Part 38 (1/2)

”Now, tell me what you said in Italian on the death scooter.”

”Sono pazzo di te. I am crazy about you.”

”Gabriel...”

”Eat your food, Darling.”

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Gabriel

I thought I'd find it difficult to let work drop and simply be. I'd never done it before, and honestly, I wasn't sure I'd know who I was if I wasn't working at all hours.

Sophie makes it remarkably easy to enjoy the simple things in life.

Days pa.s.s, and we fall into a sort of lazy rhythm. We sleep in until one of us wakes, make love, then drift off to sleep again. We eat when we're hungry. And when we're h.o.r.n.y, we f.u.c.k again, which is all the time and all over the house-my favorite spot being on the terrace where the sun gilds Sophie's fine skin and her cries echo off the cliffs.

If we are feeling particularly motivated, we take the Ferrari or the Vespa-which, despite Sophie's initial panic, she now loves-into town and explore. And we argue. Over everything: where to eat, where to shop, how fast I should go on the Vespa. The Italians approve because they know it's foreplay.

And, truly, there is nothing more alluring to me than Sophie's eyes snapping with intelligence and building desire, her cheeks flushed, and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s rising and falling with each verbal exchange. I swear, I hobble around half or full-on hard most of the time. Completely worth it.

At some point during each day, by some silent agreement, we do our own thing.

Though Sophie is social where I am reticent, we both need time alone to recharge. Even when we were touring and stuck on a bus together, we found ways to give each other s.p.a.ce. This has its perks now since our reunions are that much sweeter, a few hours apart feeling more like weeks.

And so I'm alone now, waiting. Sophie has gone to town with Martina's daughter Elisa. Since my phone has been confiscated, Sophie cannot text me, but I know she'll be back soon. I don't know how I know, I simply do.

Minutes later, I hear Elisa's car in the drive.

It's easy to track Sophie's movements; the woman sounds like a marauding yeti whenever she invades a s.p.a.ce. The front door opens and slams shut, shoes clatter onto the floor. She's singing ”Ruby Tuesday” off key and getting the lyrics wrong.

I bite back a laugh.

”Suns.h.i.+ne?” Her happy voice echoes. ”Where you at?”

There is something entirely gratifying in knowing that, whenever Sophie comes home, the first thing she does is seek me out.

”Your grammar is appalling,” I call back, fighting a smile; there's something antic.i.p.atory about withholding the full scale of my happiness. I let it build as she tromps up the steps.

”You don't want me for my grammar,” she says near the top of the stairs.

”Your t.i.ts and a.r.s.e definitely rate higher.”

”Feel free to show them some appreciation.” She stands in the doorway to our room, blue sundress rumpled, the rosy light of sunset slanting through the wide widows and illuminating the gold of her hair.

I'm struck speechless, my breath cutting short.

I am not a poetic man, but I want to be one now. I want to do justice to her beauty and the way she fills me with a strange mixture of utter peace and demanding need.

It's always this way with Sophie. I look at her and want to simultaneously hold her close, cheris.h.i.+ng her as though this is our last day alive, and tumble her onto the bed and f.u.c.k her until my c.o.c.k chafes. Which is rather perverse, I suppose.

Doesn't matter. Not when she's looking at me as if she wants the same. But then her sweet face pulls in a frown.

”You're working.”

Hard to deny when I'm holding a contract in my hand. ”Just a bit of light reading.”

While Sophie was in town, I went for a run. The second I returned, I downed a protein shake and took a shower before lounging in the bed in my boxer briefs and reading over a contract. I don't cla.s.sify this as work per se since I'm only skimming.

Sophie appears to disagree.

Her hands go to her hips. ”I should have searched your bags for contraband. You're supposed to be relaxing.”

”Forced relaxation is an oxymoron.” I go back to reading said contract because I know it will stir her up. I f.u.c.king love Sophie stirred up. The results are always naked, sweaty, and in my favor. ”Besides, this is a standard contract, nothing too involved or detailed.”

A sigh rings out. ”What am I going to do with you?”

f.u.c.k me. I have needs. ”Come to bed and read something alongside me?”

She takes a step in my direction but halts. ”You're wearing gla.s.ses.”

There's a strangled note of l.u.s.t in her voice that kicks my own into overdrive. I don't look up from the contract. ”As one does when one needs reading gla.s.ses.”

”Smart a.s.s. I've seen you read plenty of times, and you've never worn gla.s.ses.”

”I have contacts. But my eyes are irritable today.”

I suspect this has something to do with going down on Sophie in the pool this morning. It had been an experiment of sorts, figuring out just how long I could hold my breath. We laughed and applied ourselves to the task with much enthusiasm.

”You should always wear your gla.s.ses while reading,” she says, heading my way. ”And I mean always.”

Did I know Sophie would react favorably to my reading gla.s.ses? No. But by the wide-eyed, slightly dreamy look in her eyes, I'm fairly confident she appreciates them. I'm man enough to admit I want to entice her.

She sits on the bed, and her warm thigh rests next to mine. My body goes on alert, but I don't let it show. Not yet. That's not how our game is played.

G.o.d help me if I no longer had Sophie to play with. It is one of the best parts of my day.

”You know,” she says, trailing a finger along my kneecap, ”there's this Tumblr. Hot guys with gla.s.ses...”

”Don't even think about taking a picture.” I pretend to ignore the way her touch sends a ripple of l.u.s.t straight to my c.o.c.k. A lost cause. And I know she sees my growing interest. Her path heads upward.