Six in themorning and I am still awake.
Not awake like I woke up early. Awake like I never actually fell asleep in the first place, despite spending the last four hours staring at the ceiling of my doorless bedroom and doing everything in my power to avoid thinking about my kiss with Gabriel.
But it’s hard when I can still feel his callous hands on me. Gabriel's hands.The soft plush of his mouth against mine. How easy it was to breathe each other in as we were caught up in the moment.
But mostly, I'm trying not to think about the dinner the night before. About Dante's hand on my ass. About the sharp sting that somehow translated into something warmer and more dangerous low in my stomach. About the way I gasped, the way Luca smirked and Gabriel watched with those knowing eyes that see entirely too much.
I hate that I can still feel the phantom heat of Dante's palm, the throb that reminds me every time I shift in bed of exactly whathappened. Of the humiliation. Of the way my body betrayed me by responding to something that should have been purely degrading.
I hate that part of me—a part I am absolutely not examining too closely—liked it.
No. Not liked. That's the wrong word. My body reacted. That's all. Just biological response to stimulus. Nothing more.
Except I know that's a lie, and lying to myself at six in the morning while staring at a ceiling I have memorized down to the individual cracks in the plaster feels particularly pathetic.
I give up on sleep entirely, throwing back the covers and padding barefoot across the room. No door means no privacy, which means I cannot even have the dignity of a private crisis without worrying that one of them might walk past and see me having a breakdown in my pajamas.
The house is quiet this early—unnaturally quiet after a week of constant noise and guards and the general chaos of living in what is essentially mafia headquarters. My feet make soft sounds against the hardwood as I make my way downstairs, drawn by the promise of coffee and maybe some space to think without three men watching my every move.
The kitchen is empty when I get there, thank God. I find the coffee maker—Italian and probably worth more than a car—and spend a solid five minutes trying to figure out how to operate it before finally giving up and just boiling water for instant coffee instead.
I am standing at the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil and trying very hard not to think about the offer Gabriel made at dinner the other night, when I hear footsteps behind me.
Heavy. Deliberate. Definitely male.
I turn around, and my brain short-circuits for approximately three full seconds.
Gabriel stands in the doorway wearing nothing but black athletic shorts and running shoes, his chest and abs on full display like this is a completely normal way to encounter someone in a kitchen at six in the morning. His skin is darker than I expected, smooth except for the few scars I can see scattered across his ribs, his shoulders. There is a tattoo over his heart—something in Latin I cannot quite read from here—and another along his ribs that disappears into the waistband of his shorts.
He looks like he was carved out of marble by someone with very specific fantasies about the male form.
I hate that I notice. Hate that my eyes track the lines of muscle definition, the V that points down toward?—
No. Absolutely not. Not doing that. Especially after yesterday morning, when Gabriel kissed me after catching me trying to escape again.
I snap my gaze back up to his face, which is somehow worse because he is smiling at me like he knows exactly where I was looking and is enjoying it immensely.
"Morning, Bella," he says, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Morning," I manage, turning back to the kettle like it requires my full attention.
"Can't sleep?"
"Obviously."
I hear him move closer, feel the air shift as he comes to stand next to me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off his skin. He smells like soap and something woodsy that makes me want to lean in closer, which is absolutely not happening.
"There's a remedy for that," he says, and his voice drops into something lower, darker, laced with innuendo so obvious even I cannot pretend to miss it.
I turn to glare at him. "I'm not fucking you."
The words come out sharper than I intended, defensive and harsh, and I watch his expression shift from amused to something that looks almost offended.
"Jesus, Rosalina," he says, taking a step back and holding up his hands like I just accused him of murder. "I was going to suggest a run."
Oh.
Oh God.
