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GAIL
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The least sensual sound a person can hear after the most incredible night of their life is the sound of a phone ringing at the crack of dawn. I have my phone set to ‘do not disturb’ at night, and the only exceptions on my contact list are Isabeau, my Uncle Albert, and my brother Ben. It sounds selfish, but I prefer to think of it as self-preservation. Not only do I not want to be accessible to robocalls or Len the Lizard at all hours of the day, but it also prevents certain negative influences (cough, my mother and most of my exes, cough) from reaching me when I’m trying to get my beauty sleep.
So a six a.m. call, naturally, startled me awake. It took a moment to place where I was. I looked down at the arm draped over my waist, holding my hand, and squeezed it gently before sliding out of bed.
“Hang on,” I whispered to my brother when I picked up the phone. I ducked into Michael’s bathroom and sat on the edge of the bathtub. “What’s up?” I asked after I shut the door.
“Why are you acting so secretive?” Ben asked. “Is Jonathan still sleeping?”
“N-no. That is, I don’t know what Jonathan is doing. Most likely, he is sleeping. Probably with someone else.”
“Oh, shit,” he said. “Not again.”
“Mm,” I agreed. Incredible how little I cared about Jonathan all of a sudden.
“So why are you whispering?”
I stretched my hands above my head and languished in the tingly soreness of my body but didn’t reply. Still, Ben must have heard something in my silence.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Keep your voice down.”
“I don’t have to keep my voice down,” he practically shouted. “I am alone in my apartment. Just like you should be.”
“Joke’s on you,” I said. “I’m not even in my apartment.”
He was silent on the other end of the line for a long time. “Why are you so dumb?” he finally said.
I blinked a few times. My brother was not usually unkind. He’d say that was my job in our relationship.
“I’m not dumb. I got rid of the guy I was being dumb about. Last night I spent the night with a really nice guy. For money.”
“Excuse me?” he shouted.
“No, not like that.” I struggled to contain my laugh. “I’m being paid to help him with research. But I’m at his place because he’s amazing.”
“You say that every time. And you get hurt every time. The men you like are jerks.”
“Not this guy,” I said. It was tough to speak quietly, because I legitimately wanted to screech my excitement. “He’s Canadian.” I rolled the word around my mouth like a warm marble.
My brother sputtered a reply, probably something about global politics or sports teams or something else absolutely useless in real life, but I didn’t really listen because I was holding the phone away from my ear. I could hear Michael cough and the bed shifting. Music wafted through the door; a treacly love song, so I knew he was awake.
“Gotta go,” I whispered, interrupting some tirade about Canadians burning down the White House. Honestly, my brother is so in love with ancient history he sometimes forgets how to talk to living humans.
“Gail?” I heard a tapping on the bathroom door. “You okay?”
I opened the door and grinned at him standing buck-ass naked in front of me. His line yesterday about tearing someone open with their teeth made a bit more sense now. I wanted to eat him up.
I moved in close and kissed his neck. “Want to join me in a bath?” I asked.
Once again, his weapon came to life against me, and I stroked him gently while he talked.
“It’s not big enough for two,” he said, “But you take one.”
“Without you?”
“I’ll watch,” he growled, and then my skin spontaneously combusted.
I flipped on the hot water and slid down into the tub while he rummaged around under the sink.
“I think I have some—I don’t know. Bubble bath or something?”
“Ah,” I grinned. “Evidence of an ex-girlfriend?”
He looked momentarily abashed and cleared his throat. “No. I just like a bath sometimes.”
Goddamn. If I had any sense, I would jump out of this tub and run for my life.
He poured something from a bottle into the bathtub, and the heady scent of lavender filled the small room. I sighed and sank into the hot water, letting it soak my hair. When I came up for air, he was sitting on the edge of the tub, staring at me.
“Who were you talking to before I came in?” he asked. His hand dropped into the water, and he stroked my leg from the ankle to my knee.
