He follows with a grunt, which could mean annoyance or humor—it’s hard to say with Gabriel. But I know this: the man needs to be teased and challenged more than anyone I’ve ever met. Sometimes I wonder if he’s been waiting for it, bored out of his mind.
Or maybe I’m the one who’s been waiting. Everything feels strange now, and nothing is as it used to be. Before I was going through the motions of life. Now I’m aware of every step I take. I’m aware of his hand hovering just behind the small of my back as he walks with me, and of the steady cadence of his breathing as we take the elevator down.
Anticipation zings through me, and it’s not because we’re going out for the night; it’s because I’m with him.
We don’t speak as we make our way downstairs and out to the car he’s hired. Doesn’t matter. It’s a comfortable silence, the kind you have with people you’ve known for ages. I suppose sleeping together all the time will do that for you.
He takes us to a club with a long line around it. Not surprisingly, we pull right up to the front door and someone whisks us inside, much to the interest of the people waiting in line.
Inside, it’s packed. Beautiful women, dressed in next to nothing, undulate and sway to the beat. Their eyes track Gabriel’s movements with blatant interest. A few hands reach out to caress, running over his arms and shoulders. One bold woman makes a grab for his ass.
I don’t even realize I’ve hissed at her like a possessive cat until Gabriel gently grasps my elbow and steers me away. “Put away the claws, chatty girl. My honor is secure.”
“I’m pretty sure referring to women as cats is sexist,” I say, never mind I just thought of myself in the same way.
He doesn’t spare me a glance. “I’ll turn in my feminist card when we get home.”
Home. No, I will not enjoy that word too much. It’s temporary. It’s all temporary. And if I remind myself of this enough, I’ll eventually believe it.
Gabriel makes his way to the bar, and I check out the scene while he orders. He comes back with two icy cocktails. “Black mojitos,” he says, handing me one. “House specialty, apparently.”
It’s so rare to see him drink that, when he does, I notice. “Do you not drink often because your dad…”
“Was an alcoholic?” he supplies dryly. “In part. And I don’t like losing control.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would.” But I’d like to see it. Not in an ugly way, but Gabriel unleashed in bed? All that icy power morphing into a powder keg of heat and want?
His blue gaze rakes over my face at that moment. “Why are you blushing?”
“Not blushing. I’m hot, is all.” I take a big sip of my drink. God, that’s good. And dangerous. I cannot get drunk around Gabriel. My mouth will spew all sorts of lewd suggestions.
He gives me a dubious look but says no more.
While we have our drinks, a few techs mess about on the stage, setting up for a concert. I lean closer to Gabriel to be heard above the noise of the house music. “You know who’s playing?”
He gives me a slightly smug look. “Patience, chatty girl.”
By the time we’re finished with our drinks, the lights are dimming. Gabriel sets our glasses on the bar and grabs my hand. His grip is warm and solid as he leads me through the crowd, closer to the stage. It doesn’t surprise me at this point that people step out of his way.
He doesn’t stop right in front of the stage, but a little ways back, so we’re buffeted on all sides by people. The lights go dark and then pop up again in flashes of red and yellow. The band comes onstage, and people cheer. The lead singer is a woman. Aside from her, there are three guitarists, a drummer, and a guy manning a mixing board.
Gabriel moves slightly behind me, as if bracing himself between me and others. I feel the warmth of his body along my skin.
And then the band starts playing. The music isn’t what I expected. It isn’t rock. It’s flamenco with a modern twist—funk, hip-hop, even a bit of Bollywood, blending into a sound unlike anything I’ve ever heard. Happiness is a lightning strike through my system. I jolt and turn my head.
Gabriel’s smiling eyes look down at me. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t need to. But he does pull a little rosebud on a stem from his back jeans pocket. When he picked that up, I don’t know. I’m too shocked, standing there gaping as he tucks it behind my ear.
“There you go, Darling,” he says in my ear. “Now we dance.”
He puts his hands on my hips and begins to move us to the rhythm of the song, picking up the pace as my body starts to respond. And I’m so shocked by the fact that he is willingly dancing, I can’t even form a coherent thought. So I don’t. I let the music take me, let Gabriel’s capable hands and swaying body guide me.