11. Gabriel

11

GAbrIEL

M y head is spinning after almost kissing Bella.

I sink back on my heels, watching as she makes her apologies and flees the room, wondering briefly if I should go after her. She doesn’t have anything to apologize for, after all. All she did was stumble and knock something over. I’m the one who very nearly did something unforgivable, just because I was so close to her.

It runs through my head again—the question that I probably shouldn’t have asked, but felt that maybe I could in that moment. Bella’s guard was down, we were having a relaxing evening talking over a drink—it seemed like the time to find out what had been nagging at me. I assumed it was a simple case of a betrothal falling through—something that happens from time to time. Maybe her father and the potential groom hadn’t been able to agree fully on terms, or the groom had come back to the table with negotiations that Masseo had refused. But what I was really curious about was whether or not it was that Bella had put her foot down about it.

After a few weeks of knowing her, it seems possible. She’s quiet and reserved, but I can see a thread of strength running through her that I haven’t often seen before in others. She’s more resilient than she first appears, and adaptable. And above all else, she’s stridently against the idea of being married. I can’t blame her for not wanting to marry a stranger—but my gut tells me that there’s something else to it. That there’s more to this story than what I know.

I shouldn’t have pried, but the question felt innocuous enough. And her reaction only confirmed to me that something happened before all of this that’s more than just a run-of-the-mill disagreement over betrothal negotiations.

I don’t know why it matters so much to me. It shouldn’t matter—it doesn’t really have any bearing on her job here, or what she’s doing in my house. It’s a part of her past that doesn’t affect the future she has here. But since the moment I ran into her in that hallway, it’s been hard for me to not want to know more about her. She’s different than other women I’ve known, confusing and intriguing all at once—and blindingly gorgeous on top of it all.

My heart is still slamming against my ribs as I watch her flee, arousal stronger than anything I’ve felt in a long time coursing through my veins. I’ve almost forgotten about the spilled wine as I stare after her, until I feel it start to trickle against my knee, soaking through the fabric of my pants, and it yanks me back to reality.

What were you thinking? I berate myself internally as I stand up and go to the kitchen to get more napkins, taking the broken wine glass with me to throw it away. I’d only meant to help her, but I should have known better than to be that close to her, kneeling on the floor an inch away, our hands almost touching. I could have gone and gotten things to clean up, taken away the wine glass—anything other than gotten down on eye level with her, in a position far too intimate for what we are to each other. Close enough to kiss—and I almost had.

I should have known better than to ask her to have a drink with me at all, knowing that I’ve had a hard time reining in my attraction to her. Knowing how many times already I’ve looked at her and felt a flush of desire that made me feel ashamed of myself as soon as I tamped it down.

It’s always at war with the desire to get to know her better. To find out more about who she is. And tonight, that won out.

Once again, it almost made me make a mistake.

Her perfect mouth was so close to mine. I could smell her perfume—or maybe it was just her skin, warm and smelling faintly of soap. I could feel how warm she was, could imagine exactly how it would feel to reach out and pull her into my arms, to feel the shape of her body molding against mine and the silkiness of her hair running through my fingers, how soft her lips would be against mine.

My cock throbs, straining against the fabric of my joggers, my erection refusing to subside. I was hard the minute I looked down at her mouth, achingly so, and the ache is pounding through my blood, making it hard to think, hard to focus on anything other than how badly I need relief.

I throw the wine glass away, trying to ignore my arousal, trying to think about anything else as I clean up the broken glass and the wine spill, carefully making sure none of the glass is left behind. But it’s impossible. I can’t get the sweet scent of her out of my nose, can’t stop thinking about how it would have felt to touch her. The lack of physical pleasure, of being touched, on all but a few occasions for so many years now comes rearing up, my entire body throbbing with a need that refuses to be ignored.

I press my hand unthinkingly against the front of my joggers, pushing my cock down, trying to ease the ache. But even through layers of fabric, just that pressure of my hand sends a hot sensation arcing through me, just that tiny bit of friction nearly making me moan. I’m too aroused, too sensitive, and I desperately need to come.

