"The gala’s going to be here in just a few days," Gabriel says, watching me eat.
"Are you ready?"
"I've got everything in order today," he says darkly. "Ryder's just the catalyst. But the board... the town... they’ve needed a reminder of who actually runs things for a long time."
"Do I need to do anything? Say anything?"
"No," he says. "Just be my wife, the mother to my child. Let them see that you’re untouched by their gossip because not a single one of them can touch you."
He reaches out, wiping a smudge of sauce from my lip.
"You trust me?"
"Yes."
"Even with the violence?"
The fight club flashes in my mind. The way he handled James Thornton in the tree lot.
"Especially with the violence."
His eyes darken.
"Finish your food," he orders. "You need your strength."
Later,we’re in bed, tangled together under the heavy comforter. Only the glow of the red-and-white tree illuminates the space.
Gabriel’s hands roam over my naked body and I arch into his touch. It’s been days and I’m desperate for everything he’ll give me after being handled so carefully.
I’m so wet and ready for him to the point I feel swollen and achy between my thighs. It’s intense and I wonder if the pregnancy hormones have anything to do with the amped up need for him or if it’s just Gabriel.
I swear it’s better with him every single time.
But he doesn't push inside me. He knows I’m still healing and he’s being extra gentle. I sort of want to throw a little tantrum over it, but before I can, Gabriel starts doing some magic with his fingers. He’s working a rhythm that steals my breath. He exerts total control, keeping me on the edge, refusing to let me tip over until he decides I’m ready.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough.
My eyes fly open.
He watches my face, drinking in every expression. He looks… awed.
"You're mine," he whispers. "Every inch of your body. Every breath in your lungs."
The pace increases.
“Every bit of your pleasure.”
He slides a finger inside of me and I unravel.
It’s not the violent storm it usually is. No, it’s a sweet, slow, rolling wave of pleasure that crests and breaks, leaving me floating.
"Gabriel," I breathe his name as the orgasm fades.
He holds me through it, kissing my shoulder, my jaw, my temple.
When it’s over and I sink into the bed, limp and satisfied, he pulls me against his chest. He’s still hard, pressing against my thigh, but he doesn't take relief for himself. He just holds me, suffering through the want.
"After Christmas Eve, no one will ever dare to look at you with anything but respect again."
