Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Gabriel
The day has been longer than I expected, but I don’t mind.
Erin has been busy the entire time, moving like a little tornado, a force of nature, shaping the terrace where the reception will be held into something out of a dream with nothing but her hands, her vision, and a stash of buckets full of white blooms and greenery.
I watch her, fascinated. The way she instructs her two assistants to take care of the ceremony place, the way her fingers move deftly through petals and stems, sculpting arrangements with an effortless grace that makes me think of something else entirely—how those hands would feel on my skin, how delicate they seem but how much strength they hold.
She doesn’t stop. Not for a break, not for food, not for me.
I’ve learned that about her today. That perfection comes before everything. She forgets to eat and runs herself into the ground before she even considers taking a breath.
So, I push.
Not enough to make her bristle, just enough to remind her I’m here. That she has someone looking out for her. I slip a water bottle into her hands between centerpiece placements. Make sure a plate of hors d’oeuvres lands on the prep table when she’s too distracted to notice her own hunger.
She rolls her eyes every time. But she eats.
And when the ceremony is over, when she’s running on fumes and the bride has insisted, she stays to repurpose the arrangements, I don’t let her lift a damn thing.
Instead, I grab the cart myself, rolling it where she needs it, letting her boss me around while I make a mental list of all the ways I’ll take my revenge later.
By the time the reception is in full swing, she’s finally slowing down. I see it in the way she leans against the table, rubbing her temples. The way her shoulders slump when she thinks no one is looking.
I step behind her, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin.
“You done?” I ask, my voice low.
She startles slightly but doesn’t turn around. “Almost.”
I drag the back of my knuckles down the curve of her spine, slow and deliberate. She shivers, her breath catching.
“Now you are,” I murmur, my hand sliding to the small of her back, guiding her toward the exit. “Let’s go.”
She should protest. Tell me she needs to stay. That she needs to make sure everything is perfect.
But she doesn’t.
She lets me lead her out, past the guests, past the music, past the chaos of a wedding night in full swing.
I hold the door open, and when she steps into the cool night air, she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours.
“See?” I say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You were done.”
She looks up at me, eyes shining under the streetlights, something unreadable in their depths.
I cup her jaw, my thumb tracing the curve of her cheek, my fingers wrapping around the back of her neck, holding her still.
She doesn’t pull away.
So I take what’s mine.
I kiss her. I make the claim on this woman.
Slow at first, coaxing, teasing. But when she makes a soft sound in the back of her throat and presses closer, and I lose whatever patience I had left.
I deepen the kiss, taking my time tasting her, devouring her. My other hand finds her waist gripping, pulling, fitting her against me like she belongs there.
She does.
I break away just enough to drag my lips along her jaw, down the slope of her neck. Her pulse thrums wildly beneath my mouth, and I press my teeth there, not biting, just a warning.
A promise. A claim.
I want her.
Like this. Like more. Like everything.
And when I finally pull back, when I look down at her, breathless and dazed, I know…
She wants me, too.