Managed: A VIP Novel Part 23

f.u.c.king f.u.c.k. A pair of little white panties patterned with tiny red cherries rests on my foot. My hand closes around cool silk, and my c.o.c.k rises so swift and hard, I actually groan.

I'm not prepared; I'm too weak this time. Too f.u.c.king weak to stop myself from lifting the panties to my nose and breathing in deep. A wave of l.u.s.t slaps through me so hard, my knees nearly give out.

Because these are Sophie's dirty knickers. And I'm the perverted b.a.s.t.a.r.d who's getting off on the musky scent of Sophie's p.u.s.s.y.

Another groan tears out of me as I fall against the cold tile wall. I close my eyes tight, fighting the urge to take another breath. Don't do it, mate. Drop them and get the h.e.l.l in the shower.

But I can't. My c.o.c.k is so hard it throbs in time with my frantic heartbeat. G.o.d, her scent...the tart-sweetness of her perfume lingers, calling the golden hue of her skin to mind. Only this time, I picture her on the bed, wearing noting but these cherry panties, her t.i.ts thrust in the air, her thighs spread wide. Just waiting for me to nuzzle between them.

Without my permission, my hand slides over my chest, rubbing those dirty little knickers on my skin, as if I can soak up that scent and make it part of me.

I'm shaking, my breath disjointed and deep as my hand descends. Smooth silk wraps around my c.o.c.k. I fist it and squeeze my eyes tight as I give myself a hard tug.

Sweat trickles down my stomach, my pulse thrumming on my neck. I jerk at my needy c.o.c.k, my sore muscles bunching with each pull. It feels so d.a.m.n good, and not nearly good enough. I almost hate her in this moment. Hate her for making me this needy. Only, I don't. Not even a little bit.

I want. I want. I want.

It's a refrain in my mind as I f.u.c.k her panties like some naughty schoolboy. If she knew what I was doing... Heat licks down my spine, up my trembling thighs.

"Gabriel?" The sound on her voice, and the knock on the door, stops my heat.

For a hard second, every muscle freezes. My gaze snaps to the door in horror. I locked it. Didn't I?

"Are you in there?"

f.u.c.k, don't try the door.

"Yes!" I shout in a gurgle of desperation. "Christ. Use the other toilet."

If she opens this door, I'm done for. I'll have her on her back and my c.o.c.k b.a.l.l.s-deep in her heat in seconds. I almost want that door to open.

Her m.u.f.fled voice sounds slightly put out and slightly amused. "Testy. I was just going to say I left my laundry in there..."

I look down at the white silk clutched in my fist and the swollen, angry head of my p.r.i.c.k peeking out. I shiver and give it a slow stroke, my eyes fluttering in agonized pleasure as I do.

"Go away, Sophie."

"But..."

"I'm showering." My free hand fumbles for the taps and turns them on.

"You just turned the water on."

G.o.d, her voice. This is wrong. So wrong. Squeezing my eyes shut, I keep tormenting my k.n.o.b, denying him the satisfaction of the real thing.

"Can I just step in and get it before you start?"

Already started, love. Why don't you come in and finish me off?

The image of her lips wrapping around my pulsing head is so vivid, a surge of pre-come leaks onto the panties in my hand. My come on Sophie's panties. I suck in a breath. "If you don't move away from this door, I'll watch my entire collection of Star Trek movies on the next leg of the trip. All thirteen of them."

I hear a gasp. "That's just cruel."

Cruel is f.u.c.king silk when I could be in the real thing. Hot, tight, slick. My teeth grind together.

"There will be a quiz at the end of it," I say in a strangled voice.

I'd pin Sophie down, question her on all the ways she likes to be pleasured, and then do them one by one. Unable to hold back, I beat myself off hard and fast, biting my lip so she can't hear me.

"Fine," she says, oblivious to the tremors wracking me as my b.a.l.l.s draw tight and l.u.s.t sucks me down. "I don't know why you have to be so snippy."

Her voice follows me into oblivion. I come in hard jets that splatter over my abs and chest, as I milk every last drop of profane, stolen pleasure I can. I swear I whimper.

Silence rings out on the other side of the door. I sag to my knees and try to catch my breath. Behind me, the shower roars and steam fills the room.

I crawl into the stall and let the hot water wash away my sins. It's only after I reach for the soap that I realize I'm still clutching her panties as if I'll never let them go. I swear this woman is going to kill me.

