Ellie

I’m expecting Gage’s kiss to be angry, and it is, a little bit. His hands when they pull me to him are just the slightest bit rough, his kiss more possessive than gentle.

But there’s something else mixed in with the anger, something so poignant and demanding that it nearly brings me to my knees.

What is with me? A second ago I was on the verge of crying. The tears disappeared the second his lips touched mine, but they’ve been replaced by something even more disconcerting: fear.

Fear that it’s more than desire I’m starting to feel for this man. A man who’s everything that scares the crap out of me. I want stability and calm and routine, and he’s not exactly Mr. White Picket Fence.

He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, his thumbs drifting across my cheeks with a tenderness that belies the harshness of his words just moments ago.

I didn’t ask you to get fucking married.

Right. He didn’t. And I’ve made it more than clear that I want no part of Jilted or the wedding at the end.

It’s just that the thought of one of the other women touching him like this, the image of him holding Brooklyn or Cora the way he’s holding me…well, it hurts. And not just with the sting of jealousy, although there’s plenty of that. It hurts so much deeper than that, in a place inside me that I haven’t let anyone into in, well…ever?

I make a plea to my heart: Let it be sex. Please just let it be sex.

Determined to make it so, I run my hands up over his arms, my nails scraping at his broad shoulders, before tangling my fingers in his hair and pulling his mouth even closer to mine.

Gage’s hands glide over my back, then find the knot of the bathrobe’s belt, untying it and sliding his hands inside to touch me. His palms are cool against my heated skin, making me gasp as he strokes my waist, my rib cage.

He pulls back, his eyes locking on mine as his thumbs brush over my nipples, a rough, torturous tease. His gaze drops to his hands on my breasts. He licks his lips as he touches me, and the simple gesture makes me moan even before he gently pinches with just enough pressure to make me arch into him.

Gage bends me back gently, a hand against my back, his lips wrapping around the tip of my breast, his tongue still cool from the champagne, his teeth just the slightest bit punishing from our fight.

Needing to touch him, I ease his boxers over his hips, my fingers wrapping around his thick erection. Gage groans against my chest, his breath hot against my nipple before he pulls it into his mouth once more.

As good as he feels in my hand, as skilled as his mouth is, I bite my lip in frustration, somehow wanting more. I’m somehow too aware that I’ve been thoroughly, easily seduced by Gage Barrett, one of dozens. He’s in control, and we both know it.

Screw that.

I release him and wriggle away, ignoring his growl of frustration.

Holding his gaze, I reach up to my shoulders, pushing the edge of the robe slowly until the terry cloth drops to my feet.

His eyes flare with heat as he drags his gaze over my naked body, but when he takes a step forward, I hold up a finger. Wait.

Gage narrows his eyes, then widens them as I trail my fingers idly across my chest, my pinky finger grazing my nipple before my hand slides lower, looping lazy lines over my stomach, moving ever downward until my fingers reach moisture.

“Ellie,” he says on a rasp. “Touch yourself for me.”

I lift my eyebrows. “Now why would I do that when I have you here?”

He starts to step forward, but I hold my finger up once more. Not yet.

Instead, it’s me who steps forward. Holding his gaze the entire time, I sink slowly to my knees, pulling his boxers the rest of the way down as I do so.

“Goddamn, Ellie,” he says on a pant as I maneuver his feet from the boxers and toss the underwear aside.

I wrap my hand around the base of him and, as I lift my gaze to his once more, my mouth brushes the tip of him, tongue flicking against the moisture there, waiting—waiting until he needs me, wants me, the way I want him.

Gage reaches down, his hands pulling my hair over one shoulder, winding it around his fist. His hips tilt forward. Please.

I give him what he wants—what we both want—opening my mouth and taking him inside.

I’m not sure which one of us groans. Both of us, perhaps. I love him with my mouth, relishing every thrust of his hips, every profane word that spills from his lips.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his head tilting back.

He reaches down and hauls me to my feet, his mouth opening hotly over my neck as he walks me backward to the bed.

I expect to find myself flat on my back on the mattress, but instead he spins me around, pushing gently until my palms rest on the mattress, my back to him.

He smooths a hand over my spine, then over my butt before giving it a light smack. “Stay.”

A second later I hear the rip of a condom wrapper, and then he’s back with me.

I moan and arch as I feel him brush against me, but instead of thrusting inside like I need, his hand slides from my waist to my belly, holding us both still.

“You wet enough for this?” he asks gruffly.

“Yes!” I try to arch back to prove it to him, but he holds me still.

“You’re sure? Sucking me off got you wet?”

I whimper.

He presses his lips to my ear. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

He slowly drags his finger along my slit and I cry out.

“God, Ellie,” he gasps as he slicks a finger inside me. “You’re so perfect. So perfect for me.”

He adds a second finger, and my hips start to move shamelessly against his hand. “More,” I demand. “Give me more.”

He does. His cock replaces his fingers, and he gives me every last inch in a smooth, unapologetic thrust.

“Yes,” I gasp, arching my back as he pounds into me.

Gage grips my waist, holding me still for every thrust as he alternates between slow and torturous and fast and dirty.

When I can’t take any more, desperate for my release, I turn and meet his eyes over my shoulder. Please, now.

He rubs two fingers over my clit, circling in rhythm with his thrusts, and I lose it. There are orgasms and then there are orgasms, and this is one for the record books.

For him too, judging from the fierceness of his thrusts. I hear his shout, feel his loss of control down to the neediest part of my soul.

When it’s over, he rests his forehead briefly on my back; his lips brush tenderly over my spine and linger there, but lightly, almost as though he doesn’t want me to know that he’s doing it. As though he’s afraid of what it might betray.

I squeeze my eyes shut as he pulls out, because I’m unable to look at him. Gage isn’t the only one who’s scared about what he might betray.

I collapse onto the bed as he disappears into the bathroom.

If I had the energy, I’d crawl under the covers, but I feel boneless and give in to the urge to just lie there.

I hear the flush of the toilet, then jump a little at the sound of his voice on the phone.

“Eight o’clock works great,” he says quietly. “The most private table you have, please…Yes, thank you…I appreciate it.”

He hangs up and walks toward the bed. He pulls back the covers that we still haven’t peeled back despite having had sex twice. I squeak as he scoops me up and then deposits me on the soft sheet.

Then he taps the back of his fingers against my waist. “Move over.”

I do as he says, shifting toward the center of the bed so he can slide in beside me.

“What are we doing?”

“Sleeping,” he says, eyes already closed, as he settles onto his back.

“But who were you just talking to?”

“Hotel restaurant. Reservation is for two hours from now, so if you want to get in your damn nap before dinner, I suggest you shut up and sleep.”

I stare at him until he relents and opens his eyes. “What?”

“We’re staying? For dinner?”

“Is that okay?” He reaches out and plays with the ends of my hair, the gesture so absentminded and intimate that I almost feel my eyes water, although with a different reason than before.

“Yeah,” I whisper as I lower myself beside him, my cheek on his shoulder. “That’s okay.”

Gage turns his head, pressing his lips to my hair. “I’ll get you back to the villa tomorrow. Then first flight home. But I want tonight first. All of tonight.”

My heart squeezes in gladness—and something far more lasting and dangerous.

“Okay?” he asks when I don’t respond.

I nod, too overcome with emotion to look at him or speak.

I wait until I hear his breathing even out, wait until I know he’s asleep.

And then I let the tears come.