Managed:a VIP novel(43)

"One hour. Come home, or I'll find you and bring you back myself."





Chapter Twenty





Sophie







We are in a hotel tonight. My hands are shaking as I let myself into the suite. He's waiting for me; I feel it in my bones.

The living room is empty, only a side lamp on, illuminating the buttery,  cream leather chairs, glossy wood tables, and soft gray sofa. French  doors flank one wall, a pair of them open, and the gauzy white curtains  flutter in the warm night breeze.

The sound of a door opening comes from the bedroom.

"Chatty girl?" A second later, Gabriel walks out.

And my mouth falls open, a faint squeak escaping. "Holy fucking hell."

He stops short, halfway into the room. "What's wrong?"

Wrong? Nothing. Not a single thing. I swallow hard for fear my tongue is hanging out.

He's taken off his shoes, socks, belt. The button of his fine slacks is  undone, showing the black band of his briefs-I don't know if they're  boxer briefs or regular. I want to know. As in, my fingers actually  twitch with the urge tug his zipper down and explore.

But that's not what has me dumbstruck, heat flaring along the backs of  my thighs. No. His jacket and tie are gone, and his shirt is unbuttoned  and open.

In all this time, I had yet to see Gabriel without a shirt. He hides his  body like a pious Victorian, never letting me see anything other than  him fully dressed and polished. Now I know why. Had he let me get a  glimpse, I might never have been able to form a coherent thought around  him.

This man's chest is a work of art. It's every fantasy I've had about a  man's body made real. I don't even know how that's possible, but I'm not  about to complain. God, he looks touchable. Olive skin, tight little  brownish nipples, a smattering of dark chest hair over the most  incredibly honed-

"You're staring." His tone is dry.

"Yes, I am." I drag my eyes up and find his expression bemused.

A thick brow lifts. I try to mimic the look and fail when both of my brows lift as one. His lips twitch in amusement.

He shifts his weight, causing his abs to clench. Good Lord. He's not  some overdeveloped gym worshiper, just solid and strong, that perfect  balance between defined musculature and healthy male-

"You're still staring, Sophie."

"You think it's easy looking away from all this splendor?" I ask his  belly button, licking my lips when he huffs out a laugh and just a  little bit more of his lower abs are revealed, slanting toward the thick  bulge of his cock, which is lamentably hidden behind his slacks.

"You're impossible," he mutters, though there is humor in his voice. He  strolls farther into the room and then practically kills me when he sits  in one of the low-slung armchairs. That body, sprawled out on display,  those thick, long thighs braced as if to take me in his lap-it's too  much.

I want to straddle him and lick my way from the hollow of his throat to the tip of his cock.

He eyes me as if he knows what I'm thinking, and the air thickens. So  many things we left unsaid. I'm remembering his lips now, surprisingly  soft, but strong with purpose.

From the way his lids lower, I wonder if he's remembering things as  well. But he doesn't move. Tension glides over his body and snakes  around the room. I feel it in my throat and down my spine. We're closing  up again, retreating.

Slowly, I toe off my shoes and set my gear down, never breaking eye  contact. "I was being completely honest," I tell him. "I see you like  this and I want to stare forever."

He snorts, shaking his head even as he rests his temple on his knuckles. "What do you mean ‘like this'?"

"Undone."

He tenses. It does lovely things to that chest. I focus on his face, mainly to maintain some semblance of decorum.

"You think this is me undone?" he asks quietly.

"It's a start." I reach for my camera bag. "Will you let me photograph you?"

There is safety to be found with the camera between us. A way for both  of us to hide until we're comfortable around each other again.

"You're serious?"

"You sound surprised." Holding my camera, I sit in the sofa opposite  him. "Don't tell me no one has asked to take your picture before."

"They've asked. I never saw the point." He shrugs. "I'm not the story."

You're my story. You always were.

"This is just for me," I say instead. "No one else."

His shrewd gaze pins me. "Why do you want this?"

