Gabriel David's White Horse (8 page)

“Fuck me, Gabe.”

He pumped hard, deep, and without restraint. He thrust so hard he had to grasp her hips and keep her pinned in position. She was up on all fours—her hands behind her and her feet on the bedframe. With each dive he made, she slammed her hips up to meet him.

“Oh, that’s it…don’t stop…I’m almost there.”

He wanted to satisfy this woman more than he wanted to finish the paintings. He knew she’d been distracting his progress, but for the life of him he didn’t care. He took one hand from her hip and used his fingers to massage the hard knot between her legs. It sent her over the edge and she pumped and screamed out her climax right under his nose. She was unbridled and reminded him of the wild, white horse. Her rolling waves around his cock squeezed him tight and he came inside of her, marking her with his sperm.

Once his cock quit twitching he crawled onto the bed and plopped down on his back. He was still short of breath when she rolled into his side and placed her head on the middle of his wet chest. She wrapped one leg over his and was as close to him as she could physically get. She purred and delicately rubbed her cheek back and forth over his chest. He guessed she was showing her appreciation for the otherworldly sex they’d just shared, but as the minutes went on he realized she’d fallen asleep atop him.

His eyes closed and when he awoke he realized three hours had passed. Mirabelle still slept burrowed into his chest and with her leg wrapped around him. He liked how she couldn’t seem to get herself close enough to him. He’d felt that way too and couldn’t wait to be wrapped in her. Right now though he needed to relieve himself, but he didn’t relish the thought of waking her. He tested the weight of the arm draped across his chest. A slight wiggle and a move had him able to ease his body from her touch.

When he returned from the bathroom she was wiggling into a pair of tight jeans. She’d already donned a cream-colored knit shirt. He imagined the T-shirt would be soft to the touch, but was completely thrown off thought when he realized the threadbare cotton revealed the anatomy of her breasts in the most provocative way. Her curves drove him to the brink of his sanity as a human being and it was there that animal instinct took over. All he wanted to do in the world was rip the clothes from her body, bend her over the bed, and take what his body demanded.

He stared at her, needy despite all of their amorous activity. Her stomach panged, announcing its needs. The sound was loud in the otherwise quiet room and her eyes bulged, causing him to laugh.

“My stomach has a mind of its own when I’m hungry.”

He wanted to capture her shy, sleepy smile and lock it away in his heart. While he was at it, he wished he could freeze this moment because he honestly couldn’t remember being this content.

“We should see what we can scrounge up,” she said, and then tossed his jeans at him.

He put his jeans on and followed her into the kitchen where he found her bent into the refrigerator, her tight jeans pulled even tighter over her curves. Parts of his anatomy throbbed as they longed to be caressed by her body.

She backed out and turned with an armful of ham and cheese and vegetables. “I hope you like to cook,” she said in a sultry, post coital voice.

“I actually do, but I’m not very good at it.”

She spoke as she laid out the ingredients, “I like to eat, so I had to learn how to make some stuff. I think I’m an okay cook.”

“I have no doubt that you’re an excellent cook.” He popped a cherry tomato into his mouth and took a seat on the barstool. He could think of nothing he wanted more than to watch her move around the kitchen in that curve-hugging denim.

* * *

How was it possible that the simple act of watching him chew a cherry tomato sent sizzling heat straight to her sex? The man was an art form. He was a Greek god and she wanted to be the goddess who served him in all capacities, be it hunger for food or sex or—dare she think it—love. She shook her head to clear it and cued up Van Morrison on the kitchen radio.

She pulled a cutting board and knife from the drawer of the island and placed it before him where he sat across from her at the attached bar. She then passed him a tomato, three green onion stalks, and a broccoli crown.

He picked up the onions and turned them between his fingers. “The cutting board, the knife, the vegetables…I assume you’re trying to tell me something.”

“Don’t just feel them up, start chopping.”

He gave her a sexy smirk. “I like feeling things up, especially when they have curves for days.” He picked up the bell pepper and caressed it.