All I can think about is that as I finish cleaning up, heading blindly towards the stairs and up to my room. I close the door behind me, heading straight for my bed, one hand already pulling my joggers down around my hips as I free my aching cock.

I don’t bother with getting anything out to jerk off with. I don’t need it. My cock is dripping pre-cum, my shaft already slick with it, the tip red and swollen. I suck in a sharp breath as I wrap my hand around my stiff length, feeling the vein pulse against my fingers, just the sensation of skin on skin nearly making my eyes roll back in my head.

It’s not going to take long. I start to stroke, sliding my fist down to the base of my cock, gritting my teeth against another groan as my hand brushes against my tight balls, my hips thrusting up as I start to fuck my fist. I need to come— god , I need to fucking come, and I try not to think of Bella as I hurtle towards that inevitable end, but I can’t stop myself. My cock is wet with my own arousal, the sound of it slick as I pump my fist up and down my length, rubbing my palm over the head and letting out a low, helpless moan as I do.

I can’t stop myself from imagining her, those full lips around my cock, sucking, that the wetness soaking my cock is from her mouth, her pussy, that the tight death grip of my hand is her instead, drenching me in arousal as she rides me. I can picture her naked all too easily, how perfect her body would be, all smooth skin and taut curves, her thighs gripping my hips, her breasts bouncing, nipples stiff and begging for my hands, my mouth as she threw her head back and cried out, coming hard on my cock?—

“ Fuck!” I curse aloud through gritted teeth as my balls tighten and my cock throbs, the euphoric sensation of release bursting at the base of my spine and pulsing through the length of my cock as I start to come. I cup the palm of my other hand around the head as I stroke faster, harder, fucking my hand through the orgasm as I rub my thumb against the swollen tip, hot cum filling my hand as my entire body shudders with exquisite pleasure. It feels so fucking good that I don’t want it to stop, the first orgasm I’ve had in months, and I gasp aloud as I stroke myself through it, desperate to cling to the feeling for as long as I can.

I want her so badly it hurts. I sit up, joggers still around my hips, as I go to the bathroom to clean up, washing my hands before stripping off my clothes to get in the shower. I’m still breathing hard, the aftershocks of the intense orgasm still pulsing through me, and my cock is still half-hard. Still swollen and sensitive, sending bursts of pleasure through me every time it brushes against my thigh. When I step into the shower, the warm water pouring over me, I can feel it starting to stiffen again.

Fuck. I close my eyes, trying to banish the thoughts of Bella, but it feels nearly impossible now that I’ve let them in. It feels like the orgasm has barely taken the edge off, barely even eased the slightest bit of the ache that’s still throbbing through me, and I start to stroke again without thinking, desperate for relief. To stop feeling this pounding need that will drive me crazy if I let it. That will screw up a perfectly good thing that I’ve set up.

I try to think about anything else. An actress I find particularly attractive, a lingerie ad I saw on the way to work this morning, a faceless woman getting fucked by a faceless man in a porn I watched months ago. All of it keeps getting pushed aside by fantasies of Bella—on her knees in the shower, turned to face the wall with her hands pressed to the tiles, her full ass arched up towards me as I slide my cock against her soft folds, pushing into her, fucking her until she comes on my cock and then sliding my hard length into her tight ass?—

God, what the fuck am I thinking? I’ve gone from zero to a hundred, from nearly kissing her to imagining fucking her in the ass in the shower, but it’s like four years of keeping an iron fist on my libido is crashing over me like an avalanche, one small crack in the levy letting a tide of need flow free. I groan aloud, the sound of the shower covering up any noise, my hips thrusting as I imagine fucking her, my other hand closed in a fist, imagining the feeling of her soft skin under my palm, gripping her hip as I thrust, how hot and tight she would feel, how fucking perfect.