So I can have a bit of you forever. "Pictures capture moments in time. I  want this one-when you finally let me see a sliver of the man behind  the clothes."         

     



 

His nostrils flare on an indrawn breath, and he slowly lets it out. When he speaks, his voice is a rasp. "Take the pictures."

So I do, testing angles. The warm glow of the lamplight highlights the  planes and hollows of his body. He sits still, a king lounging on his  throne, granting me this small whim.

He doesn't love this; his muscles tic with each click of the shutter. But he doesn't stop me either, just watches as I work.

It's too easy, taking shots of him. The camera loves him. But more than  that, I have a valid excuse to look at him to my heart's content.

"I feel like a bellend," he grumps.

"A what?"

High color paints his cheeks. "A prick head. An idiot. A poseur. Take your pick."

I have to laugh. "So sensitive."

"You try being on the other end of that thing." He gestures toward the camera with his chin.

"I won't apologize," I tell him. "You are beautiful, Gabriel."

His expression shutters. "It is only a veneer. Nothing of what I am on the inside."

My fingers tighten around the smooth edges of the camera. "You think I don't see you?"

He simply stares, blue eyes startling and intense beneath the dark sweep  of his brows. I've never seen so much power in a man's face; sheer grit  and determination forge the lines and curves of his features.

I raise my camera, capture the image as I talk. "Your nose is big and hawkish."

He visibly flinches, and I know I've hit a rare sore spot with him. I don't stop, though.

"There's a bump on the bridge, and it lists slightly to the side. I've  often wondered if you broke it at some point." I take another picture,  noting the way his brows lift in surprise.

"I was fifteen," he says. "Three boys jumped me on the way back to my room."

My heart gives a great thump. "Stubborn nose. You take hit after hit,  but never back down. I'd bet good money you never let those boys break  you."

"I would not kneel," he whispers. "That's when they broke my nose."

I take another picture, my focus narrowing on his eyes. Those glorious  eyes that can appear like glacial ice or the Caribbean Sea, depending on  his mood. They burn like blue flames now.

"Did they also give you the faint scar bisecting your left eyebrow?"

"No. That was my dad." He glares, as if daring me to pity him.

I don't do that. But I do hurt for him.

"You have two permanent lines between your brows," I tell him, moving  on. "You frown when you read your phone, watch TV, or listen to others  talk. It makes you appear stern and vaguely pissed off, but it's really  that you put the whole of your concentration into every task."

His breath becomes agitated, the wide, muscled expanse of his chest lifting and falling.

"Your body." A lump rises in my throat, my mouth going dry.

Silence falls.

"My body?" he prompts, low and forceful. He's reclined in his seat,  spread out like a damn feast, but tension rides through his muscles,  making them bunch.

"It is perfect. A work of art." Lickable. I take a shuddering breath,  lift my camera back up, and take a shot of his torso-defined abs, tight  pecs, little nipples. Utterly lickable. "You work hard to maintain that  body, which I'm sure some would think is due to vanity."

"It's not?" His voice has gone rough, agitated and thick.

"No. You use your body like a weapon, a perfect shell so no one bothers to look too closely at the real you."

He shifts in his chair as if he's fighting the urge to flee. I push on.

"And you do it to be strong. Because you hate weakness."

With a rush, his breath leaves him, and he sags in his chair. "Yes," he  rasps. "Only I believe you are my greatest weakness now, chatty girl."

My camera lowers, and I stare at him, unwilling to hide my hurt. "You hate me?"

He blinks as if trying to break out of a fog. Color tints his cheeks,  and his breath kicks up once more. "I think," he says, "adore would be  the better word."

Oh. Hell.

Those intense eyes fixate on me, baring his soul. It is filled with pain  and need. "You are my greatest weakness because I have no defense when  it comes to you."

Warmth rushes through me. I blink rapidly, my lips quivering, caught  between wanting to smile wide and feeling the strange urge to cry. He's  split me wide open. And I know exactly how he feels, because suddenly I  want to hide from this too.