It was hot, but she didn’t want him to know that, “Creepy.” She crinkled her nose at him.

“You didn’t think I was creepy a few hours ago.”

No, she didn’t “Just chop your vegetables.” While she whisked the eggs she watched him attempt to chop the onions. He was skilled in a lot of ways but cooking wasn’t want of them, and she couldn’t hold back a laugh.

He sliced a large tomato in half lengthwise, and then did the same to an orange that had been in a bowl on the counter. He walked toward her with a half of each in hand. “Are you laughing at me?”

His intensity was so different from any man she’d ever experienced. He used everything in his environment to pelt her with white-hot passion and she was powerless against him. She wanted to experience punishment at his hands so she said, “Yeah, I’m laughing at you. What are you going to do about it?”

He stalked behind her and she turned to allow her gaze to remain on his. A foot on each side of hers held her there with her back against the counter and his body so close she could feel the heat radiating from him.

“Apologize,” his voice rasped.

He had a gleam in his eye and she knew he was having as much fun with her as she was with him. At the moment she held all the power, but knew they
both
needed her to be confrontational.

She leaned in close so that he could feel her breath against his lips, “No.” His brow arched at her refusal. His hands lifted, still holding the cut tomato and orange. He squeezed the fruits and juice dripped onto her neck and chest. His grip was strong and the juice abundant. When her top was sufficiently soaked he bent his head and lapped at the juices on the bare skin of her chest. He hummed as his lips danced across her skin. The passion was so great she thought her heart might explode where it chugged like a runaway train in her chest.

When his lips closed around her needy nipple she reached back to anchor her hands onto the counter, knocking the cheese and ham to the floor. She moaned out his name and he lifted her by the waist to sit on the counter. They both fiddled with the hardware on their jeans, each one hyper aware of the need created between them. His jeans were down in a flash and then he pulled her into his chest to aid in divesting her of her own denim.

He slid deeply into her without warning and yet again without protection, but she didn’t care. Her body was only capable of so much focus and right now it was all centered on the burning pleasure building inside of her. With each deep plunge he transformed her into a woman who no longer lived in a box, but who was free to enjoy the pleasures the entire world had to offer her. Free. She was finally free to be wild and she didn’t hold back.

Grabbing the bottle of olive oil she drizzled it over his head. It dripped down his face and neck and onto his torso. Several drops of oil landed on her breasts and he massaged them into her skin. His thrusts slowed and she leaned forward, her tongue following a trail of oil from his shoulder to his nipple where she lightly sucked.

Men had tried to change her before. After all, she worked as a pole dancer. The few men she’d allowed into her bed all thought they were going to be getting something exotic, something extraordinary. She hadn’t known what they’d expected—bedroom acrobatics—however, it was clear once they’d had sex that she hadn’t met their expectations. But with Gabriel it was like he’d adored her because of who she was, flaws and all. He’d demanded to know that he’d met her needs before he slaked his own. She’d found a true gentleman in the sack. Until she’d experienced Gabe, she’d thought it was a myth.

When he started to pick up the pace he placed his fingers between her legs and massaged with expertise, driving her higher and higher with each stroke. Her voice was knotted and thick as she called out his name.

“Mirabelle, you’re so beautiful like this.” Massage—thrust—squeeze. “I’ll never get enough of you.” Slow pull—massage—thrust—squeeze.

She placed her hands on his bare shoulders and gripped hard before she scratched. She had an irrepressible urge to mark him as hers. She was too old to play this game but God, did she want him to be exclusively hers. More than that, she wanted
him
to want
her
to be exclusively
his
.

“Gabe,” she whispered, and then she was falling. While she uncoiled, his fingertips traced her collarbone. Then he rested his palm against her heart, beating in her chest like it would be capable of cranking and speeding off.

She felt him tense and release against her while staring at his hand that covered her heart.

“Gabriel?”

His sage green gaze hit her and narrowed to precision while he came inside of her. “If I’d had you ten years ago everything would have been different now. You would have loved the ugly out.”

