I feel everything. The tight, perfect squeeze of her pulsing around me. The wet, filthy squelch of my cum filling her for the second time tonight.
She slumps back against me, boneless, chest rising and falling, her head pressed into my neck.
I don’t pull out.
I just hold her there, keeping us connected, letting myself stay inside her for a little longer. And then finally, when I feel her body soften and the dripping slow, I say, “Let me clean you up and take you to bed,” into her ear.
She nods, eyes still closed, so satiated.
I lift her gently, feel the warm drip of my seed spill onto my thighs, trailing down her pussy, and—fuck, I can’t lie—I love seeing that mess.
Then I carry her upstairs to Rhiannon’s old room, lay her down on the bed, and go to the bathroom. I wet a cloth, clean her carefully, then press a soft kiss to her damp forehead.
She’s already asleep by the time I tuck her in, and I just stand there, looking at her for a second, feeling something that I probably shouldn’t be feeling.
She still spoke like there’d be other men. Like there’d be other dates for her after this night.
I don’t want that.
I turn and head back downstairs to crash on the couch the same way I used to when I was worried about my sisters. Because tonight I need to figure some shit out.
And I need to do some planning.
Chapter 25: Gabriel
“What time are you heading out tonight?” Roman asks, his voice casual in tone, but I know there’s some sort of loaded reason he’s asking that.
Roman doesn’t concern himself with the personal details of anyone’s life but his own. I’m not saying he’s self-centered exactly, but men don’t become self-made billionaires by making small talk and keeping track of things like when their co-owner or employees clock out for the day.
He’s also just gotten back from Miami, where most of his real estate empire lives, and he’s wearing the kind of fresh, easy tan you only get from a few days under expensive sunshine. There’s a sparkle in his light brown eyes too, one that tells me he wasn’t exactly spending every hour of that trip buried in contracts and property tours. I’m guess women were involved. And money. Lots of money.
He strolls up behind me just as I brace the new window that I’m installing, holding it steady while one of my guys works on securing it into place.
This floor is the first of the residential levels for the buildingwe’re flipping—where actual people will eventually live if I can ever finish this project, higher an interior designer and find a realtor to show the units—so every installation has to be airtight, up to code, built to last. There’s no room for shortcuts. People are going to raise families here, work, and build memories.
To me this is the kind of work that matters. The kind of work that reminds me I still need to check on the windows at Natasha and Aly’s place since it felt like they were sleeping outside last time I was inside their home.
“Not sure,” I answer, my grip firm on the frame as he steps closer, looking every bit the polished, good-guy asshole that he always is. Crisp button-down a light blue shade covered with a navy-blue suit jacket, dark jeans hanging just right on his hips, and his hair styled that way that just screams he gets regular, fresh cuts.
Sometimes, I still get irritated thinking about how Aly mistook me for him. I mean, I get it—we do look a lot alike. Same sharp jaw, same dark, hazel eyes and almost black hair. We’ve even got a similar build though I’m much bulkier and he’s more lean muscle.
But that’s where the similarities end. Roman prefers his clothes pressed, his hands clean, his watches to cost in the thousands, his world running on numbers and negotiations. He’d rather sit in a leather chair, barking orders behind his desk, signing off on million-dollar deals while counting his cash and stacking up for a future that he seems to have planned out.
Me? I’d rather build something from the ground up, sweat for it, earn it. Work with my hands and then see it come to fruition like I manifested it. I’d rather wear a cheap watch that tells the time and does nothing more. I’d rather my same ripped, worn jeans and t-shirts since they’re going to get ruined anyway.
And something tells me Aly would rather have a man whodresses and acts like that too.
“Did you do anything for Valentine’s Day?” he asks, voice laced with curiosity.
The window finally holds on its own, and I let go, stepping back as my guy smooths over the last of the caulking. I wipe my hands on my jeans—already dirtier than when I first got here this morning after riding into the city on my bike. A ride I needed after last night to clear my head even if my back and ass are going to be paying for it.
After Aly.
Did I push her too far?
Did I give her what she needed?
Did I make myself clear that I don’t want to hear about other men?
