A Wish, A Kiss, All Amiss Ch. 04

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This chapter contains quite some sexy stuff, which starts about halfway through the story, because I finally figured out how to work sex in my story.

It is an expanded and edited version of Stranded Seduction in Summer Shower. The chapter now reveals a lot more plot and character development; the sex scene is largely the same, but thoroughly edited. Hopefully this creates a better reading experience.

Special thanks to Chas, who had the patience to correct all my embarrassing mistakes.

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Chapter 4

The downpour had rendered the night into a misty blur; the lights of the city against the darkness blended the vista into one Impressionistic canvas.

"You ready?" Gabriel asked Rosaline as he extended the umbrella at the edge of the marquee.

She nodded, tucking herself under the nylon canopy.

And then they braved the fury of the summer rainstorm.

It was a ten-minute walk to her apartment on a sunny day, but the stormy rain had turned the short walk ahead into an infinite outdoor shower. Gabriel let the water drench his uncovered side, providing more coverage for Rosaline and hoped that the rain would pour some sense into him.

Droplets pooled at the end of the umbrella rib in rapid succession, landing on her bare shoulder. Following the soft curves there, they rolled themselves down her tanned arm. Her wet sundress flattened against the swell of her breast, the dimple in her waist and the outline of her shapely thigh.

A distant thunder roared, and Rosaline jumped out from her skin. Gabriel gathered her in his embrace, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, protecting her from the elements. Then he felt her relax; she drew herself closer, her arm gliding around his waist and her soft breast pressed against his chest.

"Don't get ideas," he teased against her ear. He had enough ideas for both of them.

She lifted her gaze to him, eyes wide with feigned horror, soft plump lips agape. He grew hard at those lips; his cock strained against the wet jeans. The rain had turned the walk into a Müller-Lyer line; its distance depended entirely on his pleasure and torment.

When she twisted the key of the front gate to her apartment building, and the warm yellow glow spilled through the gaping door, he thought he saw the light at the end.

"Where are you going?" The lilt in her voice tempted, enshrouding him, stilling his halfway turn.

"Back to the parking garage to pick up my car," he said.

"In this rain?"

"I'm already soaked." He shrugged, his wet clothes like his second skin.

Her pretty brow furrowed; a droplet rolled from the end down her cheek and soft jaw. "You should come in and dry your clothes."

He should not.

He should stick to his fucking plan, the thing that he had been deviating from since the first day they met. He would hand her in to The Order when the time came, The Order would grant him his freedom and he would not care how they wanted to use her. Like he had said to Max, he could save one girl's life or potentially a hundred girls' by turning the one girl in.

It was bad enough that he wanted to hit the book agent yesterday, and that since then, he had almost kissed her twice; then he had to invite her to dinner like a love-struck idiot, spending the entire dinner alternating between adoring her laughter and getting a hard-on.

But he would die with the memory of that smile on her lips when she drew away from him after telling him that he was more than she expected. He had wanted to hug her close, but Max's gaze stopped him short.

"Come on," she said over her shoulder, glistening and beckoning him like a goddess born in the sea.

He chose one over a hundred.

Gabriel huffed a dry laugh and followed her upstairs, dripping his way behind her, leaving a trail of darkened wet spots on the carpet of the hallway.

"If you could take off your clothes and leave them by the entrance, that would be great," she said when she opened the door to her apartment. "And no shoes, please."

"Should I put on a dance for you in the meantime?"

She blinked at him, then the implication dawned.

"The water will stain the floor," she said, blushing like she could not stop conjuring up the image.

"Ah, yes, the floor," he said. He had already kicked off his shoes. Wet socks were the next to go.

His toes curled against the wooden floor. It felt good; for when he felt grounded by the solid floor, he could not be feeling her.

He should dry his clothes and leave. He would. He just did not know if he could.

His hands moved quickly to the hem of his t-shirt and started to pry the fabric from his skin when she stopped him. "Wait."

He lifted an eyebrow at her, arms crossed in front of his chest, t-shirt halfway up his torso. He traced her gaze to find his own soft hair at the base of his belly button and the downy trail leading down into the V-shape frame that disappeared into his jeans.

