Page 36 of Good Guy Gabe

From the hot tub, Blaise calls, “Looks like he’s already bent her over the island.”

As Joss groans and sinks back down in my lap, we hear Cora’s shrieks of pleasure only partially muffled through the glass doors.

Chapter 16

Joss

“YOU OKAY?” Gabe asks, taking my hand and drawing it to the console as we drive through Camden Square.

I nod, worried if I talk, I’ll barf. He has no idea there’s a nursery in my apartment, and I don’t know how I’m going to explain it to him without having that conversation I’ve been avoiding about wanting kids.

“You, uh, need me to sit in the car for a few minutes while you clean or something? I get it if you do. No judgment.”

I squeeze his hand. “Nah, it’s fine. I’m just worried about Cora.” I’m about to make up a lot of stupid white lies; why not start with one that’s believable?

I’m stressed enough that I forget the other big issue I’m dealing with until I’m unlocking my door and Gabe says, “What happened to your mums?”

Damn, he’s not going to like that I was vandalized last night. “What?” I gasp, padding my time to come up with something.

“You got different mums. Those aren’t the mums you had before.”

“Oh. Right. Died. Just up and died.”

He frowns and, to my horror, says, “Strange. They were healthy a couple days ago. Call me next time something like that happens, okay? My dad’s a landscape architect. I used to workfor him when I had the time in the summers. I’m pretty good with plants.”

He drops it at that. Or I force him to drop it by opening the door to my apartment and tromping up the stairs without another word. I give him a quick tour, pointing out the kitchen, living room, and dining room on one side, coming back to the converted dinette that we came in through, then pointing at the guest bath and the guest room. At the nursery, the only closed door in the apartment aside from the pantry and laundry room off the kitchen, I stammer through, “That-that’s storage,” and Gabe’s gaze lingers only a moment too long on the door before I have him distracted with my bedroom.

It’s a gigantic room. The apartment was originally designed to be two separate small apartments, and when they were combined, the rooms ended up being strange sizes. There used to be a nook by the window with two chairs and a table between them, but I sold that set. After everything went down with the civil suits, I was penniless. I sold most of the nice stuff and replaced it with basic flat-packed furniture. I’ve done my best to fill the space, hanging several quilts and a giant rug I wove myself, bringing in the bookshelves that had been in the living room and the rocking chair that had been in the nursery, but it feels empty. I’m used to Gabe’s presence consuming a room; now I have a space that’s ample for him.

He studies it thoughtfully, his lips tugging up at one of the quilts, his toes nudging at the rug. He seems satisfied with it, but then he frowns at the bed.

“It’s not big enough, is it?” I ask, realizing it’s way smaller than his.

He heads toward the bathroom and tests the towels neatly folded and tucked into the cubby built into the wall there. “Nah,it’s fine. It’s what we get in the hotels usually.” He lays the towel out on it, a habit he’s gotten into at his place for easy clean-up. Despite it being excruciatingly banal, it’s become the most domestic of foreplay. “It’s just . . .” He pushes down on the bed, gives it a wiggle, makes it squeak. Like despite the less-than-romantic overture of the towel, he’s having second thoughts.

“Yeah, okay, it’s going to be squeaking tonight,” I mutter defensively. “Unless you’re going to be a jerk, and then there won’t be any squeaking at all and you can head right back home.”

The look he shoots me isn’t of concern or apology. It’s purely wicked. He’s been cool and collected since we left his place, but I can see now that he’s plotting. He stalks back to me, using his size to loom over me in what would be threatening if I didn’t know what the nature of his plotting has been.

Although now that we’re standing like this, my head craned back to meet his eyes, reminding me that I’ve talked him into being gentle but he’s a brute when he chooses to be? I should be intimidated.

“Ma’am, it’s not that frame that’s going to be making the noises tonight,” he growls. He grabs me by the thighs, hoists me up, and tosses me on the bed like I’m a ragdoll. And yeah, I do let out a shocked squeak and do need to catch my breath and do find myself immediately wanting whatever he’s going to do to me, but then I yelp as he grabs the mattress and drags it — and me — straight to the floor.

“What are you doing?” I shriek, laughing, my heart pounding, stunned I wasn’t injured, but mattresses are sturdy enough I was never in any danger.

“Not breaking your bed.” He nods to the frame. “That didn’t feel sturdy enough for me.” I’m sure he’s wrong; he’s a giant, butmy bed is definitely built for two, and it’s not like I’m massive, too. But then he pulls down my leggings and panties in one rough move, flips me over, and slaps my ass. “Not with what I’m planning on doing.”

He doesn’t even take my leggings off, just leaves them clinging to my calves. The way he’s looking at me makes me think he’s planning on keeping me that way for at least a few minutes. And when he tugs my shirt and bralette over my head but doesn’t pull them off my arms either, instead snagging them over my head, I get that he’s serious.

I could take everything fully off. It’s not like I don’t know how to undress myself or that anything is so restrictive I wouldn’t be able wiggle free. But I let him have this. I’m curious what he intends.

He lifts my hips, bringing my ass into the air and dropping my knees to the mattress, but he keeps me face-planted. “That’s it,” he murmurs with a gleam in his eye and yet another smack, this time right on my slit. The sound is sharp, damp, and with the lights on, I’m sure his groan is over the sight of my muscles contracting.

I silently study him as he rubs my thighs and ass, massaging the flesh deliberately to spread me for his gaze. I’m not embarrassed by the way he manipulates me to see every slick, swollen inch from my clit all the way back to my ass, but I can’t help thinking about how I’ve taken so much control from him.

“I’m sorry I’m weird about things at your place.”

He kisses my ass cheek. “Nah, I love it. I love the challenge. And I love when you pass out still filled with my cock and my cum and I get to spend hours inside you. You’re perfect.”

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