It is warm, firm, and clearly states, no more.
And nothing is more effective at snapping me out of this madness. Because, really, what the hell am I doing? I don’t even like this guy. Well, I kind of do. Which just blows. Dead end might as well be stamped on Gabriel Scott’s forehead.
The plane has started to rattle hard again. Gabriel shudders, our awkward pause forgotten, and clings to me once more, his breathing erratic.
Comfort. Don’t grope. Just comfort.
That I can do. I think.
* * *
Gabriel
* * *
Oh, how the mighty have fallen. If anyone had photographic evidence of my current predicament, my reputation as a fearsome bastard would be dead in the water. I can almost hear the snickering now—the great, implacable Scottie wrapped around a woman as though she was his woobie.
Killian would never let me hear the end of it. I don’t even want to imagine the shit I’d get from Brenna.
In some ways, plummeting to my death would be preferable.
That was a stupid thing to think. Terror arcs through my body, making my insides swoop and my limbs tingle. And I find myself clinging just a bit more tightly to the strange, softly rounded woman at my side. Perhaps this truly is a nightmare; nothing seems real or makes much sense.
I do not engage in continued conversations with strangers, especially ungovernable, chatty, irreverent women. And I most certainly do not cuddle. I cannot remember the last time I held a woman. The sensation is so foreign, yet pleasurable.
My entire body seems to be straining for greater contact, my skin sensitive and hot beneath my clothes. I want them off with a fierce agitation. I want to feel skin on skin, the warmth and plush give of her flesh.
I will not think about the fact that she snuck her fingers beneath my shirt to stroke my abdomen. The phantom of her touch still burns like a brand on my skin.
The second she played with the buttons of my shirt, I went intensely and painfully hard. I very nearly let her find that out. And if she had? I’d have begged her to give it a squeeze, a friendly stroke and tug. I’d probably have promised her anything if she’d only continue to touch me.
Alarming to say the least. I haven’t a clue what this woman will say or do from one moment to the next. For a man whose life revolves around exerting control over all things, this flicker of attraction is unwanted and unsettling.
Yet for all that, it’s preferable to the well of mindless fear I’d been in before Sophie Darling latched onto me like a limpet.
I take the opportunity of our close proximity to really observe her. At first I thought her pleasant to look at, but nothing remarkable. I was mistaken.
Her profile, clear against the gray of my vest, is a study of graceful curves, gentle swoops, and delicate lines—not merely pleasant but sweetly pretty. However, it is her skin that captures my attention.
I’ve been with women of all skin colors—from deep rose brown to the palest milk white—and that never factored beyond being a basic framework of the woman’s overall beauty. In short, skin as a singularly attractive feature never entered my mind.
But Sophie Darling’s skin is a thing of beauty. Because it’s luminous, extremely smooth, and fine, not a blemish in sight. Its buttery golden hue reminds me of shortbread biscuits. Then again, everything about Sophie reminds me of some sort of sweet treat: tempting but ultimately bad for one’s health.
Doesn’t matter. The longer I look at her skin, the more I want to touch it just to see if it’s as satiny as it appears. I think of Marilyn Monroe—the way she looked on screen, flawless and glowing. But that beauty came from makeup and good lighting. I’m close enough to tell Sophie isn’t wearing foundation or powder.
Without my permission, my hand drifts up her arm, and I trace the curve of her shoulder, heading toward her bare skin. She holds very still, as if she’s tracking the progress. I am too, my heart pounding against my ribs. I can almost hear the beat shouting, stop, stop, stop. But I don’t.
Just one touch. That’s all. I’ll satisfy my curiosity and move on.
The tip of my finger skims the edge of her collarbone. And I close my eyes, fighting a groan. More delicate than satin. Softer than velvet. Smooth, warm. I suck in a deep breath and slowly release it. My hand falls to the safety of the bed.
It’s too quiet, and this damn plane is still shaking.
Keep talking. About anything.
I have no capacity for small talk. Which means I’m in deep shit.
“Why are you going to London?” I blurt out. “On holiday?”
Frankly I’m surprised a woman like Sophie is traveling alone. She seems the type who needs companionship, someone with whom to share her experiences. The idea of her roaming London on her own doesn’t sit well with me, which is ridiculous. She’s a grown woman.
As if to punctuate that thought, she makes a noise of wry humor. “Actually, I’m traveling on business.”