"When you are done, can you bring some towels to me from the bedroom dresser?" she asked, waving her hand in the general direction of the bedroom, and tracked her eyes down his body, licking her lips. "And one to cover yourself."

But then she turned around in the dimly-lit doorway; her own wet dress clung to her every curve, contouring her slim waist and full hips.

"What are you doing?" he asked, amusement and mischief brimming his question.

"You need some privacy," she replied immediately.

Gabriel almost laughed. When she looked at him like that, with heated lust and molten desire, and when she licked her lips while doing so, she did not get to turn around and face the door without getting a taste of her own medicine.

"Aren't we past that?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"I could've sworn you told me to strip," he said.

"I said to take off your clothes."

"Now you're just citing synonyms."

"Because you won't take off your clothes," she said and she heard how it sounded before letting out an embarrassed gasp.

Gabriel laughed. "Know that, Rosaline, I will gladly strip for you anytime."

The only indication that she had heard him was a tiny whimper that seemed to have accidentally escaped her.

He willed his swelling cock down, concentrating on the feeling of being dry, working at his belt buckle to remove himself from the soaked jeans and boxers. The metal hit the floor with a soft thud. He then padded his way in the general direction of her bedroom.

Except he went the opposite way and ended up going into her kitchen. Totally by accident. He crossed his heart.

"The other way." Her instruction bounced its way from the entrance when he kicked a chair.

"Which way?"

"To the left, I mean my right"—she paused to orientate herself—"wait."

In the reflection of the window, she spun around to align herself to where he was facing, only to be greeted with his fully naked backside.

The humidity in the hot evening air evaporated from the sizzling heat that was her gaze. He let the silent excitement fester until his cock inconveniently sprang back to life from the attention.

"You're staring, Rosaline."

"You don't know that." Her reply came immediately.

He raised an eyebrow to the Rosaline in the window, patiently beckoning her, watching her frantically lifting her gaze and casting it everywhere in the room but on his butt, and finally she met his mirrored eyes.

Her blush came like tidal waves that devoured the realization.

"First door on your right. Second drawer," she said.

He snickered, moving one foot behind the heel of the other, ready to turn around to tease her—no, he was following her directions, like a good boy that he was—before she yelped, "Don't!"

He halted, for her sanity and his enjoyment.

"If I was less secure about myself, I'd be hurt by your impassivity," he said.

"I prefer you with your clothes on."

"Says the lady who is secretly enjoying my nudity."

"I'm not secretly enjoying your nudity."

"I apologize. Openly ogling my butt."

She realized her mistake and cleared her throat. "First door on your right. Second drawer."

"Yes, my Godiva." He grinned, more than satisfied with himself.

"You're the one who's naked right now."

He made a sinful sound as he savored the image that he conjured up. "Then that makes you the peeping Tom."

"Get the towels, will you?" She practically bit her words out.

In his rumbling laughter, he successfully located the dresser in question.

"Don't snoop." Her voice drifted into the bedroom.

He let himself sink into her space; a few books piled here and there, scattered about in different corners of the room. He recognized that grey Bodoni font on her bedside table. The comforter was casually tossed on the bed, its corner draping the edge of the bed, resting itself on the floor.

The dresser that he came here for was pushed to the side of the wall, a couple of books strewn about the top. He obediently opened the second drawer to retrieve the towels and wrapped himself with one.

Then from the corner of his eye, he caught a little triangle of paper sticking out from the stack of books. Not-so-obediently, he pulled on that corner and revealed a one-way plane ticket departing next week with her name on it.

He almost got outsmarted again.

*****

Rosaline did the right thing inviting him; or so she kept telling herself. She could not have sent him back into the merciless rain and let him drive home soaking wet; that would be cruel, even if she did not like him, and she...

Did she actually like him, even knowing that what he felt for her might be completely her own doing?

One thing was for sure though, she did not mean to look at him, she definitely did not mean to stare, or linger her gaze on his well-muscled ass and those mile-long legs, and she solemnly swore that she had not wished for him to turn around so she could see.

But what if he had turned around?

