Page 9 of Off Limits
Very normal. Very well-adjusted.
The thing was—and this was thereallypathetic part—seeing Gabriel in distress had made Asher want to help. Even after the ordering around, even after the cryptic non-answers. Some stupid part of him still wanted Gabriel's approval, still wanted to be useful to the man who'd taught him to tie fishing flies when he was twelve.
Christ, his daddy issues had daddy issues.
"Get a grip, Sutter," Asher told his reflection in the dark window. His face looked pale in the glass, eyes a little too bright from the whiskey. "He made it clear he doesn't want you around."
But since when had Asher ever done what was good for him?
The decision was made with the kind of clarity that only comes from three whiskeys and a lifetime of poor impulse control. Asher grabbed the flashlight again and headed for the door.
The night air hit him hard. Beyond the cabin's light, the darkness was absolute except where the moon touched it.
Asher had forgotten this kind of night existed. Forgotten how it made you feel small and exposed, like something might be watching from just beyond your vision. The flashlight beam seemed pathetic against it, a tiny tunnel of safety in an ocean of black.
Three years of city living had made him soft. Once upon a time, he'd known these woods, could navigate them in the dark. Now the familiar path felt alien, every shadow potentially hiding something with teeth.
The moon was fucking bright tonight, full and silver, casting shadows so sharp they looked painted on. The kind of moon that made people do stupid things. Well, stupider things, in Asher's case.
As he approached, he rehearsed what he might say. Something casual but assertive. "Look, I deserve answers about my father's property." Or maybe direct and uncompromising: "Either you explain what's going on, or I call the sheriff and report a trespasser."
The problem was, he didn't actually want Gabriel gone.
This realization stopped him mid-stride, just yards from the outbuilding door.
Beneath all his bitchy irritation and confusion lurked something else—a pathetic desire for Gabriel tostay. To explain. To bethat steady, calming force Asher remembered from when he was smaller and the world made sense.
To maybe, finally, look at Asher and see something other than Ray Sutter's fuck-up son.
To see the man he was trying to be.
"This is so stupid," Asher muttered under his breath, but his feet kept moving forward anyway. Story of his life—knowing better but doing the dumb thing regardless. He raised his hand to knock.
And stopped.
Because he could hear something. Low, rhythmic breathing. The creak of old bedsprings. And then?—
A groan. Deep, guttural, unmistakably sexual.
Asher's brain short-circuited.
No. No fucking way. Gabriel Stone wasnotjerking off in there. That was not a thing that was happening. Asher had clearly had too much whiskey. He was hearing things.
But another groan, louder this time, proved his ears were working just fine.
"Holy shit," Asher breathed, frozen in place.
He should leave,right now.Turn around, walk back to the cabin, and pretend he was never here. That would be the decent thing to do. The non-creepy thing.
Instead, like the absolute disaster of a human being he was, Asher found himself moving toward the window.
This is a new low,he thought to himself even as he positioned himself at the gap in the curtains.Even for you, this isreallyfucking bad.
But his self-lecture didn't stop him from looking.
Gabriel was on the narrow bed, completely naked now, sprawled like something out of Asher's most desperate fantasies.
No clothes to hide behind, just miles of skin painted gold by the lantern light. Sweat gleamed across his chest, catching in the silver hair that dusted his pecs and formed a trail down his abs. One large hand worked his shaft with desperate, almost angry strokes, while the other gripped the headboard hard enough that Asher could hear the wood creaking.