She palmed his jaw. “There’s nothing ugly about you.”

His head tilted as he stared off into the distance. “I’ve needed you.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve needed you when I didn’t know I
needed
you.”

“I’m here now.”

“I need more.”

“More?”

“I need all of you.”

Mirabelle didn’t speak guy so she wasn’t sure she understood what he was saying. “You want to be exclusive? Exclusively seeing each other and no one else?”

“We’ve shared intimacy on levels I didn’t know existed.” He reached for a kitchen towel and began to wipe her neck and chest. “I just assumed we were exclusive.” His voice was sharp.

He was so right. She’d felt their connection ten years ago. “We are. Of course, we are.” He continued wiping her until her fingers closed around his wrists. “Hey”—she waited for confirmation that he was listening. When he stopped wiping and they were eye to eye she said, “I want to be exclusively yours. It’s what I’m asking and it’s what I want.”
Shit
! What had she just gone and done? She’d never been exclusively anyone’s. He’d surely break her. “Oh, God.” She cupped her face with her hands.

He pulled her hands from her face, kissing her fingertips. He reassured her in the warmth of his tight embrace. “Mirabelle, you’re lovely.” He kissed the top of her head.

She laughed. “I’m sure I look so lovely right now.” She wiped her tears and snorted. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying.” She did know. She’d experienced a connection so strong and deep with him that she’d been sad for it to come to an end. Would she ever feel him like that again?

She hopped off the counter and pulled on her jeans. He’d already dressed and watched her intently. Suddenly she felt shy. “So, would you like a shower or a frittata?”

“Both, but not in that order.”

The days with him turned into weeks with him. For the first time in her life, Mirabelle experienced having a man adore and care for her and Gabe seemed to enjoy being near her. He’d even started following her to the nursing home where she played the piano on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He danced with the female residents at the home and just about sent one to the hospital when her pacemaker proved ineffective next to the perfection that was Gabriel David.

This particular Friday had started out better than any in her existence. He’d known of her love of hibiscus flowers and had left the house to go grab breakfast and returned with donuts, coffee, and a hibiscus tree with large red blooms. They’d eaten and then planted the tree in the flowerbed by the mailbox.

As the dusk settled in, Mirabelle walked outside and watered the plant. Since it was almost dark the flowers had closed up to prepare for their slumber. She yawned, feeling more like slumber than dance herself. The cloudy skies weren’t helping. Thunder rolled in the distance and Gabe emerged from the house to catch her admiring the hibiscus tree. He walked toward her, unblinking. His intensity coiled tightly between her legs, warming her.

He grasped her hands in his. Still eyeing her he said, “Stay home tonight.”

God, she wanted to, but she was too old to be calling in sick to work. Wasn’t she? She’d called in before when she really had been sick or hungover. She bit her lip while she thought about his request.

“Don’t be so quick to let go of moments you can never repeat.”

Confused she asked, “What?”

“This moment has wonder and awakening sizzling around the edges. Are you willing to give all of that up to go and do something you’ve done hundreds of times before?”

Easy for him to say…he didn’t have a job as far as she could tell. “I need to work.”

“You need to capture this moment before it evaporates.” With her hand in his he pulled her toward the house.

Inside, he’d set the iPod to her
bedroom
playlist. She felt her face heat when Nine Inch Nails began to play.

“Interesting music. I have to say I was intrigued by the title of this playlist.” His sexy smolder made the air thick.

“I made it for dancing.”

“Surely we can use it too, hmm? Dance for me.” His fingers massaged her right earlobe as if he were attempting to bond with a restless puppy.

She nodded and looked away from the concentration of his moss-filled green eyes.

She knew the kind of dancing that he meant, but she wasn’t that kind of dancer. To be completely honest with herself, his words had disappointed her. She’d thought him to be different from all the men before. Why’d he wait so long to ask? Usually it was something that came up during the first few hours of meeting a guy. “Why do you want me to dance for you?” She’d given him everything she had to give: her body, her home, and possibly even her heart.