Page 22

Chapter 22

GAbrIEL

O n the late afternoon of our trip, shortly after dropping Chuck off for boarding, April picked me up at my apartment. She wanted to drive, but she’d put me in charge of music and navigation. As I ducked into her baby-blue Subaru, I was encompassed with that scent of hers—raspberry cake, and my mind immediately returned to the kiss.

“You ready?” she asked, looking too good for a road trip. She wore a romper—one with the spaghetti straps—over a tank top. I could easily imagine curling my fingers under those straps and peeling them off her shoulders.

Mierda. Not even a minute in, and I fantasized about getting her naked. I needed one of those electric dog collars so I could zap myself every time I had a dirty thought of her.

“Ready,” I lied.

Conversation on the road was polite but sparse. I kept trying to find that usual place of comfort and laughter with her, but it felt like I was trying to climb a steep slide. I’d almost get to the top just to slip back down. It was like that the entire way to our Buc-ee’s stop. I worried not even high-quality gas station brisket would lighten the mood. Then, we got back in the car, and my music wouldn’t start.

I turned the volume dial as April backed out of our parking spot. Then she glanced at the screen and blanched.

“It’s connected to my phone,” she said, throwing the car in park and fumbling to pull it out of her pocket.

“You are going to be a good girl,” a deep voice blared over the speakers, “and take every inch.”

My mouth fell open as a woman’s moan filled the car.

April looked like she was having a stroke, trying to get to her phone, until I reached over and turned the volume all the way down. For the longest moment, April just stared at me, the horror apparent in her wide hazel eyes.

I floundered to say something, but instead, a laugh burbled out of me. I tried to get a handle on it, afraid I’d make the situation so much worse, but then April was laughing, too, so hard, she started wheezing.

“Do you always listen to porn when you drive?” I asked, wiping tears from my eyes.

“It’s a book,” she said but then dissolved into more giggles.

“Wow. I need to read more.” I reached to turn the volume back up, but April pulled my arm away.

“No! Definitely not!”

“But it seems like you are missing key plot points.”

“Please.” She was holding her side now as she laughed. “I’m begging you. Reconnect your phone.”

“Our loss,” I said with a shrug.

It’s not like shared laughter over April’s sex book completely healed the crack between us, but after, the gap felt approachable. The rest of the trip seemed less tense, even if just marginally .

As we checked into the hotel, I was sure we would show up to one bed. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d have an unexpected bunkmate. The only difference—the last person I’d been forced to share a bed with was Koontz, someone I had zero desire to be intimate with. April, though . . .

I imagined our legs brushing one another under the sheets, being engulfed in her scent, lying only inches from her body.

I wouldn’t survive it. I’d have to sleep on the floor again, like in Costa Rica.

If April seemed nervous about sharing a room with me, she didn’t show it. She had her colorful duffle bag slung casually over one shoulder, hands in her pockets. There was this laid-back beauty to her—from her scuffed sneakers to how a few strands fell loose from where she’d tucked the blonde hair behind her ear. She was the embodiment of perfectly imperfect.

However, when I scanned our key card to get into our room, we shared a look, and I saw the tiniest glimpse of nerves in those hazel eyes.

That made two of us.

To my surprise, I swung the door open to two beds. That did nothing to quell my raging hormones, which were very aware that I’d be spending the night alone with a gorgeous woman. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about rolling over and pressing a hard-on into April’s back.

After three hours of driving, we both fell into an exhausted silence as we settled our things. I brushed my teeth as April put clothes into her nightstand drawers. She swore under her breath.

“What’s wrong?”

“I forgot my sleeping shorts, of all things. I packed jeans for tomorrow and overalls for the trip home. So, I’ll have to sleep in my romper tonight.”

She had the tank top, so I started to suggest she get under the covers and take off the romper, but the idea of her shimmying out of it made my mouth dry.

“Here.” I dug through my bag and pulled out an Ironman T-shirt from a few years ago. I tossed it over. “This will probably fit you like a nightgown.”

She unrolled the shirt, a smile spreading as her eyes zeroed in on the Ironman symbol. “You don’t mind?”

“No. I brought extras. Just make sure to let me borrow one of your shirts if I ever need a crop top.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled as she laughed. “You’ve got a deal, Torres.”

I only thought having her undress under the covers would be torment. Then she walked out of the bathroom in my shirt. Her thighs peeked out from the bottom, and my fingers twitched with the urge to touch them again. But this time, I wouldn’t be dealing pain—only a little bit of pressure and a lot of pleasure.

“I think I like the way this Ironman symbol looks on me,” she said.

“Me too.” What I liked was my shirt on her. It awakened something possessive in me.

As we settled into our respective beds, my body was painfully alert to how close we were in the dark. How easy it would be to get under the covers with her and pick up where we last left off. I imagined her rolling on top of me. I’d slip my hands under the hem of the shirt she borrowed and . . .

Shit. I was rock hard.

I thought of all the grounding techniques I asked my clients to use when a massage session got too intense.

Breathe .

I forced a five-count inhale through my nose and a slow release out of my mouth. Then, I mentally listed all the sensations that didn’t have to do with the straining in my boxers—like the way my head sank into the hotel pillow, the weight of the comforter, and the cool touch of the sheets.

After all that, my blood still hummed with need. So, I started to think about things that definitely did not make me aroused—like bare feet on wet grass, the sound Styrofoam makes when it’s rubbed together, and ice baths.

Baths, however, was the wrong word. My mind drew up April in the hotel tub, suds around her breasts.

?Dios mío!

I wasn’t getting any sleep.