Chapter 18 Alessia
I thought the water pressure in my bathroom was nice, but the upstairs bathroom that Gabriel, Eden, and I now share in his home?
Way better.
It’s the kind of water pressure that makes you close your eyes and let out a sinful little moan as the heat works its way into your muscles.
Gabriel must have installed some sort of water softener in here too because I can feel my skin start to smooth and gentle.
It’s not harsh like the direct stream of boiling water I blast at myself in Natasha’s.
It’s obvious the Carpenter house has been taken care of by a man who knows exactly what he’s doing and weaves pride into everything his hands touch.
The place is solid, well-built, every detail intentional.
New hardwood floors stretch through both levels of the home, the walls are painted in carefully chosen shades—warm taupe, deep greens, soft blues—that tie everything together with an easy, lake house luxury feel.
It’s the kind of house that smells like cedar and clean linen, like coffee brewing in the morning and the crisp bite of the winter air slipping through the cracks when you step outside.
It’s nothing like the home that Natasha and I are currently living in that’s seen better days and needs some serious repairs.
Even Rhiannon’s old room—though still looking like she could walk in at any moment—is well maintained.
It smells clean, the windows look like new, and the floor is swept.
The bed, though, is not nearly as comfortable as the new one that I splurged on at Natasha’s place which might be an issue since I love my sleep.
I step out of the shower, toweling off. My skin is still flushed from the heat, but it’s not dry despite the cold, winter weather. I take in the little details of the bathroom—light green tiles stretching from the shower to the sink, rose gold fixtures catching the glow of the vanity lights.
There’s something about the combination that feels fresh, expensive, and thoughtful.
I remember the quick glimpse I got of the building he and Roman are building in New York before I went to the bar where I kissed him that first night.
It was apparent even then that he knows what he’s doing with a renovation.
He sees the vision when it’s still bones and then follows it through like he does with everything in life.
I wonder how much of this was Eden’s creativity and vision and how much was Gabriel’s execution. Or maybe both of them working together.
I met Eden briefly at game night a couple of weeks ago, but we didn’t get a chance to talk much since I was knocking back tequila shots and making heart eyes at her older brother.
Now that we’re living under the same roof, I’m nervous and excited to get to know the youngest Carpenter sibling.
She’s probably the closest person to Gabriel these days.
He’s been like a father to her for the last fifteen years of her life.
I wonder if he was a tough one or if he allowed her space to make mistakes and learn.
Something tells me it was the latter. That he was patient and kind, even when he was trying to navigate his career, divorce and all the pressure pressed on his shoulders that he wasn’t ready to take on.
I pull out my hair dryer, fingers combing through my damp curls as I work.
Then lotion—cocoa butter, my favorite—gliding over my skin until I’m soft and slippery.
I shaved every inch of my body for tonight, though I have no idea how things will go but you know…
just in case. My makeup is light but pretty.
A touch of highlighter. Just a little mascara.
Lips plumped and glossy. I hope it’s enough to mask my nerves.
By the time I crack open the bathroom door, there’s steam billowing out into the hallway. I peek both ways to be sure the coast is clear, I feel good. Fresh, glowing, confident, and ready for wherever the night takes me on my date.
I tiptoe back to my room that I’m borrowing for the next week and dig through my bag until I find the dress. It’s black. Form-fitted. One that I used to love wearing when I’d go out with my girlfriends after college. Before my lying, cheating ex ruined my self-confidence.
I slip on the same heels I was wearing earlier then tug on the dress, smoothing the fabric down my waist, the hem hitting just high enough on my thighs to make it clear I didn’t come to this date to play it safe.
It still fits like a glove.
Maybe a tighter glove than last time I wore it, but that’s fine. I’m making it work. Except there’s one small problem…
The zipper.
I twist, squirm, push the dress half down over my hips, zip it halfway, then yank it back up.
I reach behind my neck, stretching awkwardly in the mirror—but nothing.
It doesn’t budge. I try again, rolling my shoulders, contorting like some kind of desperate acrobat, hoping to get the zipper to come up without tearing it in two pieces—still nothing.
