We’re facing each other, my legs bent on either side of his trim waist, knees up by his shoulders. He’s holding himself up, off of me a little. “Are you okay?”
I nod because words are failing me again. He starts to move, gently, slowly, and I swear that makes it worse, so I grab his hips and set his rhythm. Not exactly blinding but faster while still being gentle somehow. My dick is growing between us, like some kind of miracle. I have never been one to get hard so quickly after an orgasm. Another part of me Gabriel brings out that I didn’t think existed.
He sees my erection and immediately lowers his torso so all of his belly is against mine, creating this amazing pressure and friction against my cock. I start moving my hips too and he pants out, “I’m not going to last long.”
"I don't need you to." He twists his hips, bottoms out, and hits my sweet spot.
Oh fucking hell, how is this better than perfect?
Gabriel comes with a lewd moan and whatever’s left in me releases too. I, true to form, don’t linger in the magic of my second orgasm. I’m already thinking about the end of our sequestered time on this yacht and dreading it.
26AXEL
I don’t knowif I blacked out or fell asleep, but when my eyes open again, the horizon out the portholes is streaked with purples and I’m alone. I sit up, there’s the scent of lavender and mint in the room, which is the body wash Gabriel has started using since this trip began, and the air is a little steamy so I know he showered. I have no idea where he is but he won’t be gone long, he left his phone on the night table. As I pull back the covers a text alert lights up the screen and, without thinking, I read the first few words.
It's from Damien. It starts with:
Your father asked me to set up a meeting for…
I head into the bathroom and shower, wondering why Damien is setting up meetings for Louis with his son. Louis and Gabriel used to text each other all the time. And Louis called Gabriel, like the old-school man he is, at least once a day while we were together during the race weeks, but he hasn’t called once since we came to Greece. And I don’t think they’ve messaged either.
I walk out of the shower and back into the bedroom to find Gabriel stretched out on the chaise lounge under the windows. He sits up and grabs the plate he’s got in front of him when I enter. It’s filled with melon and ham and cheese and a cut-up loaf of crusty white bread. "I figured we could haveaperoon the deck. The sunset is kind of amazing.”
Gabriel explained to me when this trip started thataperowas the shortened version of the French word foraperitif, which is the evening hour the French partake in snacks and a cocktail. We’ve been doing it every night of this trip and I kind of love it. I nod and throw on a pair of shorts and underwear. He’s not wearing a shirt so I don’t bother either. I follow him out the patio doors onto the deck. He's right. The pink and purple streaks I saw when I woke up have darkened and the sky is like a Jackson Pollock painting.
“Stunning,” I remark, and he hands me a glass of sangria he poured from the pitcher filled with ice that’s on the small table between two lounge chairs. He must have set this up while I was showering.
He pours his own and we clink glasses. Gabriel gives me a tsk sound. “Do it again and look me in the eyes or it’s bad luck.”
I chuckle but follow orders, making sure I’m staring into those perfect navy eyes but I also frown like it’s a hardship. That makes him grin. He loves when I give him attitude. “Is this superstitious stuff because you’re an athlete?”
“It’s because I’m French,” he replies. “At least this one is.”
After a sip of the cocktail, I drop into a lounge chair and tug on his hand until he's sitting on it too, between my legs, his back pressed into my front. We watch the sunset in silence. He reaches back and pops a piece of ham-covered melon into my mouth before taking his own piece.
“Have you heard from your dad lately?” I ask, hoping it sounds casual.
“Nope.”
“Is he giving us space so our fake honeymoon is just about us?” I hope the joke sounds funny. I’m not good at this—prying, snooping, whatever.
"No he's pouting," Gabriel replies. "I told him I don't want him to handle any race situations anymore. I want to deal with the issues I have with my crew, their bungled pit stops, and whatever else."
“Oh. Okay.” I take another sip of sangria and run my hand over his head. His hair is still damp from his own shower, which I’m sad I slept through.
He turns his head, the grate of his unshaven cheek tickling my nipple. “Okay? As in okay you think I made the right decision?”
Our eyes connect. He looks more vulnerable than I have ever seen him and it makes my heart feel fragile and also too big for my chest. God, this man, with all his hard, devil-may-care attitude, actually cares what I think. And I owe it to him to be honest. I pick my words carefully. “I think it’s the right decision. If you actually do intend to handle it.”
His eyelashes flutter and he sits up. He puts his drink down on the little table beside us and turns sideways so he can look at me better. I don't like the distance it puts between us, physically. It feels like emotional distance too. "You don't think I'll handle it?"
"I think you're more than capable of handling anything," I reply and drop a hand onto the inside of his exposed thigh, on the leg closest to me which is bent and resting on the chaise. "You know how talented you are, and that with or without your dad's money you deserve to be behind the wheel in F1. But you don't make others see that. I mean, you do with your driving, but when they stupidly choose to ignore that. Well, you've let them. This whole season."
"I know but I've decided not to anymore." Gabriel moves a little like he's going to stand up, and that means he's closer to walking away and I hate that idea.
So I hook my hand on his thigh behind that bent knee and give it a little tug. I pull his leg so it’s hanging down the other side of the lounge chair, forcing his whole body to turn to face me. His brow furrows a little bit but he keeps talking. “I saw the way you looked at me when you found out how little the team interacts with me. Helps me. Cheers me on. And I felt like… well, I mean if you’re looking at me like that, then everyone else is too. From the fans to the reporters to the other teams. And while there is something to be said for not giving a flying fuck what other people think, there’s also…”
“A fine line between not caring what they think and looking like you don’t care at all, about anything,” I suggest, and he nods.
