Page 13 of Only for You
Chapter Five
Killian studied Gabriella’s slim back, and the slender, curved legs that seemed to stretch for miles from under her blue shirt. The hem barely cleared the bottom of her ass, and every step she took was a torturous tease. He’d already seen her ass, had cupped it, squeezed it as he ate her sweet flesh, but even minutes later, he wanted, craved, more.
God, that pussy. He rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and slicked his tongue over it. He could still taste her. After so many years, he’d convinced himself that she hadn’t flowed sweet and thick like the purest honey. That she hadn’t been so addictive. He’d almost lost himself between her thighs, would’ve willingly drowned in her, if he hadn’t dragged himself back from the edge at the last moment. She’d accused him of being a bastard for leaving her right on the brink of orgasm, for leaving her hurting. What she didn’t know was pulling away from her had punished him as well. He would’ve gladly offered up his left nut to have her slick, firm muscles squeeze his fingers as she flooded his hand. Have her clit swell and contract against his tongue. Have her screams of completion rain down on him.
It’d been shiny new and so damn familiar. A surprise and predictable. The old Gabriella had never taunted him, pushed him. Not that she’d been meek; it’d been Gabriella’s strength that had made her submission so perfect and precious. This slightly older and hardened version of the woman who haunted his memories challenged him with her mouth, eyes, and body. But the taste, the grip of her sex, her immediate, uninhibited response—they were all the same. Just as he remembered.
Where had she been all these years? What had she been doing? Was she okay? Unbidden, the questions flocked his head. He shouldn’t care, but gone was the innocence that had somehow still managed to lighten her eyes back then, though she’d seen nothing but the seedier side of life with her mother’s lifestyle, his mob connections, and the barrage of people that tracked in and out of Garrett’s bar. The purple gaze seemed sharper, watchful, and full of a knowledge that only experience brought. Hard experience. Her wide, full mouth didn’t smile.
I miss it.
Again, the thought crept into his head before he could block it. But once there, he couldn’t deny it. Gabriella always had a smile for him—one capable of lighting up a room as well as the darkness that grew bigger every day in his chest. He’d walk into her uncle’s bar fresh off a night of gambling, stealing, or collecting debts, and she’d look up from whatever table she waited on and given him that luminescent curve of mouth that let him know he was wanted, missed, cared about…loved.
She even walked differently, he observed as she paced the room, arms crossed over her chest. No longer bouncy and fast as if she’d just downed three cups of coffee. Now her steps were measured, slower, like those of someone always ready and prepared to flee or fight. Streetwise. Yeah, that was it. Somewhere in the last four years and eight months, Gabriella had become streetwise.
“What is this? Your own personal playroom?” The question, or rather the slightly defiant tone beneath it, drew him away from his contemplation of her newer mannerisms and demeanor. “My sister-in-law was regaling me with rumors of your reputation.”
He didn’t immediately answer, weighing how much to tell her. After a second, he opted to confirm only the information the gossips spread. “No, the playroom is another section of The Loft. This is the exclusive, membership-only part of the club. People pay to play up here without judgment or censorship, and with the promise of the utmost discretion and privacy.”
“A sex club?” she asked, disbelief rife in her tone.
“Aphrodisiac club,” he corrected. “With the exception of anything demeaning or unsanitary, whatever a person finds sexually exciting, we offer.”
She scrunched up her nose in an adorable moue. “And I thought L.A. had some kinky shit. Why?”
Los Angeles. That answered the where.
“You really asking me that?” he asked, voice low, saturated with the lust kindled by the rapid-fire succession of memories across his frontal lobe. Gabriella, spread eagle on her bed, helpless to his mouth and fingers. Gabriella, on her knees, swallowing his cock inch by inch. Gabriella, on her elbows and knees, ass in the air, slowly taking him inside that tight back entrance… How many times had he needed to cover her mouth with his hand to keep her screams from waking her neighbors through the paper-thin walls of her apartment? Or had to move them from the squeaking mattress to the floor for the same reason?
Yeah, she more than anyone should understand the draw of having a safe, worry-free place to indulge in fantasy sex.
“And as the owner, do you…play…here often?” she rasped.
He arched an eyebrow. “Do you really want me to answer that question, Gabriella?” he murmured. “Because be careful what you ask for. I’ll give you the truth if that’s what you really want.”
Her eyes narrowed on him, then after a moment, she whispered, “No. I don’t think I do.”
Good. Because if he did tell her, the masochistic side of him might demand a like answer, and he damn sure didn’t want to know that. Unlike Rion and Sasha, one of his vices hadn’t been sharing. And though she hadn’t been his for years—had she ever?—the thought of another man caressing all that golden flesh had him hungering for another round in a makeshift ring.
“Are you okay?” The softly spoken question jarred him, and he met her concerned gaze. She tipped her head toward the door. “From the elevator. Are you okay?”
And that topic effectively shut down any kernels of curiosity and simmering desire. Doused it like an ice-cold bucket of water over a campfire. Goddamn claustrophobia. Normally, he avoided the elevator like the clap. When he accessed The Loft, he took the back entrance and steps. But in his hurry to get Gabriella upstairs, he’d been willing to suffer the minute in the confining cage. He’d believed he could handle it. And thinking with his dick had him turning into a goddamn, sweating statue in front of Gabriella.
“I’m fine.” The clipped words should’ve warned her off, and for a moment, he thought she would drop it, but again, this was the new Gabriella.
“What happened?” she pressed. “It was a panic attack, right? My mother used to have them.” So that’s how she’d known how to center him, assist him through it. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the gentle but firm touch of her hands on his face. Could still feel the deep breaths she’d coached him through. Still spy the concern in her amethyst gaze.
A greasy slide of shame slithered through his veins. He hated—detested—that she’d seen him weak. Goddamn fragile. Some people came out of jail and were able to put the time behind them, but Killian couldn’t. Not when entering his office every night reminded him of that hell. Now his fear was the gift that kept on fucking giving.
“I don’t like enclosed spaces,” he growled, unbuckling his belt. He needed to distract her…distract himself. He’d come here to lose himself in her, not lose his shit.
“Oh, baby, I’m sorry,” she breathed, her arms lowering as if she would reach for him again as she’d done in the elevator.
Baby.
The endearment sucker-punched him. She’d called him that minutes ago, but he’d been too focused on calming down and getting his shit together to fully register it. Now, with a clear head, the word scored him from sternum to sack. Only she had ever dared to call him that; she was the only one he’d allowed. And hearing it on her lips now…No. Especially when before the incident in the elevator, the last time she’d whispered “baby” he’d been wrapped around her slender body after making love.
I love you, baby. I always will.