It would be wonderful. She closed her eyes and willed the image of a naked Gabriel away.

She was leaving. How would it end for her sad heart if she actually liked him? How would she once again pack her life into three concise trunks and leave it all behind? They would not be so concise and they would be full of heartache.

Therefore, for the sake of her trunks—for she could not possibly inflict such emotional turmoil on her belongings—she would keep it in her pants. And it would not be difficult at all; all she needed to do was to stop looking at him.

He handed her the dry towels and left her alone in the doorway to dry herself and change.

She reappeared in the living room to find him sprawling on her couch, bare-chested, legs stretched to the other seat, heels crossed, reading a collection of nineteenth-century French poems. Although the length of the towel covered most of his thighs, its softness accentuated every angle, every hill and every valley underneath, which, again, she reminded herself she did not wish to see.

Sensing her perusal, he lifted his eyes from the book to look at her. She was leaning against the door frame, having changed into an oversized t-shirt and shorts, damp hair piled high on her head.

He put down the book, his movement pulling her gaze to his well-defined arms, past his broad shoulders, to his firm chest and the chiseled abdomen. Then there was his hair; the thinly layered dark hair on his chest tapered into a single file below his belly button and into the soft towel that covered what she wanted to see.

Rosaline chewed on her lower lip and cleared her suddenly parched throat. "You spend all your waking hours at the gym?"

"For someone who doesn't like me, you sure do care a lot about what I do when I'm awake." His response came like he had rehearsed that line a million times, and she could not read his expression. She scowled.

He was back to the poem collection, flipping a page.

"I never said that," she said.

"It's never about what you say," he said softly.

She came closer to the couch, perching on the edge of the seat. He watched the cushion dip from her weight, then his finger curled the corner of the page, and he returned to the book.

"I never actually said I don't like you," she repeated herself after the friction between his finger and the pages rustled more loudly than the thunder.

He shook his head, lowering the book to his lap, emerging from behind his shield. His gaze traced her face, relentless and unyielding.

"Why do you have a one-way ticket next week?"

OK, maybe she did not like him, after all. "Holiday."

He arched an eyebrow.

"When are you coming back?"

"Soon."

"You're a bad liar."

"I'm not lying—"

"That's your tell," he said, pointing to her lips.

"What?"

"Your tell. You purse your lips before you tell a lie."

"Should I be amazed at your detective skills?"

"I did promise to teach you how to lie better."

"I told you not to snoop," she said, looking away from him.

He pressed his lips into a thin line and grunted a sound that sat deep in his throat before picking up the book again. He buried himself in the pages and silence ensued.

She counted the number of polka dots on her t-shirt while the rustling sound of the turning of the pages filled the air. When she ran out of dots to count, she bit her lower lip and said, "If you must know, I was not planning to return."

"First truth I heard all night."

"That's not true. I also never said I don't like you." She was starting to believe that her mouth would be the death of her.

He put down that goddamned book to study her. "So you keep saying. What does that mean?"

"What I said at the restaurant was also true."

He ignored her. "What did that mean? You never said you don't like me?"

"Just that. I never said—"

"Smart mouths don't keep repeating themselves, do they?"

She cast her eyes about in the room; the bookshelf behind him was now almost empty. Her life here was almost empty, and she did not need to fill it with heartache.

Silence fell, and the beeping from the laundry room broke it. She got to her feet. "I'll get your clothes."

He followed her to the laundry room. She opened the dryer door to retrieve the dried clothes and handed them to him. He took over the pile of his clothes from her, turned around to the door.

"Aren't you going to get—"

"Where is the bathroom?"

She pointed without thinking.

"—dressed?"

Then he stalked in that direction, disappearing into the darkness, a confused Rosaline fast on his heels. He patted the wall down for the light switch, turned on the light, made his way directly to the sink, dumped all his dry clothes in there and turned on the faucet.

"What in fresh hell, Gabriel?" She slammed the faucet shut, but it was too late; his clothes were wet again.

"I am not leaving until you tell me the truth," Gabriel said. "Starting with what it meant."

"I just meant—" Think about your trunks!

