My mouth goes dry.
It’s been two weeks since I last saw her. Since I got my hands on her, since she made those sweet, gasping sounds that I stillthink about at the worst possible moments or when I’m in the shower each evening, jerking myself off, wishing it was her holding me in her grip instead.
And now she’s here, standing in front of me like temptation wrapped in a red, silk dress.
I’ve been drowning in work. Long hours in the city with Roman, trying to keep the new building project on track while also remodeling a house for my family Boone and Rosie Tremblay in Brookhaven. Natasha’s place? Yeah, I put it off. She’s not paying me to do this work, and my electrician wasn’t available until mid-February anyway. I didn’t think it was urgent until today.
But now I’m only slightly regretting that decision. Because now Aly is moving in. Under my roof. She’s going to sleep just down the hall from me. I’m going to smell her body wash in the morning when she gets up for work. I’m going to sip coffee next to her at my kitchen table while she scrolls through social media posts and the news.
And I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing yet.
I’ve always been a protector. Had to be, after my parents passed and I had to make sure my sisters, Eden and Rhiannon, were taken care of, it came naturally. But it’s not just about them—it’s who I am. A hard shell, sure—tattoos, control, the kind of man who wants to bring a woman to the edge of pleasure and pain in equal measure. I like the rumble of my bike beneath my thighs, and the vibration of a woman when she’s coming around my cock.
But underneath all of that I want, no, Ilike, taking care of what’s mine.
And right now—
In some strange way—
That feels like Aly.
“You look…” My voice comes out rough. “Fuck. You look good today.”
She blushes, biting back a smile. “Hi, Gabriel. How are you?”
Better now that you walked in.
“Fine,” I answer with instead, still looking at her thick curves painted in that dress.
“What’s going on? Natasha said you had something to tell me?”
I exhale, forcing my brain to function. “Yeah. Unfortunately, your electricity is shot.”
I motion toward the flickering candles Natasha lit—an absolute fire hazard that I can’t wait to put out—and the fact that, despite it being the middle of the afternoon, the house is already almost pitched into darkness.
Her face falls. “What does that mean?”
“It means you can’t stay here until I get someone out here to fix it. It’s a fire hazard and the heat doesn’t work. Not that it worked much before either.”
“Shit,” she whispers, glancing around. “None of the power works?”
“No. And it’s gonna get cold fast. I have a generator to keep your fridge running, but beyond that, you need to be somewhere warmer.” And safer.
She groans. “I really need to take a shower.”
“Water works. But if you need a blow dryer or a mirror with actual light…” I shrug. “You’re out of luck.”
“Ugh.”
I hesitate and then take a deep breath. “Good news is since Rhiannon moved out two years ago, I have a spare bedroom. You can stay there if you’d like until we get things working here.”
Her lips part slightly. “Where’s Natasha staying?”
“At the bar. She said there’s just one bed. If you wanted to share it.”
“That’s…unappealing.”
I chuckle. “Figured you’d say that.”
