His Demand (Dirtier Duet Book 1)(8)

By: Lisa Renee Jones


Gabe laces his fingers with mine and leads me inside the car, maneuvering me until I’m against the wall by the panel. The doors begin to shut and Gabe steps close, his big body crowding mine, his spicy scent that hints at musk and man, consuming me the way he consumes me. He gives me no room to breathe anything but that scent. He gives me no room to escape, his powerful legs framing mine like they had in the bar bathroom, and then he punches in a floor and a security code. The doors are sealed and his hands cup my face.

“I thought I let you get away last night.”

“I thought you let me get away.”

“That wasn’t my intent,” he says. “I looked for you.”

“You did?”

“Yes. I did.”

My fingers curl on his chest. “I really didn’t know who you were. You know that, right?”

“If I thought you did, we wouldn’t be in this elevator together.”

The elevator halts and he kisses me. I really like the way he takes every opportunity to kiss me. “Let’s go to my apartment,” he says.

Nerves assail me, overwhelm me even, but he’s already leading me out of the elevator and with a quick turn right, we’re at his apartment. The next thing I know, he’s behind me, his big body crowding mine, his erection, impossible to miss as it nuzzles my backside. He unlocks the door and shoves it open. “Wait.” I rotate to face him. “Before I go inside—”

He walks me backward inside the apartment and kicks the door shut. “Too late. We’re already inside.”

“Gabe, about the legal case—”

“Reid and I will defend you.”

“You don’t even know me. You don’t know the details.”

“I know more than you think I know.” He brushes his knuckles over my cheek. “For instance, you need a drink. You’re really tense. Come sit down.” He turns me toward the room and I take in the open space with a connecting living room and kitchen—brown leather couches and dark wood beneath my feet. It’s downplayed money and power, much like my first impression of the man, who I know is worth millions, which doesn’t comfort me. Not when Jean Claude and my ex together are worth billions. They’re powerful. They’re dangerous.

Still, Gabe has cast bait that I’m biting on. All kinds of bait that I’m biting on. Thus why, as he crosses the room and heads toward a bar in the corner next to a wall of windows and beneath industrial piping that is part of the design of the ceiling, I follow. The minute he’s behind the bar, I’m in front of it. “What does that mean? You know more than I think?”

He sets a glass in front of me and fills it with an amber liquid. “Honey whiskey. Try it.”

I decide he’s right. I need that drink, but I come with a warning. “I get drunk easily. Whiskey is strong.”

He rests his elbows on the bar and fixes me in a blue-eyed stare. “I promise not to let you fall off the bed or me.”

My cheeks heat and I down the whiskey that turns out to be both sweet and somehow warm going down. I empty the glass and set it down on the counter. “I also haven’t had sex in two years. I’m not sure I even remember what to do.”

He arches a brow. “Two years?”

“Yes, two years.”

 “That’s longer than I thought.” His eyes warm and they warm me the way that whiskey did, all the way down. “I’ll refresh your memory. I promise.”

Because he’s good at fucking. I know this. I feel it. It’s how he touches me. It’s how he kisses me, but honestly, I think anyone who looks at him knows this about Gabe. I wonder about the history that got him here. I wonder if it’s anything like mine. “Have you ever been married?”

“I’m not the marrying kind of guy.” He refills my glass and downs his drink before doing the same of his.

“As in never married?”

“Never.”

“And you’re how old?”

His lips quirk. “Thirty-seven. You?”

“Thirty,” I say and on that note, I take a small drink of the whiskey. “You know they say that any man over thirty-five that isn’t married has something wrong with him. But, that said, I disagree. Half the men that are married should never have gotten married. It’s like an expectation we all feel obligated to meet. Marriage is not what it’s cracked up to be.”

He studies me for several beats and takes my glass right when I’m going to sip again, the touch of our hands electric, and oh God, it’s been so long since I felt that kind of spark. “How much do you feel that drink?” he asks.