Page 18 of Good Guy Gabe

“Are you close, sweet girl?” he whispers against my cheek as the pulses start to get me and I struggle to breathe. I’m overwhelmed by the need for everything, but I need more. I reach for his pants, only peripherally noting that the hardness my fingers brush against feels not quite organic, but he easily pins my wrists together with one hand. “No, no. This is for you.”

“Gabe!” I whine, but there’s nothing left in me except fireworks racing up and down my body, curling my toes and tingling the roots of my heart. The world goes white behind my eyelids. I lean back against the mirror as both of Gabe’s hands go to my thighs, rubbing them to ease me through it.

“Are you my girl, Joss?” he asks once I’ve settled and he’s lowered my skirt back down. “You’re mine now, yeah?”

I nod, about the best I can do in the moment.

He pulls some paper towels out of the dispenser, I’m thinking to clean me up, and I’m sort of right. A second later, they’re damp and being scrubbed around my mouth, removing my trashed lipstick.

“That makes me really happy,” he says.

I’m happy, too.

Chapter 9

Gabe

THE WAYJOSSholds my hand between hers and leans against me as we walk back down the corridor, not a thought — or at least not a word — of protest to returning to the crowd, is everything. And the decision I made back at the house when I decided that rubbing one out wasn’t going to get the job done? Absolutely the right call, even if I’ve spent the night chafed and missed out on an opportunity for a hand job.

It was for the best. I would have made a mess of her pretty dress and not been able to return to the gala. Probably pissed Cora off, too. I know she’s already planning to make a different dress for her show, but I imagine she’ll want this back in one not-cummed-on piece.

Two pieces.

Everything seems to have settled back down to the typical din of polite conversation when we return to the ballroom, but key people are missing, including Merrick and Selene. Emily Hess is attempting to fire up her laser eyes at me, and I’m wondering if we should be making our own exit before the gossips get to speculate too much about why we were absent for so long. I pull out my phone, place another bid on Joss’s quilt to take it over $12,000, and look back up to see Blaise barreling toward me, his date in tow and gesturing like we should gonow.

I don’t get why, though, so I stand my ground, not comprehending why Blaise has his right hand low at his hip, fisted and cocked back slightly, until it’s too late.

He punches me right in the dick hard enough that I hear a cracking sound I’m not sure is knuckle or plastic.

Blaise yelps and backs up, hopping up and down and shaking his fist out.

I buckle over, the protection I went with to keep from tenting my tuxedo pants pinching one of my balls enough to knock the wind out of me.

We already have half the room staring at us. It’s not even the hushed whispers and attempts to ignore scandal from Merrick’s distraction. This is full record scratch, everyone freezing and staring at us, with no idea of what happened. Hell, I don’t know what happened.

“Are you wearing a cup?” Blaise shrieks, his pitch too high, as though he was the one who just clipped his manhood.

“Why did you punch me in the dick?” I fire back, anchoring my hands on my thighs and crouching slightly, which has the dual effect of helping me catch my breath while also comforting me and preparing my body to take another hit because seriously, who knows what Blaise is about to do. But bent knees? Crouched down? This is a position my body knows well. This is safe.

“Whyyyyyyare you wearing a cup?” Blaise screams again. Now the entire room is turned to us. They heard that. I’m gonna have to explain that.

“You . . . punched me . . . in the dick,” I grind out.

Joss rubs my back. Hopefully her attention is more on the punch than the cup.

“You left me out of chaos,” Blaise whines. He actually whines. Like a toddler. “And you’re wearing a cup! You’re in a tux, and you’re wearing a cup. Who does that?”

I finally get the momentum to straighten myself back up, and fair credit to Blaise, he looks more upset than angry. I might have hurt his feelings. That doesn’t excuse this. I don’t know if anything does. And the idiot is still shaking his right hand out, which has to be scaring any onlooker who doesn’t realize he’s a lefty.

I grab hold of the front of his shirt, yanking him up to me, forcing him on his tiptoes with the extra four inches I have over him. “You need to cool the fuck off,” I snarl at him before shoving him back, making him stumble. I’m not stupid enough to do anything that would hurt him — it’s literally my job to protect his stupid ass — but he needs to remember that Icanhurt him far more easily than he can hurt me. Linemen don’t lose entire seasons because of hits from quarterbacks, but that’s something he has to fear with every single play.

The motion is enough to galvanize the nearby teammates. Reuben Janns, defensive line, is the closest to me, and he’s a fair fight. He’s not a fighter, though, not off the field. Neither of us is. So when he puts one hand on my chest, flat against me, not even pushing, and nods once at me, I lift my hands and nod back. On my other side, Kai Bodley takes hold of Joss’s arm and starts to pull her away from me.

It’s a smart move. He’s doing the right thing. If things blow up, it’s better if Joss is out of the danger zone.

But I don’t like it. She doesn’t need protection from me. I protect her. Not Kai. “Gabriel,” Reuben says with an air of warning and a firmer hand when my attention snaps to Kai. I have to swallow the knot in my throat.

Meanwhile, Blaise is still running his mouth. “It was a joke! What’s a nut shot between friends? You’re the asshole for wearing a cup!”

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