He inched closer to her until he became just heat and naked skin.

"Go on, you just meant?"

She shook her head, focusing on his bare chest.

"Rosaline?"

She lifted her head, his eyebrow arched, dark eyes liquid. It was too much, so she looked down at the bathmat and whispered, "I like you. I've liked you since we met, and that is making things so difficult."

"We will revisit the difficult part later." Before his smirk turned into a wide grin, he closed the scant distance between them and kissed her.

His lips were soft on hers, his arms coming around her waist, holding her tightly against his solid chest; one thin layer of Rosaline's t-shirt, but that was one layer too many. He nipped at her lips, the pressure tempting and promising, urging until she opened her mouth to let him in. His teasing tongue stroked the tip of hers, once, twice, but never enough.

Coming to her toes, she raised her arms to wrap them around his neck and pull him close to give herself better access to the source of her pleasure. He caught her sigh and rewarded her by sucking on her lower lip, and she went wild. Splaying her fingers in his hair, she pushed herself into him; he growled his pleasure, sounding like sex and sin, his cock nestled long and hard against her belly.

Rosaline threw her head back as if to offer him the rest of herself; she was never meant to resist him, never had the power to. He took her offering greedily, nibbling along the slender column of her neck, wet and rough, teasing her skin, sending warmth to pool in her core, its twin maneuver tugging at her pussy.

"I like you, too, by the way," he said against her collarbone with a smile. She let out another moan, which earned her a lick at the spot, a kiss and a nip. When she thought he was good with his words, she did not know that his mouth was the real talent.

She sighed his name, unable to contain her pleasure, spurring him on.

He came up for a teasing kiss, his tongue grazing her bottom lip, pulling away between each stroke. She tried to end this tantalizing torture, darting her tongue out to trace his bottom lip. She barely touched it before he caught her tongue and stroked it with the same infuriating lightness.

Licking and worshipping her lips and tongue, he slid his hands underneath her t-shirt. She let out a satisfied sigh at the skin to skin contact. Her bones melted and it was his hands that supported her, branding her skin with his heat, killing her patience. She traced her finger along his forearm, and with a tentative push of her hand, she nudged his hand upwards towards where she wanted him.

For the split second, he seemed to understand. Eyes half-mast, she held her breath. His hands smoothed themselves up her torso, moving with a single purpose that would become her salvation.

But he stopped. His hands lingered at the underside of her breasts. Her hands fisted his soft dark hair in frustration at the lack of the sensation. He pulled away.

"I will continue."

But he was not moving.

She looked down at his arms that disappeared into her t-shirt. His cock stood proud and hard between them.

Is this man serious?

"On one condition," he said against her lips.

She felt his hands move up, and her breath continued.

"Let me help you." He slid his mouth down to her jaw. His long fingers stroked lazily the outline of her breasts, and his thumb ventured into the center.

She let out a frustrated moan, and he chuckled against her neck. The warm breath tickled her, sending waves of shivers down her spine. And frustration.

"You see, if you had decided to be honest from the beginning, we wouldn't find ourselves in this peculiar situation." His thumb seemed to have gotten lost, drawing mindless circles, never finding the straining tips that so desperately needed his touch.

"Gabriel, please." It sounded like begging. When did she learn how to beg?

"Let me help you," he asserted, now looking directly in her eyes. "Whatever you are going through."

"I'm not sure you can."

"Let me try," he whispered into her ear before licking her earlobe, making her tremble. Then his thumbs grazed the tips of her breasts and she gasped at the sensation as wetness rushed to her core and her pussy tightened. Her legs threatened to give out before he caught her and guided her backward to lean against the wall.

He let go of her torso, which garnered him a frustrated groan. Chuckling, he pulled away to look at her, tracing a finger down her jaw, her neck, then through the cotton fabric, the outline of her breasts, the side of her torso, stopping at the hem of her t-shirt. She raised her arms, urging him. He removed the garment, revealing her firm breasts.

His eyes went wide and darkened at the sight but he simply smiled at her until she thought she would die from the anticipation.

"Touch me," she said, but it came out more like a whine. God, she had whined.