Twenty-Seven #2
I press my palm flat against his sternum.
Gabriel freezes.
Under my hand, his heartbeat kicks. A hard, erratic thud.
“You stayed,” I say.
The words scrape out of me, surprised. For seven years, the story was always that he ran. That he chose his draft stock, the brand, the easy way out, leaving me to bleed alone.
But tonight he dropped Westfield’s script on the floor. He handed me the microphone. When security charged the stage to silence me, he dropped his shoulder and blocked the lane, daring them to go through him. He didn’t just stand there while I burned his pristine life down. He struck the match.
He covers my hand with his own. His palm is hot, his grip tight enough to whiten his knuckles.
“I’m not going anywhere, Ivy.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m done lying.”
The air in the room goes thin.
My pulse hammers in my throat, a frantic rhythm that demands an answer. I look at his mouth. Then his eyes. He’s looking at me like I’m the only solid thing left in the world, and it terrifies me.
I need to shut that look down. I need to drag this back to something I understand.
I step into his space.
“Then do something about it,” I challenge.
His eyes flare.
“Ivy—”
“Touch me.”
It comes out like a dare. A demand.
He hesitates, his hands hovering at my waist, fighting the instinct to be careful.
I don’t want careful. I want the crash. Need.
I grab his wrists and slam his hands onto my hips.
“Don’t you dare be gentle,” I hiss.
That snaps the last thread.
Gabriel makes a rough sound and drags me in.
His mouth hits mine hard enough to bruise.
Teeth clash against lips. Stubble scrapes my chin. The impact jars my spine, sharp and grounding in a way the adrenaline wasn’t.
He tastes of the cold night air and the whiskey fume hanging in the space between us.
I fist my hands into his shirt, twisting the fabric until the buttons dig into my palms. I haul him closer, needing to feel the heat radiating off his skin to chase away the cold.
He drives me backward.
My hips slam into the edge of the bar.
The wood bites into my lower back.
I don’t flinch. I wrap my leg around his waist and pull him down, letting the heavy, solid weight of him crush the shaking right out of me.
Finally.
I arch into him, my back grinding against the wood. The pain sharpens everything. His hands dig into my hips, fingers bruising through silk. Good. I need marks. Proof this isn’t some fever dream where we walk away clean.
He breaks the kiss. His mouth drags down my neck, teeth grazing collarbone. I yank at his shirt buttons. Fabric rips. One button pings off the bar top and skitters across the floor.
His laugh rumbles low, more growl than amusement. “Eager.”
“Shut up.”
I shove the shirt off his shoulders. It catches at his elbows. I don’t care. His skin burns under my palms—hard planes of muscle, a fresh bruise blooming purple along his ribcage. Road rash from whatever fight he’s been chasing.
He grabs my waist and lifts. My ass hits the bar top. Bottles rattle. The half-poured whiskey sloshes, spilling more amber across the wood.
Messy. Urgent. Exactly how I want it.
His hands slide up my thighs, bunching the dress. Silk tears at the seam. I hook my fingers into his belt loops and pull him between my legs. His hips slot against mine, the pressure immediate and insistent.
I rock into it. Friction sparks low in my gut.
He groans against my throat.
“Here?” His voice gravel. Question or warning, I don’t know.
The bar top digs into my tailbone. Cold wood under my thighs.
The office sits five steps away. Privacy. Heat. A bed that’s seen too many of my sleepless nights.
I shove off the bar, feet hitting the rubber mat. My stockings snag on splintered wood.
“Follow me.”
He doesn’t argue. His arm bands around my waist, half-carrying, half-dragging me through the doorway.
The pullout couch waits, unfolded and rumpled. Gray sheets twisted from my last crash here, pillow flattened. The single bulb overhead casts harsh shadows across the mattress.
My stockings catch again the second I step inside.
“Fuck these things.”
I hike my dress up and hook my fingers under the ruined nylon, peeling it down and discarding it near my desk chair. My underwear goes with it.
I shove him back. He hits the edge of the pullout and sits hard enough to make the springs complain. I climb into his lap before he settles, my knees bracketing his hips.
His hands come up automatically, landing on my thighs. I catch both wrists and pin them to the mattress.
“My pace.”
His eyes darken. “Bossy.”
“Problem?”
He shakes his head once. “No.”
My lip twitches.
I roll my hips once. The friction punches heat straight through me, and his breath catches, fingers flexing under mine—but he leaves them exactly where I put them.
Good.
I let one wrist go, reach behind myself for the zipper with one hand and find his belt with the other. The buckle clinks. The silk gives. I shrug one strap loose while his zipper rasps down, and I shove his trousers lower on his hips.
He’s ready. Hard. I wrap my hand around him and stroke once. Twice.
