Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 121755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Damn.
I did that too.
I opened my eyes.
“You can lie to yourself,” he went on. “You can lie to me. You can fight this. Fuck, I want you to fight it. But we both know, you are not gonna win.”
I opened my mouth.
But he used his hands on my head to tilt it, and his mouth came down on mine.
He gave me a strong, delicious stroke of his tongue that rent a strong, delicious pulse through my body.
Then he let me go, grabbed the cupcakes, put them in my hands, opened the back door, nabbed the sheet cake, slammed the door, and balancing it in one hand, he put the other to my back and guided me to my latest payday.
I didn’t make a peep.
I didn’t have it in me.
It wasn’t because I was tired.
Oh no, it was not.
It was because I was shit scared.
And honestly?
Who could blame me?
SIX
GAMBIT
I woke.
I did it curled into myself.
I did it feeling warm and good.
This time, I did it feeling refreshed.
And this time, I did not deny how I got there, how he got there, and whose hand was curled sweet around the side of my neck.
Last night, terrified by the many revelations I’d sustained at Gabe’s hands, I decided non-resistance was the way to go for the short term.
The company who bought my stuff didn’t mess me about in paying, and that wasn’t due to my scary, built, cake-delivering assistant, but because they were a company and not entitled rich bitches.
We left.
Sitting in the Jeep, Gabe declared, “I feel like short ribs from Beckett’s Table.”
Since any red-blooded human who wasn’t vegetarian or vegan felt like short ribs on any given occasion, I replied, “I wouldn’t say no to short ribs.”
But instead of starting the car and driving us there, he got out his phone, his thumbs swept over the screen, he pushed his phone back in his pocket, and then he started the car.
By the time we got to Beckett’s Table, we only had to wait five minutes for our takeout.
He then drove us back to the Oasis.
In the first stroke of luck I’d had in what felt like forever, no one was in the courtyard to see us together when we returned.
Since Gabe was carrying our food, I opened the door to let us in.
Yes, I did.
No protestations, not a word breathed.
Further without rebuffs, we worked side by side in my kitchen plating short ribs, mashed potatoes, veggies, and Gabe’s outstanding additions of charred brussels sprouts and cheddar bacon biscuits (with apple butter).
I pulled a bottle of beer out of the fridge and held it up to him.
He nodded.
He grabbed the open bottle of red on my counter, found a glass and poured.
“You seen Shetland?” he asked as we walked our plates and drinks to my thrifted olive-colored velvet couch that was a little rough, but it was deep-seated and had a lounge extension, so it was super comfy.
“Is that a documentary?”
“You like British crime drama?”
“Like Broadchurch?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” he muttered, and with the skill born inherent in every being with a penis, he commandeered the remote, continuing to mutter, “You need all the good male role models you can get, even fictional ones.”
Oh boy.
He signed into his BritBox (because I sure as hell didn’t have that subscription—I allowed myself two streaming services at a time, taking in all I wanted before I canceled and subscribed to others).
We ate.
We watched Jimmy Perez be broody, astute, empathetic and an excellent stepdad through his grief, and Tosh be sharp and funny.
Between episodes one and two, I hauled my ass out of the couch to spoon some custard over fresh strawberries and brought it back.
Yes, I felt the heart-squeezing thing again when I saw Gabe’s brows go up and then his lips tip up after he put the first spoonful in his mouth.
And yes again, filled with short ribs, biscuits and custard, after episode two and a bit into episode three, I passed out.
I woke up being carried to my bedroom.
When he set me down, I was listing on my feet, so I obviously continued not bothering to fight it when Gabe handed me my nightie.
Though he left to shut down the apartment while I changed.
And lying in bed, I watched this time as he shucked his tee (that wide, hairy chest, God, those shoulders, dayum, and don’t get me started on his abs), and his jeans (those thick thighs, Lord, deliver me) and got in bed in his black boxer briefs.
Cunningly, he’d only turned on the lamp on his side of the bed before carrying me in, so he could turn out the light without disturbing me while I curled up. And then I found myself fitted into his side under his arm, and his fingers were playing with my hair.
“’Night, cupcake,” he murmured.
“’Night, Gabe,” I replied.
I stayed awake long enough to swim languidly in my amazement that he didn’t try anything. Not so much as a hint at it.