Page 16 of Five
“Sorry, but he’s taken for tonight.” Gabe’s possessive words come out more like a threat than an apology.
The cowboy doesn’t desist though. Money and power can make anybody cocky. “I’ll let the cute angel decide,” he replies, lowering his eyes on me.
Angel? I giggle lightly, despite not understanding the stiffening of Gabe’s body against mine. He knows very well I’m no angel. I contemplate for a second screwing with him and following the cowboy to the carmine room. But I rapidly push the thought away. I can more easily fuck with him near me.
“The carmine room will have to wait for next time,” I say. The cowboy tightens his lips but nods in understanding. He grabs my hand to place a light kiss on the back before leaving. Maybe I should reconsider the anything-goes buffet because if all older guys are this classy, I could be on board.
Gabe moves his body away from me, taking the cowboy’s place.
“Oh, hello, Gabe. Nice meeting you here. Fancy a drink?”
“I know you followed me here.” I see no indicators of anger on his face. Maybe his features are frozen from lack of use. Does he ever move them?
“Whatever do you mean?” I lift my flute to my lips, but it’s empty.
Gabe signals the bartender as he says, “Even astronauts in the space station could see you driving behind me like a lunatic.”
“Three words for you: perfect driving record.” I point at my chest as my eyes fall on the people surrounding us again. “Mmm, Mr. Hot Shot is staring at us.” I smile at Gabe, pretending enjoyment.
“Who?”
“The slick guy you were talking to when that plastic wench was all over you,” I remind him, a little too strongly.
His gaze turns intense for a few seconds, making me feel under a microscope. But then his fingers land on my shoulder and slowly trail down my arm, leaving a tingling sensation behind until they linger on the back of my hand, brushing the skin lightly, feeling like a hot brand.
“Just go with it. Philip Bailey is the owner of Crimson, and he needs to believe I found the person I want to take into one of the private rooms.”
It’s all an act. Of course, I knew it.“So charming, how can I resist?” I pat his chest, enjoying the hardness hidden by his clothes for a moment. Who would have thought. “I don’t want to seem too easy. I’m going to need one more glass.”
Gabe’s inscrutable eyes are on me again, looking darker than usual, when Caterpillar Brows places two flutes in front of us. I wink at him in thanks.
“Pretend to drink it,” he whispers cryptically.
I do need to remain sober, but I think his cautious suggestion is connected to the drug that Rague told me about. Oh fuck, is it mixed with the alcohol? I already drank one glass. That metallic taste at the end…is it normal for champagne, or was it the drug? Damn! My mind is firing with dozens of hypotheses crowding my increasingly panicky self.
Fear must show on my face because Gabe grabs my hand. His sympathy is quite shocking. His touch grounds me as my eyes find his again.
“I drank a glass,” I tell him.
He nods. “Maybe it wasn’t spiked. We don’t know how the other victims were dosed.”
“But mixing the drug with the drinks seems like the most likely method,” I interject.
The unfriendly patterned lady at the entrance encouraged me to drink the champagne, and the bartender told me someone wouldsecureme soon enough when he gave me the glass. Why did I drink? I’m the lamest James Bond ever. The thought that the champagne could have been spiked didn’t even enter my head. I mean, I’m surrounded by people. Doing it so openly would be a bit risky. Nevertheless, this is a very private sex club. I have no doubt that whatever happens here, stays here.
“And if it was spiked?” I ask him in a low, nervous voice. Rague said that the victims who were dosed felt an arousal so powerful, it turned into pain and only feeling pleasure could stop it. “Do you have any sedatives on you?”
“No. But I’m here.” Is he suggesting, what I think he’s suggesting?
His calm statement strangely soothes my distress. His usual indifference toward me irritates me, but I know deep down that Gabe—like all his brothers—would help me. This situation is peculiar, though and if indeed I took that drug, I’m going to need him to…take care of me. My balls tingle at the thought. Would he do it with his mouth? My eyes lift on his perfectly proportioned lips, then drop on his long, strong fingers. With his hands? Dick? I halt my gaze before it lowers further down.
“Would you…?” I can’t finish the sentence. Am I really asking him for help?
I don’t feel any different, perhaps I didn’t ingest the drug. Although, I don’t know how long it’d take for it to affect me. But would Gabe go all the way if it does? Isn’t he straight? I’ve never seen him with a bloke, or a woman either. Would he feel forced? No, I’m a looker. Too gorgeous not to tempt even the straightest arrow.
Would I really want him to help me, though? I’ve always been attracted to him. He’s a bloody wet dream. His cold demeanor and dismissiveness are the repellants that kept me at a distance—disliking him.
“Would you want me to?” he echoes my thoughts.
