CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

As we were pulling into the condo garage, Detective Fahy called to remind Gabriel that his mother was still missing, presumed dead, and that she strongly considered him a person of interest. That was exactly what he needed right now.

On the elevator up, Gabriel seethed. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t even stab the buttons. That would be a loss of control. The angrier Gabriel gets, the more tightly he reins it in.

By the time that ride ended, I felt like I’d been locked with a keg of dynamite and a smoldering wick that sucked all the air from the tiny room. I wanted that keg to explode, blow the doors off, let me breathe. Because if Gabriel didn’t vent his frustration, then slamming a door or cursing would make me seem selfish.

Look at me. I’m pissed off and I’m frustrated and I’m hurting. Pay attention to me. I’m the one who matters.

Gabriel unlocked his condo door so slowly I wanted to rip the key from his hand and do it myself. He was being deliberate, resisting the urge to throw the door open, stalk inside, and say, Fuck this. Fuck all this.

He’d gone about three steps when he seemed to forget why he was there. He stopped. I circled wide, careful not to startle him, in case he’d forgotten I was there. And he did seem to have, his eyes widening when I moved in front of him. Then he gave an abrupt nod.

“Yes. Packing. I need…”

He turned, and it was like his brain cut out, every ounce of energy spent keeping his temper reined. When his phone beeped, he tensed so fast I thought he’d throw it again.

He pulled it out and saw the damage from when he’d whipped it into the wall. Then he carefully and deliberately set it on the table, as if to say, I won’t do that again.

I moved in front of him again, slowly, but he still jumped.

“Sorry,” I said.

“No, I just…” He looked around, as if trying again to remember what he’d come here for.

I reached up, lacing my hands behind his neck, braced for him to tense. Instead, he closed his eyes, relaxing and leaning into my hands. I moved closer, my body brushing his, fingers moving up into his hair. He exhaled, the barest sigh. I could feel the tension strumming through him, and when his mouth lowered to mine, it moved carefully, restrained. But as soon as we touched, the restraints snapped, and he pulled me hard against him, his mouth coming down rough and urgent. Then he pulled back abruptly, holding me at arm’s length. “I didn’t mean—” he began.

I took a half step closer. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I’m out of sorts and—”

“And that’s fine,” I said. “So am I.”

I kissed him, pouring all my own frustration into it. And that really did snap off those restraints, and hell, oh, hell. Five seconds later, I was halfway over the back of the sofa, my legs around him, hearing the sound of a shirt ripping and not knowing whose it was and not really giving a damn. Then I was against the wall, his hands pinning my arms, kissing me hard enough that I tasted blood. He must have, too, and he stopped, blinking.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled, letting me go so fast I started falling to the floor before he caught me.

“It’s okay.”

He shook his head. “No. I didn’t mean to hurt—”

“Gabriel?” I wrapped my hand in the front of his shirt. “I’m a big girl. I can tell you to stop, and I know you will. If you think I’m giving any indication that I want you to slow down?” I yanked him closer. “Then you are really lousy at reading the signs.”

He let out a strained chuckle.

“You’re angry. You’re frustrated. Let’s work on that.” I pulled him closer and leaned into his ear. “If this is any indication of how you’d like to work on that, I am one hundred percent in.”

He shivered against me.

I moved my mouth to his lip and nipped. “Pretty sure I can give as good as I get,” I said. “And the same warning goes for you—if it’s too much, say so. Is it too much?”

He answered by backing me against the wall hard enough to rattle the door. Then I was straddling him, pinned to the wall, his mouth crushing mine, and when his shirt came off, I suspected it wasn’t going back on without some serious mending.

If asked before now whether I’d had rough sex, I’d have said yes. What I’d had, though, had been enthusiastic sex. In-too-big-a-hurry-to-be-gentle sex. There’d been some experimentation with BDSM, but very mild, because while I was intellectually curious, once I actually experimented, it didn’t hold the appeal I expected.

I didn’t like giving up control. Really didn’t. As for the idea of taking control, I’d tried it, with a lover who wanted that, but there’d been no…thrill of victory? I’d already held the upper hand in the relationship, and dominating in sex only seemed to hammer that home, which really didn’t do anything for me.

