Part 24 (1/2)

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 companions.h.i.+p.

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 s.p.a.ce opera. Star Trek is a s.p.a.ce 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 s.p.a.ce and laser guns.”

”You're taking a p.i.s.s,” 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 p.i.s.s.' 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 s.e.x.”

At the word s.e.x my c.o.c.k 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 c.o.c.k to the mattress. The randy b.a.s.t.a.r.d jerks in protest. I empathize with my needy w.i.l.l.y. Truly. But some things are worth more.

Keep telling yourself that, mate.

”Why not The Beatles for s.e.x?” I can't help asking. Mistake. Turning any conversation towards s.e.x 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 s.e.xier than a Stones' song.”

I stare at her shoulder. Her f.u.c.king shoulder has me enthralled. And it isn't even bare. Every night, she wears an over-sized t-s.h.i.+rt and little boy-short panties to bed. I'm fully aware she believes this to be as s.e.xless an outfit as she can manage to sleep in-I've tried the same, usually wearing loose lounge pants and a t-s.h.i.+rt-but she is wrong.

Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 f.u.c.king night, I imagine rolling her onto her back and sliding the s.h.i.+rt up over her fantastic t.i.ts.

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 t.i.ts has my tongue pressing to the roof of my mouth. s.h.i.+t. 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 c.o.c.k grind into her plump a.r.s.e.

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 s.e.x; if it was, I'd have f.u.c.ked 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 f.u.c.k 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. h.e.l.l, 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 c.o.c.k it up.

My life is Kill John. Where would that leave Sophie? With a cold, emotionally stunted b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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?”

”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 flas.h.i.+ng in the dim light. ”I know it sounds stereotypical as h.e.l.l, 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.