Managed:a VIP novel(6)

The contact feels good. Too good. Because, holy hell, touching  him-really touching him-sends a jolt of warm pleasure through me. All  the sensitive nerve endings in my body seem to perk up and pay  attention. Which is wrong in this situation; I'm here to help the poor  man, not get off on him.

I have no idea what he's thinking. For a second he holds me. Or, rather,  he holds on to me like a lifeline. Tremors rack his body, but it's  clear he's fighting it.

"Shhh," I murmur, stroking his chest. It's a nice chest, broad and  densely packed with muscle beneath the proper clothes. His heart thuds  against my palm, and I feel him take a deep breath. "Just think of me as  your friendly neighborhood cuddler."         

     



 

He's quiet again before another question bursts from him. "Are you telling me you'd do this for anyone?"

I snuggle down. "No. That you're insanely hot is a huge factor. I get to cop a feel under the guise of civic duty."

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

A smile pulls at my lips. "Can it with the outrage. I know for a fact  that most people would rather snuggle up to a hot dude. If it makes me  shallow for admitting that, so be it."

He grunts even as his hand slips to the top of my arm. Long fingers stroke once before stilling. "Your honesty is astounding."

"I know. Now hush, I have feels to cop." I run my hand just a little  down his firm pec, loving the way his abs suck in with his hitched  breath. I'm teasing him, but damn, he's nicely built. I force myself to  stop. Only when I do, he tenses, and the tremors return. I realize my  petting actually does soothe him.

I consider this a green light. Sinking into his hold, I stroke his chest  and hum under my breath. He slowly eases, his body turning more toward  mine, and my breasts press into the side of his ribs. The plane  continues to jump and shake, and it's a battle to keep him calm. Every  inch of ground I gain, stupid turbulence pulls it back from me.

"I think we should name our kids by number," I tell him.

His muscles clench and shift under my cheek. I can almost hear him internally debating how to respond.

"Dare I ask why?" he says finally.

"Because we'll have so many, numbers seem easier. We can do like the king in Stardust. Una, Secundus, Septimus … "

"That seems inordinately cruel. Think of the shit they'll receive in grammar school."

"They'll be too tough to be bullied. And I see you're warming to the idea."

I grin when he grunts. It's not a no-more like a you're crazy. I can work with that.

"I hate this," he says.

"Snuggling?" But I know what he means.

His laugh is wry and brief. "Weakness."

"Everyone is afraid of something."

"What are you afraid of?" he lobs back, sounding dubious.

Never being good enough. Being used up and tossed aside. I swallow hard.  "Tidal waves. I have nightmares about being swept away. I blame all  those disaster movies."

"Somehow I suspect you'd be the sort who would survive."

I smile at that.

A gust of warmth along at the top of my hair makes me realize he's  pressed his lips to my head and is breathing me in. "What color is your  natural hair?" he asks, almost idly.

"That's an awfully forward question, Mr. Scott." Turbulence aside, our  little cabin is quite cozy with the cream-colored finishings and the  lights dimmed.

"Supposedly I'm fathering at least seven of your children. A fair enough question to ask."

The plane makes a particularly nasty thump, and he sucks in a sharp  breath. I nuzzle closer, my nose filling with the scent of his cologne  and, underneath it, the sweat of fear.

Closing my eyes, I spread my hand out, pressing my palm against his abdomen where his muscles quiver. "I'm a blonde."

"I see that," he deadpans.

"Natural blond, I mean. I went a few dozen shades lighter this time.  Last week I had blue hair." I smile a little, imagining how he would  have reacted to that.

"I'm not surprised in the least."

"Mmm … " The tip of my finger toys with a wrinkle on his sweater vest,  which is cashmere-and I still resent the fact that he looks so good in  it. The hem has ridden up, exposing his shirt beneath. My fingers drift  to one of the buttons.

As soon as my finger rests against the little circle, the air seems to  grow thicker. My body seems heavier, somehow, as if intent has made it  laden and hot.

Because I feel the firm abs beneath his shirt, and I now know a way in.  What gets me even hotter? I realize he knows this as well. We both seem  to hold our breath.

