Late that afternoon, I get a text from Gabe.
I’m making dinner. Want some?
I’d been about to order something for pickup, but hell, yes, I do want some. Some of whatever Gabe is cooking. Some of Gabe.
Some answers.
I hadn’t gotten any in the car on the way back from Krandall’s. He’d put on Alison Krauss and we’d enjoyed Forget About It together in silence. I think neither of us was willing to put words to what was going on, for fear we’d have to back away from it again.
I meant what I said last night, when I agreed with him about keeping things simple. After Darren said he was calling it quits, I realized I’m not cut out for relationships. Relationships are for people who know how to trust. They’re for people who know how to open up and give back. I’m way better off sticking to casual sex and flings.
That said, I’m pretty sure the insane chemistry between Gabe and me isn’t going to disappear. I’ve never been as turned on in any public place as I was in the outdoor store fitting room. A big part of me wants to know what it would feel like not to stop. To slide right into that heat and tension.
And maybe I can?
There’s an end date on whatever happens between me and Gabe. I’m only here for another two weeks. So as long as we keep it casual, it should be okay to enjoy what’s happening.
As long as we keep it casual.
Yes, I text back.
Come over any time.
Buck practically knocks me over when I show up at the house. Luckily, I’m wearing dark jeans and not the cream-colored slacks I’d had on earlier, because Buck, even at his cleanest, tends to leave paw prints. I kneel and rub Buck thoroughly behind the ears, and he pants and rewards me with lots of licks that I have to dodge because I don’t want him to ruin my makeup.
“Hey,” Gabe says. He’s standing over me, watching me. I know him well enough now to know that’s not irritation on his face. He’s just watching, the way he does, like a sheepdog at the top of a hill, surveying 360 degrees of territory. Like he’s in charge of a big flock and has to make sure everyone’s safe.
And now, somehow, I’m one of the flock… and it’s scary how much I like the feeling.
“Hey,” I say back, straightening up. I want to hug him, but I’m still a little afraid of what will happen if I do.
He leads me into the kitchen.
He’s made steaks and baked potatoes and asparagus. Simple and delicious. I don’t comment on the fact that he’s clearly bought and cooked enough for two, even though he asked me to join him only a few minutes ago. We sit down to eat. Neither of us says anything. But he’s looking at me in a way that makes my skin feel like it’s on fire.
I am wound so tight from the way he kissed and touched me this afternoon, that look on his face is like fire held to a line of gunpowder. My breath is fast, light. I wonder if he can tell.
I think he probably can, because his eyes get darker.
Are we going to keep going like this? Drawn together like magnets, stepping over the line, then pulling back?
“Depot has a room for me starting tomorrow night,” I say.
“You don’t have to feel obliged to stay there. You can stay above the office as long as you need to.”
“And shower here.” I say it flatly.
“And shower here.” His eyes—dark, hungry—search my face.
I lose patience, suddenly. It feels like too many days of game playing, too much pent-up frustration. “Gabe. We can’t pretend nothing’s happening.”
“No,” he says. Rough, definite. “We can’t.”
My heart is pounding. This is a line, too, and if we cross it, I don’t think we can pull back.
“I think we want the same thing.” This is still new to me, having to spell out the terms. I did it with Liam: just tonight, nothing serious; I don’t do serious. For all the good it did me. Remembering the outcome of that night gives me a moment of pause. But this is different. Gabe isn’t a stranger. And this has an expiration date, less than two weeks from now. I trust Gabe, as odd as that is to say. And I think maybe he trusts me.
We trust each other not to ask too much. To meet each other’s needs without becoming needy. After my relationship with Darren, I know what I can and can’t promise. I can be good company. Great in bed. But not the kind of person who opens up emotionally. No promises there.
Gabe watches me, as intently as if he could hear the words forming in my head. I want to look away, but I can’t, and my body heats in the flame of his gaze.
“I want—” he says. His voice is dark as coffee and twice as hot. “I want you moaning my name. I want you thrashing in my arms. I want you coming so hard you forget everything you ever thought mattered.”
I make a shocked, small noise, and he’s around the table, pulling me to my feet, taking me in his arms, supporting me as my knees give out at the heat of his body and the scent of his skin. I cling to him, and he kisses me, so fierce and deep and needy. I whimper, and he swallows it, and then my moan, too, his tongue sliding against mine, teasing my lips, sending tingles everywhere it touches. My breast is plumped up in his hand, my nipple between his fingers, his other hand sliding between my legs, and then up, finding the button and zipper of my jeans, undoing me. He slides that palm down, cupping me, and I groan and rub, trying to get traction, biting his lip because it’s there and I need to bite something. He bites back and I squeak and he makes a dark, gravel sound in his chest that winds the tension in my belly even tighter. He feels so good against me, so muscly and hard, his thigh helping support me, thick and strong and pressing where I need him. His fingers work my clit, sliding down to tease and play with my wetness, easing his way, until everything feels slick and needy and I can’t tell where his fingers leave off and I start. Except I know the tingling clenching feeling is me, rising and spiraling, and I follow it, like a line to an unknown deep dark place, until I’m coming like he said, moaning his name, thrashing, so lost all I can feel is the tightness, the sparks, and the letting go.