His nostrils flare in response. “I sure do.”
He sinks to his knees between my spread legs, hands settling on my thighs with deliberate pressure. His fingers find my belt buckle, working the leather free.
“Another time,” he murmurs, the metal clinking as he pulls the belt through the loops. “When you’re ready to talk.”
The presumption of another time should infuriate me, but my anger dissolves as he unbuttons my jeans and eases the zipper down. His knuckles brush the growing hardness beneath, and my breath hitches at the contact.
Gabriel tugs at the waistband, a silent request for me to lift my hips. I comply, allowing him to pull the denim down to my ankles, exposing the black boxer briefs beneath. The cool air raises goose bumps along my skin, while Gabriel’s hands burn in comparison as they slide up my thighs.
His fingers pause when they encounter the first scar, a thin line among dozens mapping my inner thighs. He stills for only a heartbeat before he continues without comment.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my boxers and pulls them down in one smooth motion, freeing my erection.
As he leans forward, he peeks up at me through his lashes, and the overhead light casts shadows across his features, transforming the club flirt into someone darker, hungrier, more dangerous than I anticipated.
And despite all my boundaries and rules and walls, I want him, and it terrifies me.
His breath caresses my sensitive skin, and my heart hammers. His hands settle on my hips, thumbstracing small circles, careful to avoid the constellation of scars while maintaining contact.
The first touch of his mouth sends a bolt of pleasure through me so acute it borders on pain. My head falls back to rest on the couch as wet heat envelops me, his tongue working patterns, short-circuiting my brain.
One hand slides up my stomach under my shirt, palm flat over my abdomen, gauging my reaction in each flex of muscle as waves of sensation course through me. His other hand wraps around the base of my shaft, working in rhythm with his mouth.
My fingers dig into the couch cushions, fighting the urge to thread through his hair, to control the pace or direct his movements. Control feels essential now, when everything else threatens to spin away from me.
Gabriel takes me deeper, and a groan tears from my throat. My thighs tense as he pushes them wider, the position coming dangerously close to triggering me. But I need this. I crave the release to be found in his mouth.
His technique is flawless, varying pressure and speed with an intuitive understanding of what draws the strongest reactions from me. It’s the best head I’ve ever received, and the realization sends a spike ofpanic through my chest, mingling with the building pressure at the base of my spine.
My breathing turns ragged as he brings me closer to the edge. Sweat beads along my hairline, and the room seems to shrink around us, the walls closing in as pleasure builds to unbearable levels.
The pressure coils tighter, heat spreading through my limbs as Gabriel increases his pace. His hand slides from my stomach to my chest, palm flat over my racing heart, and the intimacy snaps my control.
Release hits me hard, white-hot and overwhelming. My vision blurs at the edges, and for a moment, I’m not in my apartment with Gabriel, but back on that concrete floor, a different hand on my chest, pinning me down.
Tell me what you like.
Panic floods my system, drowning out pleasure as quickly as it came. I jerk upright, pushing Gabriel back with more force than necessary.
He rocks back on his heels, confusion replacing his satisfaction. “Saint?”
My name sounds distantly through the roaring in my ears. I leap to my feet, yanking my boxers and jeans up with trembling hands. The zipper catches, and I curse, fingers too unsteady to manage thesimple task. Shame burns hot in my face, not from what we did, but from how I lost control.
“I’m going to bed.” The words come out rougher than intended, panic riding me hard.
Gabriel rises slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing.” The honesty of the answer surprises me. He did everything right, and that’s the problem. “I’m tired.”
He studies me long enough that I know he sees through my deflection. “Can I join you?”
The question hangs in the air between us, weighted with implications beyond the physical. Sharing a bed means sleeping beside someone, trusting them with my unconscious body, and exposing the nightmares that wake me most nights.
“You can sleep on the couch or leave.” I turn away, putting my back to him. “Your choice.”
I don’t wait for his response, striding to my bedroom and closing the door behind me. The lock engages with a satisfying click, a barrier between me and the fallout of my rejection.
My back slides down the door until I hit the floor, knees drawing up to my chest as my breathing comes in shallow gasps. My body still hums with residual pleasure, but my mind recoils from it.