This isn’t good. I can’t wear the dress if I can’t get it zipped.
I weigh my options.
A) Go find Gabriel and ask for help. Hopefully he’s still home. I wish Eden was here but she’s still in the city for school.
B) Ditch the dress that I know I look hot in and settle for leggings and an oversized shirt instead. That’s the only other thing I brought over tonight when I was rushing out the door, fumbling around in the dark before the last sliver of daylight disappeared in Natasha’s home.
The decision takes exactly one second. I’m wearing this damn dress.
I’ve spent too long holding myself back to start now.
I slip my heels back on and step onto the upstairs landing, listening for any noises that tell me I’m not alone.
The house is too quiet. Even though Gabriel told me to make myself at home, I feel like an intruder as I pad downstairs, trying my best not to make too much sound.
The living room? Empty.
The kitchen? Empty.
His car and motorcycle are still in the driveway, so he has to be somewhere...
Then I hear it.
The low, steady buzz of a table saw humming from somewhere outside. I step toward the window, rising onto my toes, and—
Oh.
Gabriel is outside.
Shirtless and sweaty.
Despite the fact that it’s twenty-seven degrees outside and there’s still a few patches of snow in the yard from last week’s storm, he’s out there wearing practically nothing.
I’m pretty sure the lake a few yards past his property line is still frozen over and the birds haven’t returned from their migration.
But there he is... Jeans slung low on his strong hips, table saw buzzing as he moves a sander over the top of what looks like is a newly constructed table.
And holy lumberjack dreams.
His biceps flex, muscles rolling beneath inked skin, every movement controlled, powerful and hypnotizing.
The sander glides over the wood, dust catching in the cold air before settling over the frost-dusted grass like snowflakes.
His broad shoulders move in an easy rhythm, like he was built for this—hands rough, work calloused, knowing exactly how much pressure to use and when.
How to shape the grain into something smooth and perfect.
I’m sure there’s a metaphor there, I just can’t think straight to find it.
He shifts slightly, hitting a different angle, and that’s when I realize that my hands are at my throat, wrapped around it squeezing while I watch him. My thighs are pressed together. And my pussy is wet.
This is by far the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. What was I thinking moving in here with him?
He reaches up, brushing his inky, black hair from his face, jaw tightening as his fingers rake through the strands like it’s bothering him.
Then he sets the sander down, dips a brush into something—epoxy, maybe?
—and smooths it over the tabletop with long, measured strokes that turn the smooth wood a beautiful, dark brown, wet, shade.
Slow.
Brush.
Even.
Brush.
Glossy.
Brush.
He knows what he’s doing. Like he’s done it a hundred times before. Like he could do it in his sleep.
He brings the table’s grain to life and puts on the finishing touches. It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen such a gorgeous, handmade piece. Whoever he’s making it for is lucky.
I swallow hard. I need to ask him to zip my dress. But that table...
It’s so wet.
And so am I.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to form words right now. I never thought a guy doing manual labor was my thing, but this changes everything.
Blue-collar wet dream.
Brookhaven wet dream.
There’s something about watching him that reminds me Gabriel knows more than how to use his hands for pleasure. He doesn’t sit at an office, typing on a computer all day, sending emails to make his living. He’s using his hands. Cutting boards. Banging nails. Applying epoxy.
I shake my head, ducking away from the window feeling embarrassed and grateful I didn’t get caught. Sure, it’s not enough to stop watching, but enough to pretend I have some self-control.
But I don’t.
Not really.
Not when I’m taking a deep breath and telling myself to just do it.
And not when I’m stepping outside with my dress half-zipped, my bare back completely exposed to the bite of the cold.
And not when I push my tits higher in the corset style bodice, adjusting the hem just enough to be borderline trashy to try to get his attention.
The air is sharp against my freshly washed skin, and it smells like more snow is coming. His eyes find me instantly, cutting through the cold air like a brand.
His smile is easy at first, warm like he’s happy to see me out here. Then his focus shifts as he sets down the brush he was using and realizes what I’m wearing. His gaze runs over me, lingering a little too long at my chest and then finally, at my heels.
His eyes narrow slightly.