Chapter 10 #2
"This is inappropriate," I manage, but my voice comes out breathier than I intended.
"Probably," he agrees, and his other hand comes up to rest on my waist, thumb pressing against my hip bone through the thin fabric of my leggings. "Tell me to stop."
I should. I absolutely should. This is insane. This is dangerous. This is exactly the kind of thing that leads to situations I cannot control.
But the words do not come.
Gabriel leans in closer, his mouth near my ear. "Tell me you haven't thought about it, Bella. Tell me you haven't wondered what it would feel like to have all three of us focused on you. Tell me you haven't imagined it."
"I haven't," I whisper, but it is the weakest lie I have ever told.
"Liar," he murmurs, and then his hand slides from my waist down to my hip, fingers tracing the waistband of my leggings. "Your body is telling me a very different story."
"Gabriel—"
"Tell me to stop," he says again, and his fingers slip just barely under the waistband, not going anywhere yet, just resting there like a promise. "Say the word and I'll stop. I'll step back. We'll finish the run and never mention this again."
I open my mouth to say it. To tell him to stop. To maintain some shred of dignity and self-respect.
But what comes out instead is, "Don't stop."
His eyes darken, and the smile that curves his mouth is absolutely wicked. "Good girl."
"Look at you," he murmurs, his free hand coming up to cup my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes. "So responsive. So ready. And we've barely even touched you."
His fingers move lower, and I gasp, my hands flying up to grip his shoulders—whether to push him away or pull him closer, I genuinely do not know.
"Tell me what you want," he says, his voice low and rough against my ear.
"I—" I cannot form words. Cannot think past the sensation of his hand moving, exploring, finding places that make my knees go weak.
"Tell me," he insists, and there is command in his voice now, the same authority Dante used at dinner but darker somehow, more dangerous.
"I don't know," I gasp, and it is the most honest thing I have said all morning.
"Yes you do." His fingers move in a way that makes me see stars, makes a sound escape my throat that I have definitely never made before. "You want this. You want all of us. Don't you?"
"I—" My head falls back against the tree, my body arching into his touch. "Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes I want—" The words die as his fingers move again, as pleasure spikes through me so intensely I forget how to breathe. "Oh God."
"That's better," he murmurs, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice, the dark pleasure of breaking me down piece by piece. "So much better when you stop lying."
His mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing skin, and the combination of sensations—his hand, his mouth, the rough bark of the tree against my back—is overwhelming in the best possible way.
"Gabriel," I gasp, and I am definitely pulling him closer now, definitely not pushing away.
"I know, Bella," he says against my skin. "I know exactly what you need."
His palm presses flat against my stomach, warm palm pulling my leggings down around beneath the waistband of my leggings and my underwear in one smooth, decisive motion.
The cool morning air against my overheated skin makes me shiver, but his touch is pure fire.
He doesn’t tease. His fingertips find me, already slick and swollen for him, and he lets out a low groan.
"Christ. You’re already so wet for me.”
I can only whimper in response, my hips bucking forward, seeking more of that contact.
He gives it to me. One long, thick finger slides inside me, and my inner muscles clench around him instantly, greedy, so greedy.
A choked cry tears from my throat. He stills, letting me feel the full, delicious stretch.
"More," I beg, the word ripped from me. It’s not a question. It’s a plea.
"As you wish," he purrs, and a second finger joins the first.
The stretch is exquisite, a sharp, perfect burn that melts into a deep, throbbing need. He begins to move, a slow, torturous rhythm that has me panting, my forehead dropping to his bare, sweat-slicked shoulder. I can smell him, clean sweat and expensive soap and pure, potent man. It’s intoxicating.
His thumb finds my clit, circling it with just the right amount of pressure. The sensation is electric, a live wire connected straight to my core. My legs tremble violently.
"Gabriel!"
"Right there," he growls, his breath hot on my neck. "I can feel you, Bella. I can feel how much you love this. How much you need it."
He’s right. I’m falling apart against a goddamn tree in Central Park, and I’ve never felt more alive.
His fingers curl inside me, stroking a spot that makes my vision whiten at the edges.
He increases the pace, his thumb working in tight, relentless circles.
Pleasure builds, a terrifying, beautiful wave gathering force deep in my belly.
I’m babbling now. Nonsense words, his name, pleas for more, for less, for him never to stop.
He drinks it all in, his own breathing ragged against my ear.
I feel the hard ridge of his erection pressing against my hip through his shorts, and the knowledge that I’m doing this to him, that I’m unraveling the always-controlled Gabriel, sends another jolt of raw desire through me.
My body tightens, coiling like a spring.
The world narrows to the rough bark at my back, the solid wall of his chest against mine, and the devastating, expert motion of his hand.
The pressure is immense, overwhelming. I’m clinging to him, my nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders, anchoring myself as the first tremor rips through me.
"Come for me," he commands, his voice guttural.
It’s not a request. It’s a demand my body has no choice but to obey.
The orgasm hits me like a train. It’s not a wave; it’s a tsunami.
My entire body locks, back bowing off the tree, a silent scream caught in my throat.
Then the release crashes over me, violent and sweet, tearing a raw, broken cry from my lips.
Pleasure pulses through me in hot, relentless waves, each one timed to the stroke of his fingers, the press of his thumb.
I shake, convulsing around him, completely at his mercy as he milks every last shuddering spasm from my body.
Slowly, gently, he withdraws his hand. My legs give out entirely, but he’s there, his arms wrapping around me, holding me up as I sag against him, utterly spent. I’m boneless, my breathing a ragged mess. He presses a surprisingly tender kiss to my temple, his own breath coming hard and fast.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of our breathing and the distant chirp of waking birds. The world feels new, raw, and utterly exposed.
Then his head snaps up. His body goes rigid against mine. He’s looking past me, down the path.
"Shit," he breathes, the tenderness gone, replaced by sharp urgency.
"What?" I mumble, my brain still fogged with pleasure.
"Security cart. Headed this way." His hands are already moving, pulling my leggings back up, smoothing my shirt with a brisk efficiency that brooks no argument. The shift from lover to protector is instantaneous. "We need to go. Now."
The reality of where we are hits me all at once—the open park, the thin cover of trees, the fact that we let ourselves forget. The lingering warmth in my body fractures, replaced by a surge of adrenaline so sharp it steals my breath. My heart slams back into a frantic rhythm.
Gabriel grabs my hand, his grip unyielding.
“Run.”
There is a wild light in his eyes, reckless and alive, and then we’re moving.
We burst from the trees onto the gravel path, still adjusting our clothes and flushed, the morning sun suddenly too bright, the world too awake. Our feet hit the ground in rough unison, the sound loud in my ears. Somewhere behind us, the faint electric hum of a security cart carries on the air.
We don’t look back.
We run—toward the house, toward safety, toward whatever comes next—our hands locked together, our breath ragged, the promise of it all pulsing between us like a second heartbeat.