“My brother,” I said.
“You don’t get along?”
“Why would you ask that?”
He shrugged, and his hand stopped moving on my leg. “Just a hunch,” he said.
I bent and stretched my leg to fit it back into his hand. “Actually, we’re really close. Although he’s been annoyed with me lately.”
“Why?” The hand started inching farther up, then back down to my ankle and over to my other leg. He got closer to my center each time he moved up, and my body agonized for him.
“Oh, I don’t know.” My breath was shallow. “You know how siblings are sometimes.” I really was not in the mood to talk about my brother.
His fingers drifted up over my belly and up to my breasts, where he made lazy, slow circles around my nipples. His face looked serious, as if he was trying to memorize something. I arched my back up to fill his palms, but he kept a breath away from me. The light touch deliciously tortured me. I couldn’t speak anymore, so I let my eyes drift closed and moaned a little bit. Finally, Michael’s hand began its slow descent down my body again, and I gasped loudly. I clasped my hand around his forearm—my God, those forearms. They turned out to be everything I’d tingled over at the café.
“Come in here with me,” I said.
He chuckled lazily, and I nearly fainted and drowned. “I already told you, the bath isn’t big enough for both of us.”
“That’s what you think,” I replied.
I stood up, stepped one foot out of the tub, placed my palms on his chest and pushed him gently. His eyes opened wide as he slid backward, and then he laughed and splashed a handful of lavender-scented water all over me and most of the bathroom.
“I never told you I ran track in college, did I? My thighs are made of iron.”
I didn’t think his eyes could go any wider, but they did when I said that. I stepped my foot over his other side and lowered myself onto him, tucking my heels against my butt, so we fit perfectly.
“My head’s banging on the tile,” he murmured into my chest, in between the gymnastics his tongue was working on my body.
I ran my hand up the back of his neck and held it against his head. “I don’t want you to get hurt. Let me do all the work.” He let his hands float on the surface of the water, and I began to rock, keeping my pace just as slow and methodical as he had when he moved his fingers against me.
Every time he tried to push harder, I pulled back a bit, tantalizing him the way he had done to me only minutes before. When I could see that it was too much for him, he reached his hands up and grabbed my waist, pulling me down hard against him. I crushed my mouth into his, and we crested the waves together.
* * *
“Can I wear this?” I grabbed a Rush concert T-shirt from a folded pile of laundry that appeared to be nothing but Rush concert T-shirts.
“You don’t want to put on your own clothes?” he asked.
“Not if I— I mean, yes, sure, I’ll put on my clothes. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to do breakfast or—”
He stopped me midsentence with a deep kiss, putting an end to my awkward babbling. My hands dropped to my sides, and he pulled the shirt from me, ran it slowly up my back, and then only broke apart from the clinch to pull it over my head. His lips met mine again, and he continued kissing me as he pulled it over my wet hair, shoulders, and arms, and then he guided it ever so slowly over my breasts and belly. He wrapped his arms tightly around me again and growled into my ear. “I want you to stay.”
When Michael took my hand and led me back into the bed, I ducked my nose into the fabric and inhaled deeply. The shirt was thick and soft and smelled just like him—musk and forest. He pulled me under the covers and then tucked them around me, exactly the way I love them—tight, but not too tight, just enough to make me feel covered. Safe.
Our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, and I burrowed into his arms.
“How did you sleep?” he asked me.
“For the few hours you let me sleep, you mean?” I teased. “Fine. Great, actually. I’m not much of a sleeper, but I conked out last night. You?”
“Same,” he said. “It surprised me.”
“Why? Did you think I would snore?” I asked.
He paused. “It’s been a while since I’ve actually slept with a woman.”
“Oh, I bet,” I said. “Women really hate the whole tall, dark, and handsome thing you have going on. Ew. It’s so gross.”
He laughed and kissed my forehead, pulling me in even tighter against him. “I just meant...” Another pause.
