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“And it’s not about you versus her,” I rush to add, not sure if I’m making any sense. I’m drunk on desire, spiraling into the place where my feelings get jumbled and impossible to articulate. “I just think we should talk to her before. . .”
Ishould talk to her.
The idea makes my stomach woozy, like a rough night on my sailboat. There are so many things Katherine doesn’t know about me, things I can’t tell her. Things I’ve kept carefully contained, locked away in the shadows.
But Gabe watches me with those cunning blue eyes that see the world like a game of chess. It’s that engineer brain, calculating and rebuilding, moving pieces across the board. Knowing when to retreat and when to advance.
It’s sexy AF.
And terribly disconcerting.
“Yeah. I get it.” With a final nod, he drops his hand from my shoulder and reaches for the bottle of wine. “We’re finally in a place where she’s more likely to cup my balls than kick them. I don’t want to mess that up.”
My lips twitch, and I can’t hold in my laugh. See what I mean? Chess pieces.
He’s got it all figured out.
“Understandable.” I’m sure there are some kinky dudes out there who don’t mind a swift kick to the nuts, but I’m not a masochist. Gabe’s right on the money.
I watch him walk out of the cellar, more conflicted than ever. My head tells me I did the right thing, but my body isn’t so sure. I run a hand over my face. My skin’s still on fire, pulse thundering through my veins, arousal pumping through me.
My phone makes a happy, trilling sound, Katherine’s new text tone, as I follow Gabe to his kitchen. Speak of the devil. Er. Angel.
It’s funny how just hearing that sound makes my mood lift. Smiling, I fish out my phone.
Katherine: wish you were here.
Three dots pop up and then a picture. It’s blurry for a fraction of a second, and my brain automatically anticipates a pretty picture of Paris.
It sure as shit doesn’t expect the gorgeous, boudoir-style shot of my girl, laid out on a table, a fluffy white robe covering parts of her, hand over her other breast, head thrown back, biting the tips of her fingers as if she needssomethingto snack on and just can’t help herself.
“Fuck me.” Gabe’s hoarse declaration sounds from around the corner.
Couldn’t have said it better myself. My lust kickstarts, and my feet pick up the pace.
I find him standing next to the kitchen island, one hand on the bottle of wine, the other holding his phone. He stares down at the screen, his jaw slack, looking at the same picture I am. I glance at the text again, realizing she sent it to both of us. Because, of course, she did.
Her thoughtfulness is one of my favorite things about her. Once she lets you into her life, you’re in. And while we may not have put a label on this relationship, it’s obvious that she’s thinking of Gabe and me even when she’s halfway around the world.
“It’s like she’s trying to get me to fly over there, meetings be damned,” he grouses, wine forgotten.
“Us,” I say and flash my screen at him.
“This woman. I swear.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, and my fingers are ready and willing to offer him a massage. Soothe his tension. “It’s like she has a sixth sense or something. Perfect timing. Along with a finger on our pulse, knowing just how to drive us crazy with desire.”
He’s not wrong. As if I wasn’t already keyed up.
“You don’t think we should...” He leaves the sentence unfinished but mimics a plane taking off with his hand.
“She’s on a date,” I remind us both.
“Right.”
We’re silent for what has to be a full minute. Him staring at his phone, me staring at mine.
With a sigh, he puts his phone down and finishes uncorking the wine. “I’ve never been jealous of Alex before.”
“Me either,” I quip, lightening the mood.