Sophie

Things to love about Madrid: The architecture. Gorgeous, ornate, timeless. The food. Savory, salty, rich, spicy. The cafe con leche. Don't get me started. So rich and creamy, it's like coffee-flavored hot chocolate. I drank three cups of it one day and reached for another until Gabriel dryly pointed out that I was hopping around like an overexcited bunny.

But the best thing about Spain? Siestas. G.o.d bless any country that has decided yes, we shall shut down business and take a long nap in the middle of the day. How can you not love them for that?

This means I have a government-sanctioned excuse to sleep cuddled up next to Gabriel for most of the afternoon. Yesterday, when I pointed this out, he grumbled about it once, and not very convincingly. Not when he was fast shedding his jacket and slipping into the bathroom to change into a T-shirt and sweats.

Pervy me wants to suggest he quit with the coy hiding himself away to change and just strip down in front of me. h.e.l.l, I want to help him out, unb.u.t.ton his crisp shirts and slowly pull the zipper on his fine slacks. But it would upset the status quo, and I have no idea which way the scales would tip.

It's strange not knowing. Normally I'm excellent at reading men. They're fairly simple creatures, after all. Most of them are, anyway. They want you, they make it known.

Gabriel? He's not most men. True, a man as stunning as Gabriel never has to work at getting a woman. He can attract invitations just by standing still. I've seen it happen. Many times. Women take one look at him, and it's on.

Only he never bites. Never even bothers to fully look at whoever is. .h.i.tting on him. His expression is always bland with a hint of boredom as he casually yet politely gives her the brush off. It's an art form, really, how effectively he rids himself of unwanted advances. I've taken notes.

And I'd be inclined to think he was as.e.xual at this point, except he's not. Not even close. Not given the amount of times his gaze collides with mine and the heat in his expression takes my breath. G.o.d, it burns, the way he watches me. It's covetous and possessive.

He looks at me as if he's mentally stripping off my clothes. With his teeth. He looks at me, and the bottom falls out of my belly. My heart swoops down to my toes, and my nipples go so hard so fast it almost hurts. Almost, because it feels so freaking good-that tight throb, knowing that the only thing that will make it better is his mouth, wet and hot, pulling on them.

I think those dirty thoughts-of Gabriel on his knees, his cheeks hollowing out with the force of his sucks, his hands on my hips, holding me still so I can't move to alleviate the pressure between my legs-and I get a little lightheaded.

And Gabriel must know. He must see what he does to me. I'm a blonde. I blush like one, all pink and sweaty. Too many times, I've seen that hot blue gaze of his stray downward, lingering on my h.o.r.n.y nipples. They aren't exactly shy about showing themselves, d.a.m.n it all.

His nostrils always flare just a little bit, and then a sharp, deep breath, as if he's bracing himself. But it inevitably ends there and then. Because he's unwilling to go any further.

And yet that thick, hard c.o.c.k of his pokes at my a.s.s every time we crawl into bed. He never pulls away to hide his erection, nor does he grind himself against me to move things along. No, he just leaves it there, snug on my a.s.s, his big, wide hand gently molding itself to my belly, his chin on the crown of my hair. He holds me like a lover might, tender yet lingering. But he treats me like a friend, respectful, kind, never taking advantage.

And I let him do it. I lie there, day after day, night after night, my body yielding to his, soaking up his heat, reveling in his possessive hold. It'd be so easy to turn in his arms, press my lips to his, slide my hands down his waist to slip under his lounge pants. I've imagined grasping his big d.i.c.k-and I know it's big at this point- so many times that my palms tingle with phantom memories.

Today, however, there will be no napping. Gabriel has gone out on a run instead. Odd, since he already went on one this morning.

G.o.d, this morning... My cheeks burn at the memory. Okay, so I interrupted his "man time" by knocking on the bathroom door. I shouldn't have done that; Lord knows I'd be p.i.s.sed if he had done the same. But I hadn't expected him back so soon and went to go get detergent. Imagine my horror when I returned and realized he was locked away with my dirty underwear.

And clearly he found them. He hasn't been able to look me in the eye since he finally got out of his shower, practically grunting out answers every time I bothered to talk to him.

So embarra.s.sing. I don't even know why I thought cleaning them in the bathroom was a good idea. I didn't even bother washing my undies after Gabriel left the room, but stuffed them all in a bag and sent them down with housekeeping. Only, they lost my favorite pair-the cute boy shorts with cherries on them. And no one on staff can find them. So, joy all around today.

