Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
I should pull away. I should run.
But I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything except feel his hand on my skin, his breath on my neck, his presence surrounding me like a cage.
“You still want me, too.” It’s not a question. His other hand comes up, turning me to face him. “I can see it. Feel it. Your body remembers, even if you want to pretend it doesn’t.”
“I’m not pretending anything.” My voice comes out barely above a whisper. “I never stopped wanting you. Not even tonight,” I admit. “Not even with all the horrible things you’ve said.”
“I think it’s time to remind you,” he says, his voice like a low growl in my ear.
“Of what?”
His mouth hovers over mine, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath. “Of what you threw away,” he says, then yanks me to him, his mouth closing hard over mine.
It’s nothing like the kisses we used to share—wild, yes, but full of hope and love. This kiss is punishment. Possession. Five years of fury distilled into the press of his lips against mine, hot and demanding.
I should push him away. Should run. He thinks I tried to murder him. He’s spent years planning my destruction. This is manipulation, not desire. This is revenge, not love.
I know all of that. But god help me, I kiss him back.
Because underneath the rage and the scars and the coldness, it’s still Gabe.
Still the man who saw me when no one else did.
The man who gave me a name that was just for us, who painted me like I was something precious, who made me believe I could be more than my father’s little wind-up toy to torture and manipulate.
Who somehow—someway—will come to realize what he surely knows deep inside—that I would never, ever hurt him.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer. He responds by backing me into the sofa, then lifting me onto it, his body covering mine before I can draw breath.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice is ragged against my throat, his mouth trailing fire along my skin. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
I can’t. The words won’t come. Because despite everything—despite the accusations and the hatred and the long years of grief—my body remembers his. Craves his. Comes alive under his touch in ways it never has for anyone else.
“I want it,” I say, then look up to see a spark of something in his eyes. Surprise, yes. But also respect.
One hand slips up under my tank top to tease my nipple while he slides the other down, his fingers sliding into my yoga pants to find my clit. Electricity sizzles through me, and I arch up, gasping.
“That’s it,” he says, tugging my pants off, while I do the same with my top.
He’s already shed his suit coat, and I fumble with the buttons of his shirt as his eyes travel over my bare chest with a hunger that makes my cunt throb.
“Still so beautiful,” he murmurs. “I used to dream about this, you know. When I was recovering. When the pain was so bad, I thought I’d lose my mind. I’d close my eyes and imagine you. Imagine this. Imagine my cock inside you. My mouth on yours.
“Gabriel—” His name is a moan of pure need.
“And then I’d remember what you did.” His hand closes hard over my breast, his fingers so tight on my nipple that I suck in air, wincing. “That’s when the wanting would turn to hatred. And the hatred would turn back to wanting. Around and around, for five fucking years.”
I stiffen, because for the first time ever, I’m truly afraid of this man.
His hand slips lower, his fingers teasing my core, and I have to fight to hang on to some semblance of rational thought.
I tell myself he won’t hurt me—except I don’t believe it. He thinks I tried to murder him. The man I have loved for years actually believes I had something to do with the horror in Aspen. I need to remember that.
Then all rational thought evaporates as he thrusts deep inside me.
“Already so wet,” he murmurs. “Does this turn you on? Knowing I hate you. Knowing I want you? Does it make you feel powerful?”
I try not to, but I actually whimper. “Please.”
“Please, what? Please stop? Or please make you come?”
I don’t answer.
“Tell me you want this.”
“I want this,” I lie. Except—damn me—it’s not a lie.
“Tell me not to stop.”
I tilt my head so that I can meet his eyes. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
“There she is. The horny little bitch. And don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not going to stop.”
His voice is dark velvet, promising things I can’t name.
“I won’t stop until you come apart. Not until you scream my name. Not until you remember who you belong to. And not until you truly understand how deeply I know you now. What you are. What you’re capable of. You destroyed me, Isabella. You and your father. And I’m going to return the favor.”
The words are horrible, but my body doesn’t seem to care, and when he thrusts in another finger, I cry out, wanting both to escape and to stay like this forever, hating myself for wanting.
For craving. For making up stories in my head that if I just surrender, he’ll finally see the truth. That he’ll be Gabe again.
But those are just sweet lies. I know the truth. I know that I’m surrendering to a man who hates me.
But I’ve craved his touch for far too long to care that this is a mistake, that I’m giving him an advantage. It doesn’t matter. Right now, all I want is him. The rest is white noise.
He thrusts deeper, and I cry out, the rhythm of his thrusts designed to drive me insane—building me higher and higher, pushing me toward the edge with devastating precision.
“That’s it.” His mouth finds my breast, tongue, and teeth making me writhe. “You’re close, aren’t you? So damn close.”
I whimper, barely managing to murmur a soft yes.
He whispers, “I know.” And then he stops.
Just stops.
His fingers withdraw. His mouth leaves my skin. His body lifts off mine, leaving me cold and aching and so desperate I could scream.
“What—” I begin, but I don’t finish the sentence. I know what he’s doing.
He stands beside the sofa, tucking in his shirt and looking down at me with an expression of cold, triumphant cruelty.
“Get dressed.”
I stare at him, gathering the throw over my half-naked body, still throbbing with unfulfilled need.
“I said get dressed.” He walks to a bar cart and pours himself a whiskey, then takes a long sip without looking at me. “Get dressed. And get out. The valet can call you a taxi.”
“Are you—wait. No. We need to talk.” Panic rises in me. “We need to talk. You have to believe me.”
“I don’t have to do anything. Now get dressed, or you’ll be walking out of here wrapped in that blanket. You can thank me later for letting you have even that.
For a moment, I just stare at him. Then I nod. “You know what? Fine. And fuck you. You’re being an ass because you’re believing what you want to. And now I guess I know how little you cared about me if you truly think I would ever—ever—intentionally hurt you.”
I spit the words out, but they miss their mark.
He doesn’t react at all. All he says is, “Tomorrow.” Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out something that glints gold in the low light.
A token, like a casino chip. He tosses it to me, and I catch it reflexively, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop it.
“Give that to the man at the valet stand outside. He’ll get you a ride back to the Monarch. ”
“Gabriel.”
“We’re done.” He looks straight at me. “For tonight, anyway.”
I stare at him. This stranger wearing the face of the man I love.
Then, slowly, I reach for my clothes.
“I didn’t do it.” My voice comes out steadier than I expected as I pull on my tee and my yoga pants.
“Whatever you think you know—whoever told you I was involved—they lied. I love you, Gabe. I always have. Even now. Even after this. And you’re a fucking idiot if you truly think I could ever, ever hurt you.
And somehow, I’m going to make you see the truth.
Something that might be hope flickers in his expression. There and gone.
He inclines his head. “In that case, I look forward to our next conversation.”
My legs are shaking, my body still humming with frustrated desire, and my mind reeling from everything that just happened. I cross warily to the door, half-afraid he’s going to yank me to him. Half wanting him to.
I almost turn when I reach the door. To see him one more time. To give him one more chance to be the Gabriel I knew.
But he’s already shown me how that Gabriel is gone. And I don’t want to look again into eyes that believe I could hurt him. So I close my hand around the token, open the door, and leave, letting the door close behind me with a click that sounds like a verdict.