Chapter 12 Gabe
GABE
Iwake with a start; sheets twisted around my waist, and my cock aching hard. Fragments of dreams linger—Amelia’s soft moans, the way she trembled against the piano, the taste of her on my fingers. I drag my tongue across my lips, chasing the phantom flavor that’s haunted me all night.
My phone buzzes. The name on the screen wipes away any lingering pleasure.
Vincent Caruso.
Three missed calls since 5 AM. Fuck.
I shower, ignoring the urge to take myself in hand with thoughts of midnight blue silk and paint-stained fingers. No time for indulgence when a problem like Caruso is circling.
Adrian’s chocolate boutique is empty when I arrive, the CLOSED sign still hanging. He’s waiting in the back room, tempering chocolate with the same meticulous focus he applies to everything.
“Caruso’s asking questions about the basement,” I say without preamble.
Adrian doesn’t look up from his work. “What kind of questions?”
“The wrong kind. One of his renovating crews hit a water main near The Blue Room yesterday. While they were fixing it, a health inspector mentioned the smell complaint from the other night.”
“And now he’s curious.” Adrian slides the thermometer into the glossy chocolate. “You need to deal with this, Gabe. Properly.”
“I know.” I pace the narrow workspace. “He’s connected. If he disappears, people notice.”
“Then don’t make him disappear.” Adrian looks up. “Make him lose interest. You have the perfect distraction—your artist. Invite Caruso to see you looking normal. Happy. Involved.”
“Use Amelia as cover?” The suggestion makes my jaw clench.
“Unless there’s a problem with that arrangement?”
I turn away, unwilling to let him see my expression. Last night plays through my mind—Amelia’s pulse beneath my lips, the way she yielded to me, trusted me. The fierce possessiveness that seized me when I tasted her.
“She’s not just cover,” I admit.
“Then you have a bigger problem than Caruso.” Adrian’s voice hardens. “You’re getting sloppy, Gabe. The smell. The inspector. Now Caruso. These are mistakes you shouldn’t have made.”
He’s right, and that terrifies me. For the first time in years, I’m taking risks. Making errors.
Errors get people killed.
I text Amelia before leaving Adrian’s shop.
Dinner at The Blue Room tonight? 8pm. Full club experience this time.
Her response comes quickly:
I’ll be there. Should I dress up?
Yes. For me.
The club hums with Friday night energy when she arrives—jazz trio on stage, cocktail shakers working overtime, the sweet tone of saxophone filling every corner.
But the crowd parts like magic when Amelia walks in.
She’s wearing a deep emerald dress that clings to her curves, thin straps revealing constellations of freckles across her shoulders.
I guide her through the crowd, my hand on the small of her back. Several patrons turn to watch her pass. Mine, I think savagely, tightening my grip.
“Best table in the house,” I say, seating her in a secluded corner with a perfect view of both the stage and the bar. I’ve arranged everything—the wine is already breathing, and a special menu has been prepared. I watch her eyes take it all in, pleasure flowing across her face.
“You see things differently,” I say, pouring her wine. “I want to know how you see my world.”
She smiles, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Maybe I’m observing you in your natural habitat.”
Halfway through our meal, a commotion erupts at the bar. A drunk businessman, red-faced and swaying, grabs our newest server by the wrist.
“I said another fucking drink,” he slurs, yanking her closer.
I’m across the room in seconds. One hand on his shoulder, thumb pressing a pressure point. My voice low, for his ears alone.
“You’re embarrassing yourself. Let her go, walk outside, and the car I’m calling will take you home. Or make this difficult, and you’ll regret it for weeks.”
The businessman releases the server instantly, apparently convinced by something in my eyes.
When I return to our table, Amelia’s watching me, her cheeks flushed, her pupils dilated.
“You’re good at controlling people,” she observes, tracing the rim of her wine glass. “Knowing exactly what they need. What they want.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing to you?” I ask. “Controlling you?”
“Maybe.” Her eyes meet mine. “But I think I like it.”
The air between us crackles.
I slide back into my seat, feeling the heat of her gaze following my every move. The jazz trio begins a slow, seductive number—a perfect backdrop to the tension building between us. My fingers brush hers as I refill her wine glass, the brief contact sending a current through me.
“That’s quite an observation,” I say, leaning closer. The candlelight catches the gold flecks in her amber eyes. “What else do you see when you look at me, Amelia?”
