Chapter 8
The scent of coffee and bacon pulls me from sleep, foreign and out of place in my barren apartment.
I bolt upright, sheets tangling around my legs, my heart hammering. The clock on my nightstand reads nine thirty-seven in the morning, later than I’ve slept in months.
“Fuck,” I whisper, running a hand through my hair.
The night floods back in fragments of Gabriel on his knees, his hot, skilled mouth around my cock, my control slipping away, followed by panic as I shoved him back, fled to my bedroom, and locked the door between us.
A pan clatters in the kitchen, followed by a muffled curse, and heat crawls up my neck, shame burning beneath my skin.
I’d expected Gabriel to take the rejection and disappear. Not to use my kitchen as if it belongs to him.
My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark. No messages from Micah. No word from Rowan about last night’s job. The silence should be comforting, but it only amplifies the sounds from the kitchen.
I throw back the sheets and sit up, my bare feet hitting the cold floor as I pull on yesterday’s jeans. No shirt. Let him see the scars on my chest and back. Maybe they’ll scare him off since my actions haven’t, so far.
The smell of breakfast grows stronger as I step into the hallway. Gabriel stands at my tiny stove, spatula in hand, wearing the same black button-down from last night with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His jacket hangs on the back of a kitchen chair I haven’t used in years.
“Morning,” he says without turning around. “Hope you don’t mind. I found enough food to cobble together breakfast.”
I cross my arms over my bare chest. “What part of last night made you think you were welcome to hang around this morning?”
“No car, remember? And you never told me to get out.” He flips a strip of bacon. “You gave me the choice of sleeping on the couch or leaving.”
“So you chose the couch.”
He tips his chin toward the lumpy furniture, where a folded blanket sits on one armrest, a pillow stacked on top.
His casual comfort in my space sets my skin itching. He doesn’t fit in here among the water stains and bare walls with his designer clothes and easy smile. And yet he moves around my kitchen as if he belongs there, pulling plates from cabinets he had no right to explore.
“Your coffee is on the counter,” he adds, gesturing with the spatula.
A mug steams next to the sink, black and strong, exactly the way I take it.
My stomach twists with hunger and anger in equal measure as I grab the mug, the heat bleeding into my palm. “This doesn’t change anything.”
Gabriel turns to me, his hazel eyes trailing over my bare torso. He bypasses the scars scattered across my skin and the fresh bruises on my ribs, tracing the lines of muscle with appreciation instead of pity.
“Breakfast doesn’t have to change the world, Saint.” He slides eggs onto two plates. “It’s protein and calories.”
My name in his mouth sends a pulse of heat through me that has nothing to do with the coffee.
I take the plate he offers, not bothering to thank him. Buttery rich steam rises from the simple food, which is better than anything I’ve managed in months. Maybe years.
“I don’t appreciate stalkers following me to work,” I say between bites.
Gabriel pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. “If by ‘follow you to work,’ you mean showing up at Foundation like I have every week for the past three months, then sure, I’m guilty.”
“Like a dog that just won’t take the hint, even after you kick him.”
He laughs, the rich sound filling my crappy apartment. “I’m good at reading people, but if you want to think of me like a dog, by all means, do so.”
We eat in silence for several minutes, and the food settles in my stomach, better than I want to admit.
When our plates are empty, I stand and take them to the sink. “I’m going to take a shower. You can leave now.”
“My replacement car won’t be here for twenty more minutes.” He leans against the counter, watching me wash the plates. “I could join you in the shower.”
The phantom sensation of his arms around me and his thighs hugging mine sends blood rushing south. “No.”
I turn away, heading for the bathroom. The door closes behind me with a satisfying click, and I strip off my jeans, dropping them to the floor. The shower hisses and spits before warm water cascades down, steam rising to fog the mirror.
Under the spray, I close my eyes and let the water pound my shoulders. Gabriel’s scent clings to my skin despite the soap, and my cock stirs as memories from last night surface again.
The wet heat of his mouth.
The pressure of his hands on my thighs.
The way he took me deeper than anyone before.
My hand slides down my stomach, wrapping around my hardening length. Water runs in rivulets between my fingers as I stroke, recalling the rhythm Gabriel set.
My free hand braces on the tile wall, head dropping forward as I pump faster. In my mind, Gabriel is still on his knees, mouth open, taking me deep. The fantasy builds, hotter and more vivid than I want it to be.
