tired," I shout back.

She nods and says no more, but I catch her quick, worried glance.

I'm a terrible liar. But what do I say? Hey, I think Gabriel almost made  a move on me the other night. Only, how lame am I? Because I'm not  sure.

God, I must be losing it if I can't even tell if a man is making a move.

I am wreck. My mind is stuck on last night, going over every moment in detail.

I went to kiss Gabriel's cheek. And he grabbed me, holding me close as  if he'd also been unable to help himself. At first my heart had jumped  into my throat, a heated elation rushing through me. I wanted him to  kiss me more than I wanted my next breath.

But he didn't. He stared at me as if I pained him, as if he was pissed. That look flipped everything on its head.

Had I gone too far by kissing his cheek? Was he telling me to cut it out? I panicked, so embarrassed I could have cried.

And call me a chicken shit, but I just couldn't ask him what that look had been all about. Not then.         

     



 

I might have caved this morning, but by then Gabriel was back to his slightly ornery but always solicitous self.

Now I'm at a loss. He insists this isn't about sex. Maybe it truly isn't  for him. And there is no way in hell I'm telling him I want more now.  Not with Gabriel "Ice Man" Scott back in control.

Call it pride, self preservation, whatever you want, but I'm not caving. No matter how badly I want to.

So now, I'm focusing on work. Which isn't exactly a punishment.

Tonight's concert is hot, frantic, and energetic. The boys play with  renewed enthusiasm and verve. I swear there's magic in the air. I crawl  and scurry around their moving bodies, getting breathtaking shots:  Killian midair, his guitar in one hand, his legs kicking out. Jax bent  over his Gibson, his corded forearms flexing, his bare chest gleaming in  the red glow of the lights. Rye standing on a massive amp, his hips  thrusting, lower lip caught in his teeth. And Whip, arms flying, sweaty  hair in his face as he beats the shit out of his drums.