“You’re taking a piss,” I tell her with a laugh. “I refuse to believe you can’t tell the difference between the two.”
“I’m not…” She puts a hand up and finger quotes, “‘taking a piss.’ I’m just don’t see what the big deal is. Pick a favorite, already.”
“No. It’s like that old dilemma of trying to choose between The Beatles and The Stones. It can’t be done.”
Her blunt nose wrinkles, and I have the overwhelming urge to kiss it. “Of course it can be done,” she says, oblivious to my thoughts. “The Beatles for joy or nostalgia. The Stones for drinking or sex.”
At the word sex my cock jumps as if to remind me that I’ve been ignoring him and he is not amused. I tilt my hips toward the bed and press my irritable cock to the mattress. The randy bastard jerks in protest. I empathize with my needy willy. Truly. But some things are worth more.
Keep telling yourself that, mate.
“Why not The Beatles for sex?” I can’t help asking. Mistake. Turning any conversation towards sex is playing with fire. But apparently I like the sweet pain of being slowly burned.
Sophie shrugs, sending the white sheet farther down the curve of her shoulder. “Name one Beatles song that’s sexier than a Stones’ song.”
I stare at her shoulder. Her fucking shoulder has me enthralled. And it isn’t even bare. Every night, she wears an over-sized t-shirt and little boy-short panties to bed. I’m fully aware she believes this to be as sexless an outfit as she can manage to sleep in—I’ve tried the same, usually wearing loose lounge pants and a t-shirt—but she is wrong.
Her breasts, unfettered by a bra, are soft and round. Trying not to notice them sway and bounce beneath thin cotton that lovingly clings to her shape is impossible. Every fucking night, I imagine rolling her onto her back and sliding the shirt up over her fantastic tits.
I’ve pictured it so many times, holding her hands over her head so her back arches and lifts those plump mounds high. I’d drink in my fill, just looking, making her squirm as she waits for first contact. I’d take it slow, pepper kisses over every inch, leaving the buds of her nipples for last when she’s whimpering for me to suck them.
The notion of sucking on Sophie’s tits has my tongue pressing to the roof of my mouth. Shit. I clear my throat, try to focus on her question. What was the question again?
“I can’t think of an answer,” I tell her truthfully.
She makes a sound of triumph. “See? I’m always right.”
“Keep telling yourself that, chatty girl. Won’t make it true.”
Our hands are so close that our fingers nearly brush. I keep still. And it is an act of will, an exercise I endure every night. There are rules: I can hold her, but I cannot explore. No stroking of her skin, no drifting of my hands. I can tuck her up against my side or press her back to my stomach, but no letting my hard cock grind into her plump arse.
And when we lie together like this, talking deep into the night, I never, ever focus on her mouth. That mouth, plush and rosy, always moving—talking, pursing, smiling. I want to lick up her smile, suck in her words, her laugh.
And yet it is her smile and her laugh that holds me back from taking what I want. Because this isn’t solely about sex; if it was, I’d have fucked her already. This is uncomfortably more.
I have never experienced intimacy. I did not know how good it felt to simply be with someone and let everything else melt away. The world can fuck off when I’m with Sophie Darling. There is only us. I don’t have to be anyone else but Gabriel.
If I give into my base wants it will complicate things. I do not know how to be a boyfriend. Hell, I hate that sodding word. It sounds juvenile and inadequate. If I claimed Sophie, she’d be mine. I’d be hers. And I’d cock it up.
My life is Kill John. Where would that leave Sophie? With a cold, emotionally stunted bastard who’s barely there?
“I love Spain,” she whispers now, breaking me out of my brooding.
I watch her in the dark. “Why do you love Spain?”
“I don’t know. It’s something in the air. I want to go dancing, eat tapas, get drunk on Sangria.”
“Small list,” I murmur. “Dancing, eh?”
She glances my way, her eyes flashing in the dim light. “I know it sounds stereotypical as hell, but I think of Spain, and I imagine flamenco dancing while wearing some frothy skirt with a flower in my hair.”
A low chuckle escapes me. “Do you know how to dance flamenco?”
“In my mind I do. And I’m fabulous.”
“You always did have an elaborate imagination, chatty girl.”
She gives me a happy, agreeing hum, and then spins her pillow to the other side; something she does when she’s ready to sleep. It’s a cool gel pillow she bought after falling victim to Libby and Killian’s sales pitch about this “magical” pillow and how it would give her the best sleep of her life.