This wasn’t BDSM. It was just rough sex. Really rough sex. Fingers grabbing hard. Nails digging in. Nips that drew blood. Restraint and struggle mingled with hard kisses that lasted until they hurt. Then a moment to catch our breath, touching and caressing and gentle kisses and murmurs and whispers and sighs, and then right back into it, a stroke turning to a grasp, a caress to a light scratch, as if testing the boundaries.

Testing and reciprocating, the heat and fervor building again. Not sex as a battle but as a game, the upper hand changing constantly, both of us fighting for it and then, when the other achieved it, giving in because, yes, if Gabriel wanted that upper hand, there was no way in hell I could physically take it from him. But if I managed to get on top or pin him, he’d let me have that, which meant I’d won. A willingness to submit from a guy who did not ever submit? Delicious.

There was control in submitting, too. In knowing I could, with a word, stop him.

By the end, I honestly wasn’t even sure who was on top. It was a hard, blinding, I-have-no-idea-where-I-am-and-I-don’t-care climax. Probably more than one. Even when he stopped, I was still riding that wave, and once he realized that, he obliged, going until I collapsed—on him, apparently—exhausted, my whole body quivering. He turned me onto my side and kissed me, a long, sweet, gentle kiss. When it ended, he said, “Thank you.”

“Oh, hell, no. Thank you,” I said, and he chuckled, the sound vibrating between us. “That was…Wow.” I lifted my head to look at him. “You want to know how to help me work off my angst? That’ll do it.”

He pulled me against him for another long kiss, our bodies entwined. I reached to touch his jaw, run my fingers over it, savoring the freedom to touch him. When I moved my arm, though, he caught my hand and frowned down at finger-shaped bruises rising on my forearm.

“I’m sor—”

I put my fingers to his lips. “I like the fact you’ve learned to apologize. But sometimes, you kinda overdo it.”

“It wasn’t so much an apology as an acknowledgment that I didn’t realize I grabbed you hard enough to leave a mark. Which I suppose is an apology.”

“Yep. It is. And if you apologize for that, then I have to apologize for this.” I touched a scratch on his chest. “And this.” A bruise on his bicep. “And I don’t even want to see your back.”

“It’s fine.” He rolled over and pulled me on top of him. “The acceptance of an apology would imply that one was required, which would imply that I would prefer no repeat of the circumstances that led to it. So I strongly reject any apology you might feel obliged to give.”

“Ditto.”

He relaxed and closed his eyes, and I touched his hair, still damp with sweat, and then tickled his neck, and he lay there, calm, eyes closed, lips curved as he enjoyed the attention.

Then my phone rang.

“It’s too far for me to reach,” I said. “Would you mind throwing that against the wall for me?”

He opened one eye. The phone continued to ring. Neither of us moved to get it, but when it stopped, I sighed and said, “I suppose we’ve had as much of a rest as we’re going to get.”

“It was a good rest. If not terribly restful.”

I laughed. “Agreed.”

Gabriel stretched under me. “I’m not intending to return Detective Fahy’s call, but I do need to speak to Rose and Patrick, to see if Seanna has made contact. If you and Ricky want to handle Ioan, that might be a better division of efforts. I’ll retrieve Pamela’s file from the office and we can take that to Cainsville to discuss, in connection with your vision at the fun house.”

“You have very kissable lips.”

He laughed.

“Yes,” I said. “You were talking. It was important. I shouldn’t get distracted. But they’re distracting. Have been for a while, which was very awkward. You’d be saying something important, and I’d be watching your lips and trying very hard not to think what it’d be like to stop you talking. For a minute. Or ten. So now I’m just going to randomly say that when the thought strikes.”

He smiled and shook his head, in that way that said he suspected I was teasing him. “You do realize you’re playing a dangerous game, stroking an ego that doesn’t need the attention.”

“Oh, I think it’ll be fine.” I slid my hands behind his head and leaned down to kiss him. His arms went around me and the kiss deepened, hands moving across bare skin, stroking, caressing, exploring.

“I’d better take it down a notch,” I murmured between kisses. “I don’t think you’ll be up to…Oh, wait. Maybe? Mmm, yes. My mistake. Carry on.”