He hisses, hips bucking. “Ivy—”
“Quiet.”
Then his free hand leaves the mattress. Callused fingers climb my ribs as the loosened dress slips lower, and his palm closes over my breast, thumb circling.
Memory slams in. Calgary. A hotel room. My body getting ahead of me. Walking out happy—and losing everything my father spent his life paying for.
Every muscle locks. Ice floods my veins.
Gabriel feels it instantly. His hand disappears, back to my waist, and he goes still beneath me, even his breathing held.
“Sorry.” Voice tight. “I didn’t—”
I grab his hand before he can retreat any farther. Put it back. Cover it with mine and press.
“I didn’t say stop.”
I tip his chin up, force his eyes to mine. He stares back, wrecked and raw.
“This is now,” I say. “Not then.”
He nods once. His thumb moves again—slow, careful, then firmer when I press harder.
I lift. Guide him beneath me. Sink down.
The stretch steals my breath. He fills me, inch by slow inch, and for a beat neither of us moves—just his forehead against mine, both of us holding still while my body decides.
Then I move.
Up. Down. My pace. His hands settle on my hips, holding without steering. Sweat beads on his chest; I taste salt when I lean down, mouth on his collarbone.
The rhythm catches. Builds.
He braces a foot for leverage, drives up to meet me.
Too hard.
A metallic clang cracks under us as his heel slips off the edge and shoots straight through the gap in the frame. The whole bed lurches sideways and takes us with it.
For one spectacular second there’s nothing but springs, limbs, and both of us swearing.
Gabriel hisses a breath through his teeth, his rhythm gone, his leg trapped in the mechanics of my office furniture.
I freeze, hovering above him, my hands braced on his shoulders.
He stares at me, half-buried in crappy springs, expression caught between frustration and amusement.
A laugh bubbles up from my gut. “This bed’s a piece of shit,” I say.
His mouth quirks. “Fits the night.”
I shift, pulling his leg free. The movement seats him deeper. Laughter dies in my throat, replaced by a moan.
We adjust. I rock forward. He thrusts up.
Better. Deeper.
The creaking turns rhythmic. Springs protest with every move.
I bounce on Gabriel, his gaze on me as if seeing me for the first time. Leaning forward, I rake my fingers through his hair and kiss him, our tongues crashing, wrestling. The ache builds and bubbles hot in my core. I control it until I can’t. I yield.
But I want more. Need.
Breaking our kiss, I slide off and turn. Knees on the mattress, hands braced on the back of the couch.
He positions himself behind me. One hand on my hip, the other sliding up my spine.
“Is this—?”
“Yes.”
He pushes in. Slow at first. Testing.
I arch back. “Harder.”
He obliges. Thrusts deep. The angle hits different. Sharper.
I grip the cushion.
His pace quickens. Desperate now. Imperfect—our bodies don’t sync every time. He slips once and has to readjust. I push back, meeting him halfway.
Sweat slicks my skin. The room smells of us—salt, sex, spilled whiskey from the bar.
His hand slides around, fingers finding the spot. Circles. Pressure builds.
The release rips through me. I throw my head back and cry out. It rolls through in waves, each one wringing me out further until I’m shaking. Coming down feels like surfacing, every inch of me loose and spent.
Gabriel follows. Two more thrusts. A groan. He collapses over me, forehead to my back, breath ragged.
We stay like that. Bodies tangled. Mattress sagging.
Human. Messy. Real.
He pulls out slow. I wince. The bed creaks one last protest as we shift.
I roll onto my back. Stare at the water-stained ceiling. I suck in air, my lungs burning.
Gabriel drops beside me. Arm flung over his eyes. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
The silence stretches. I let it.
I turn my head. His profile cuts sharp in the dim light—cleft chin, stubble, the faint scar on his lip.
He feels my gaze. Lowers his arm. Meets my eyes.
“You okay?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Adrenaline leaks out of me in a slow drain. My muscles go heavy, skin buzzing from too much, then not enough. The space heater in the corner kicks on with a shudder and a low whirr, pushing out a wave of baked-dust heat.
Gabriel shifts beside me. The pullout complains, springs shrieking under his weight. He tries to fold his giant frame to match the cheap mattress, feet hanging a good half-foot past the end. When he bends his knees, his shins clip the edge, and he has to hook one leg over mine just to stay on.
I stare at him trying to fold six?three of NHL forward onto discount foam and metal bars. I know how this bed treats a normal-sized back; I’ve been crashing on it. Thin padding, steel knife lines across the spine. For him, it’s going to be a full-contact seminar in regret by morning.
The room smells of sex, sweat, old fabric, and spilled whiskey. Hot, stale air.
I drag in a shallow breath. It catches halfway.
“We shouldn’t stay here.”