I pluck the button open.

It's as if I've plucked a chord instead. Tension vibrates between us so  strong, I can nearly hear it. Gabriel stiffens, his abs clenching, his  fingers halting their exploration of my hair.

What the hell are you doing, Sophie? Stop now. My fingers don't seem to  get the message. They slip through the open space in his shirt to find  the hot, smooth skin beneath.

Oh, hell. Because he is hot, his skin firm and tight, and I want more of  it. My fingers barely move. As if, by being sly, he won't notice that  I'm feeling him up. Nice dream.

I clear my throat, searching for my voice. It comes out rusty. "Red hair is always fun. So many shades to work with."         

     



 

Yes, talk and you won't come off as such a creepster perv. Brilliant idea.

I can't seem to shut up. "Bright red. Auburn. Strawberry red." Great, you sound like the Bubba Gump of hair coloring.

He grunts, his body stiff, unyielding, but he doesn't protest my roaming  fingers. Doesn't say a damn word. Which speaks volumes, really. Because  this guy is not the type to remain silent if he doesn't want to.

A band of heat clenches low around my belly at the realization that he's letting me explore.

Gently, I stroke the small patch of skin I can reach. The tip of my finger glides over smooth skin to find rough hair.

Jesus on a motorcycle, he has a happy trail.

The urge to follow that trail down is so strong, I nearly moan. I clench  my teeth, take a breath. "I've also had purple hair. Green doesn't do  anything for me, though."

Without my permission, my fingers slink downward to the where the next  button is secured, waiting for me to open it. His whole body stills, as  if he's just willed himself not to move. But when I start to free that  small button, he expels a breath and his hand comes down on top of mine.

It is warm, firm, and clearly states, no more.

And nothing is more effective at snapping me out of this madness.  Because, really, what the hell am I doing? I don't even like this guy.  Well, I kind of do. Which just blows. Dead end might as well be stamped  on Gabriel Scott's forehead.

The plane has started to rattle hard again. Gabriel shudders, our  awkward pause forgotten, and clings to me once more, his breathing  erratic.

Comfort. Don't grope. Just comfort.

That I can do. I think.







Gabriel







Oh, how the mighty have fallen. If anyone had photographic evidence of  my current predicament, my reputation as a fearsome bastard would be  dead in the water. I can almost hear the snickering now-the great,  implacable Scottie wrapped around a woman as though she was his woobie.

Killian would never let me hear the end of it. I don't even want to imagine the shit I'd get from Brenna.

In some ways, plummeting to my death would be preferable.

That was a stupid thing to think. Terror arcs through my body, making my  insides swoop and my limbs tingle. And I find myself clinging just a  bit more tightly to the strange, softly rounded woman at my side.  Perhaps this truly is a nightmare; nothing seems real or makes much  sense.

I do not engage in continued conversations with strangers, especially  ungovernable, chatty, irreverent women. And I most certainly do not  cuddle. I cannot remember the last time I held a woman. The sensation is  so foreign, yet pleasurable.

My entire body seems to be straining for greater contact, my skin  sensitive and hot beneath my clothes. I want them off with a fierce  agitation. I want to feel skin on skin, the warmth and plush give of her  flesh.

I will not think about the fact that she snuck her fingers beneath my  shirt to stroke my abdomen. The phantom of her touch still burns like a  brand on my skin.

The second she played with the buttons of my shirt, I went intensely and  painfully hard. I very nearly let her find that out. And if she had?  I'd have begged her to give it a squeeze, a friendly stroke and tug. I'd  probably have promised her anything if she'd only continue to touch me.

Alarming to say the least. I haven't a clue what this woman will say or  do from one moment to the next. For a man whose life revolves around  exerting control over all things, this flicker of attraction is unwanted  and unsettling.

Yet for all that, it's preferable to the well of mindless fear I'd been in before Sophie Darling latched onto me like a limpet.

I take the opportunity of our close proximity to really observe her. At  first I thought her pleasant to look at, but nothing remarkable. I was  mistaken.