She takes a deliberate sip of wine, leaving a crimson stain on her bottom lip that I ache to taste.
“I see someone who watches from the shadows. Someone who understands the darkness in beautiful things.” Her voice drops lower. “Like my paintings.”
“Is that what drew you to me? The darkness?”
“Partly.” She tilts her head. “But also, how you listen. How you really see me.”
The sultry notes of the saxophone wind around us like smoke. I reach across the table, tracing patterns on her inner wrist with my thumb. Her pulse jumps beneath my touch.
“Dance with me,” I say, not a question but not quite a command.
When she stands, the emerald fabric of her dress catches the light, transforming her into something otherworldly.
I lead her to a small space near the stage where a few other couples sway to the music.
My hand finds the small of her back, drawing her against me until I can feel the heat of her body through the thin layers separating us.
“The first time I saw your work,” I whisper against her ear, “I knew you understood something essential about the world that most people miss.”
Her fingers curl against the nape of my neck, sending shivers down my spine.
“And what’s that?” she asks, her breath warm against my throat.
“That beauty and terror exist in the same moment.” I guide her through a slow turn, my lips brushing her temple. “That the most exquisite experiences happen at the edge of darkness.”
Her body melts against mine as we sway to the music, the curve of her waist fitting perfectly in my palm. The scent of her—paint and jasmine and warm skin—fills my lungs with every breath. I guide her through another turn, bringing her back against my chest harder this time.
“You’re trembling,” I murmur against her ear, my lips brushing the delicate skin.
“Am I?” Amelia leans her head back against my shoulder, exposing the long, vulnerable line of her throat. I resist the urge to bite down, to mark her as mine. Plenty of time for that later.
My fingers trace up her arm, feeling goosebumps rise in their wake. “Cold?”
“No.” She turns in my arms, her eyes meeting mine with startling directness. “Not cold at all.”
The saxophone player hits a long note that seems to vibrate through both our bodies. I slide my hand lower on her back, grazing the swell of her ass, testing her boundaries. She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she presses closer, her breasts against my chest, her thigh slipping between mine.
“People are watching us,” she whispers, but there’s no shame in her voice—only a dark excitement that mirrors my own.
“Let them watch.” I cup her face with my free hand, thumb brushing across her lower lip. “I want them to see who you’re with tonight.”
Her pupils dilate further, those hazel eyes nearly black with desire. My cock hardens against her hip, and I make no effort to hide it. She knows exactly what she does to me.
“Take me somewhere private,” she says, her voice husky. “Show me more of your world.”
I lean down, my mouth a breath away from hers, denying us both the satisfaction of a kiss. “Not yet.” My fingers tangle in her hair, tugging enough to make her gasp. “When I finally take you, Amelia, I want you desperate for it.”
She makes a small, needy sound in the back of her throat that sends heat straight to my groin. “And if I’m already desperate?”
My laugh is low and dangerous. “Then I’ll make you wait anyway.”
Amelia’s eyes flash with something dangerous—a challenge, perhaps, or recognition of the game we’re playing.
She bites her lip, the slight indent of her teeth against that plump flesh making my cock ache.
“You enjoy this, don’t you?” she whispers, her fingers trailing up my chest. “The control. The anticipation.”
“Almost as much as you enjoy surrendering to it.” I capture her wandering hand, bringing her fingertips to my mouth. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Her breathing stutters. “You’re not wrong.”
The music shifts to something slower, darker, with a bass line that vibrates in my chest like a second heartbeat. I pull her closer, my thigh pressing between her legs. The heat of her core burns against me even through layers of fabric.
“I’ve thought about you every night,” I confess, surprising myself with this truth. “What I’d do if I had you alone. Truly alone.”
She arches against me almost imperceptibly. “And what would you do?”
I trail my fingers up her bare arm, watching goosebumps follow my touch. “I’d take my time. Learn every inch of you. Find out what makes you beg.”
Her pupils dilate further, nearly swallowing the amber of her irises. “Maybe I don’t beg.”
“Everyone begs eventually for the right person.”
Over Amelia’s shoulder, I spot Vincent Caruso entering the club, his eyes scanning the crowd. Perfect timing.
“Wait for me until closing,” I murmur against her skin. “I have something special to show you in my office. Something no one else has seen.”
Her smile turns wicked. “Is that a promise or a threat, Mr. Dawson?”
“With me,” I say, tracing the line of her jaw, “it’s always both.”