My breath catches as pressure builds at the base of my spine. Teeth scrape my bottom lip, holding back any sound from escaping. My hips rock forward into my fist, chasing my release.
When it hits, I press my forehead against the cool tile, muscles going rigid as pleasure washes through me. The water carries the evidence down the drain, but shame lingers long past physical satisfaction.
I scrub my skin until it’s pink and raw, trying to erase the ghost of his touch and the heat he left behind on my body.
By the time I step out of the bathroom, the blanket and pillow are put away. For half a second, I think he left, and my stomach squeezes into a knot. Then I find him by the window, phone pressed to his ear, speaking quietly so as not to disturb me.
Gabriel stays with his back to me, unaware of my entrance.
“Have them keep the container yard under surveillance,” Gabriel says into the phone. “If Tony’s people make another move, I want to be informed right away.”
As I take in the kitchen, a prickle of discomfort slides across my skin.
The dishes I left in the drying rack are now put away, and the countertops gleam, cleared of the takeout containers and coffee cups I’d left behind.
Even the floor is cleaner. He must have swept while I lingered in the shower, draining the hot water tank.
I stride to the coffeemaker, getting out a new mug, since the one I used earlier has already been cleaned and put away.
Gabriel turns at the sound of my footsteps, and he raises a finger in acknowledgment, and the casual gesture somehow amplifies my growing unease.
“Keep me updated,” he finishes, ending the call and sliding the phone into his pocket.
Heat crawls up my neck. Did he hear me in the shower? The thought of him listening, knowing what I was doing, sends heat skittering under my skin.
He walks over to the kitchen. “That was Sebastian. I called him last night and asked him to look into our dockworker. He got me Hector Diaz’s home address,” he offers, leaning against the counter.
I scowl into my coffee. While I’d been panicking about getting my dick sucked, Gabriel had been out here, still working.
“His place is in the Oakridge neighborhood,” Gabriel continues. “He renovated a two-bedroom house last year, and it’s suspiciously nice for someone on a port security salary, even accounting for what my family pays him.”
My grip tightens around my mug, irritated by his professional demeanor. He doesn’t seem at all affected by what happened last night.
“He lives with his girlfriend,” Gabriel adds. “She left for work twenty minutes ago, according to the contact Sebastian had watching the house.”
“Contact.” The words come out flat.
Gabriel shrugs. “The Rockfords have resources. I put eyes on his house as soon as we confirmed his involvement.”
“While I slept.”
“While you slept,” he agrees without judgment.
I set my coffee down, the ceramic clinking on the counter. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Diaz is alone now, so this is our window.” Gabriel straightens away from the counter. “We go to his house and put pressure on him.”
My hand flexes. “I like the idea of pressuring him.”
“I’m sure you do.” Gabriel shakes his head with regret. “But we’re just going to bait a trap and see what happens.”
My irritation returns. I’m not used to this kind of slow movement to gather information. Why bait a trap when we can beat the information out of Diaz right now?
Gabriel moves back to the window, peering through the blinds. “Right on time.”
I join him, careful to maintain a distance between our bodies. On the street below, a sleek black car with tinted windows idles at the curb, chrome gleaming in the morning sun.
“Replacement for the stolen one?” I ask.
“Sebastian arranged it.” Gabriel checks the time. “Figured if we’re going to Oakridge, we should blend in. Your modes of transportation would stand out a little too much.”
The words don’t come out with any disparagement. He’s just stating a fact. In a place like Oakridge, the neighborhood watch would clock my motorcycle or beat-up sedan in an instant, while Gabriel’s new ride will blend right in.
“Let’s go then.” I push away from the window, eager to leave this apartment and the lingering remnants of last night’s mistake.
Diaz’s house sits on a corner lot with manicured hedges and a circular driveway where a new SUV gleams under the midday sun. Gabriel pulls up behind it, blocking the vehicle in the driveway.
Through the windshield, I study the stonework facade, copper gutters, and custom front door. It all screams money. Gabriel cuts the engine and climbs out, adjusting his cuffs. I follow a pace behind as he leads the way toward the house.
“How long has he worked for the Rockfords?” I ask as we approach the front door.
“Five years.” Gabriel scans the property. “He started at an entry-level position and moved up quickly. Sebastian flagged him as ambitious.”