I stiffened. Uh-oh. Was this going to be the part where he revealed his criminal past? He was about to tell me that he was wanted for murder in every Canadian state. Not that I had any idea how many states there were in Canada. I would have to call my brother to find out. Hundreds, knowing my luck. Not only that, but he was probably some kind of thief.
Michael propped his elbow on the pillow and rested his head on his palm so he could look directly at me. I dragged my hand lazily up and down his back, figuring I might as well enjoy his velvety skin for a few more minutes before he ruined everything by telling me about his days of robbing graves, banks, and pet stores.
“You’re not the only one who’s been through a lot,” he finally said. “I’ve had a hard time connecting with women for a while now.”
“Is it because you have such shitty taste in music?”
His mouth dropped open, and he reached over me to pull the remote control off the nightstand. He then proceeded to turn the music up, and I clasped my hands over my ears. “I like a love song,” he said.
“Does it have to be this love song?” I groaned. “Air Supply? It’s so cheesy.”
“Okay, sure. Let’s do this. What’s the best love song?”
“‘The Bitch is Back’ by Elton John,” I replied promptly.
He grinned. “Wow. I see I’ve got my work cut out for me. By the time I am finished with you, I guarantee you’ll love the weepiest, most romantic songs ever sung.”
“I have no interest in that,” I said, and I grabbed the remote out of his hand and pushed the arrow button. The next song was no better—a seventies power ballad with a wailing sax and a high-pitched singer to match. I buried my face in the pillow and groaned. “Don’t you have anything sexy?”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you want a Barry White song? That’s a little obvious, isn’t it?”
“Give me your favorite non-obvious sexy song.”
“Don’t laugh.”
“I won’t laugh if it’s not funny.”
“Well-l,” he said nervously, “The first time I...”
“Had sex?” I volunteered.
“No,” he said. “The first time I had sex with someone I was in love with, we were listening to a Canadian band called the Barenaked Ladies.”
I had to bite my lip really, really hard.
“And we heard this song called ‘Hello City.’” He shrugged. “What can I say? It has certain associations for me.”
“But is the song any good?”
He looked as if he was trying to decide what to tell me. “It’s kind of silly.”
“So is sex.”
He didn’t even laugh. Just nodded as if I’d spoken a profound truth. “Right. But also, there’s this sort of punchy beat, and every now and then, there’s a womp-womp of a trombone to remind you they really know what they’re doing.”
“Hunh,” I said. I so badly wanted to make fun of his choice, but damn if he wasn’t the hottest nerd I’d ever met.
“I can feel your disdain, and I don’t care,” he said. “What is your favorite song to make love to?”
I groaned. “Baby, I’m not talking about songs to make love to. I’m talking about songs to fuck to. I’m talking Nina Simone, Al Green. ‘Crimson and Clover.’”
“Over and over?”
“There you go, Andrews. Join me on the dark side. We have great sex.”
“I think we should test your theory,” he said. He stopped the awful song currently playing. “Let’s have a contest. Yours versus mine.” He untangled his legs from mine and scooted back a few inches, so we lay parallel. “Get away from me.”
“Where do you expect me to go?”
“I dare you not to touch me when I play my song,” he said, clicking on the Barenaked Ladies.
Was this guy for real? He grinned at me from his pillow, and I hated how badly I wanted to kiss him.
“You gonna make it, Tough Lady?”
“If you get a hard-on, you’ll touch me, so you lose.” He scootched his hips back a little farther, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“What’s your choice going to be?”
“‘Smooth’ by Santana,” I said confidently. “I give you ten seconds, Andrews. You’re gonna be all over me like honey on a hot biscuit.”
He switched immediately to my song, threw the remote on the floor, and grabbed me in a rough embrace, rolling on top of me and kissing me so passionately I could hardly breathe.
I laughed again when our lips finally parted.
There was an awful lot of laughing happening when I was around this man. But I didn’t trust it. All this happiness was starting to freak me out.