I'm so worked up now, when my phone rings, I almost jump out of my skin. Sad that I hope it's him. But it's my friend Kati from New York.

"Hey you," I answer with a smile. "Isn't a little early to be calling me?"

It's two in the afternoon here, which means it's eight in the morning in New York, and I know Kati is a late sleeper like me.

"It would be," she answers, "if I was in New York."

I flop back on the bed. The stupid empty bed which will not be used for napping. "Where are you?"

"I'm in London at the moment. There's a certain pop star who has broken up with her high-profile boyfriend, and everyone wants the scoop."

Kati is a reporter who covers the music industry. She was the one to get me into celebrity photography, and also the first to support me leaving the business when she saw how hollowed out I'd become.

"Tough life, isn't it?" I say.

"The worst," she agrees with a laugh. "And might I add, I'm shocked to hear you're back in it."

"In a much better capacity this time, thankfully." I roll onto my stomach, my head hanging over the bed. A tiny glint of red peeking out between the mattress and the box spring catches my eye. Frowning, I scoot closer. "And how did you know I was working with musicians again?" I ask, half distracted.

"It's a small world. People talk..."

Listening to her, I reach down and touch the sc.r.a.p of red fabric playing peek-a-boo with the mattress. It's silk, and it's not just red. It's red and white.

Kati's voice ebbs and flows in my ear. "...and not just any musicians. Kill John? How the h.e.l.l did that happen? Do they know about...well, your pictures?"

"They know. We talked it out, and everything is cool." Biting my lip, I tug at the fabric. It resists for a second, and then yanks free. For a moment, I just stare at the panties dangling in my hand. White with little red cherries on them. My panties.

They're slightly damp and completely rumpled from being crammed beneath the mattress. On Gabriel's side of the bed. Unable to resist, I bring them to my nose and take a cautious sniff. They smell like his shower gel.

Gabriel washed my panties? Why?

A naughty thought runs through my head: Gabriel touching my dirty panties and what he might have done with them that would necessitate cleaning.

Oh, yes, please, and can I watch next time?

But, no, he couldn't have. Not cool, collected Gabriel Scott. Could he?

Maybe he found them on the floor of the bathroom and washed them for me.

But he kept them. Hid them away as if he might... What? Want to use them again?

Flushing hot, I press the cool, damp silk to my cheek. And promptly flush again.

"Sophie? h.e.l.lo? Are you there?"

"s.h.i.t," I gasp, plunging back into reality. "Sorry. I...ah...dropped the phone down the front of my shirt. I hate when that happens, don't you?"

Kati laughs. "Goof."

"Sorry." I stare at my contraband panties in wonder. "What were you saying?"

"I said Martin has been talking about you being on the Kill John tour."

All thoughts of panties flee, and I sit up straight, my heart pounding. "What?"

"Yep. He came into my office the other day and started spouting off about how proud he was of you being able to get on the tour. That he didn't realize you still had it in you to be such an opportunist. His words." Her tone is dry and disgusted.

"That a.s.shole. I'm not trying to take advantage of the band. I'm in charge of their social media, for f.u.c.k's sake." That I even have to say so burns. Can a person ever truly shake their past? Or will we always be judged by it?

"If he had a brain in his head, he'd know that," Kati says, clearly trying to rea.s.sure. "I only mentioned it because you know how he gets. He's interested now and smells a story. I don't know if he'll try to make contact. But I thought I'd warn you."

"Thanks, K."

I hang up with Kati as soon as I can, because I'm fairly certain I'm going to be sick. Martin and I have been history for a long time. He can't hurt me. I know this. But just the thought of him brings back the ugliness of who I used to be.

I'm a better person now, someone who takes responsibility for her actions. I'm no longer flitting through life like a modern-day Scarlett, vowing to think about repercussions tomorrow instead of today.

But am I truly different? I still don't have a set goal in life other than to enjoy it. My natural inclination is to laugh and tease first, be serious later.

Suddenly, I no longer care about pilfered panties or suppressed s.e.xual needs; I want Gabriel to be home. I want to cuddle up and have him hold me. And yet part of me doesn't want to look him in the eye.

Gabriel isn't trusting by nature. In this business, he shouldn't be. And yet I'd been insulted and hurt when he didn't want me on the tour.