I can’t remember the last time I came twice in one night. But all too soon, I feel my balls tightening, that heat slithering up my spine as my cock stiffens, and I moan, thrusting into my fist as hot cum spurts against the tiles. I can’t remember the last time I came this much, either, spurt after spurt arcing from my cock as I keep stroking and wave after wave of pleasure hits me, making me almost dizzy with the force of it as I imagine that I’m filling Bella up with it instead. Pushing my cock so deeply into her that not a single drop will spill out.

I shudder as the last of it drips from my cock, finally letting go of my softening length as I lean against the shower wall, closing my eyes. Even now, after two orgasms, I can feel that I’m not far from another erection, the buzz of arousal still lingering in my veins. I feel ravenous, and I know it’s because this isn’t enough. Jerking off isn’t enough. It’s not what I want.

But there’s nothing I can do about it. I try to think of a solution as I stand there, the shower pelting against my back, but I come up with nothing. There are exclusive sex clubs that my connections could get me into, ones where I could have a woman do anything I asked for a hefty fee. It would be professional and impersonal, undoubtedly excellent as far as technique and pleasure go—but that’s not what I want, either. I’ve never liked paying for sex, feeling as if the detachment takes something away from it. On the few occasions, I did it when I was younger, partying with other rich businessmen and mafia who had invites to those exclusive, black-card member-only clubs, I felt oddly empty afterward, despite how exquisite the experience felt.

Sex has always been personal to me. Something that’s better if you like the person you’re doing it with. The skill of the other person in bed doesn’t matter so much to me as the connection, and that’s something you can’t get paying for it, no matter how good the woman is at faking it. And for that same reason, I don’t want to date a woman just to get laid. I’m sure it would be easy enough to go out and pick someone up—I’m not so modest that I don’t know how good-looking I am, and capable of charming someone easily. I used to be good at dating, back in the day before I got married. But a one-night stand feels as empty and impersonal as paying someone. And dating someone knowing that I can’t offer them anything more than a cursory relationship doesn’t feel fair. Even if I was up-front with how emotionally unavailable I am, I know how easy it is to fall for someone even without meaning to. I don’t want to do that to someone.

But you also can’t keep fantasizing about the nanny, I tell myself firmly, turning off the shower and reaching for a towel. That is the one thing I absolutely cannot do. After what happened tonight, in fact, I need to take a massive step back, and put a considerable professional distance between us.

I had hoped that letting myself give in to the need just long enough to satisfy it myself would be enough. But as I’d suspected, it wasn’t. And now I have even more of a problem than before.

I toss my clothes into the hamper, changing into fresh ones to sleep in, and crawl into bed. I stubbornly ignore the heat still lingering in my veins, the way my cock still hasn’t softened entirely, and roll over, letting myself drift off into sleep.

But even sleep isn’t an escape. My dreams are full of her—of how beautiful she looked coming down the stairs the night that I took her out to dinner, radiant even wrapped up in that shawl, of her bright, laughing expression when I opened the car up on that back road, of the happiness I’ve slowly seen building in her over the past weeks. Of her face, so close to mine tonight, of how easily I could have leaned in and kissed her, lifted her up onto the couch, slowly peeled away her clothing until I had all of her soft skin under my hands. There’s nothing in my dreams to hold me back, to keep me from moving in between her thighs, pushing my pants down to my hips and sliding the swollen head of my cock against her soft folds, pushing inside of her as she clings to my shoulders. Nothing to keep me from feeling her full mouth parting under mine, the heat of her tongue sliding against mine matching the heat of her body enveloping me, gripping me, pulling me in for the first time, her nails digging into my skin as I show her just how good a man’s cock can feel, how well I can fill her up, how I can make her cry out my name just as I lose control of my own pleasure and?—

I jerk awake, panting, sweat gathered at the nape of my neck. My cock is painfully hard, so much so that it’s pushed out of the waist of my pants, lying flat against my abs, the slick wetness of my pre-cum streaked across my skin. My heart is pounding, my cock throbbing like there’s a second pulse lodged there, and it takes everything in me not to reach down and ease the arousal that feels as if it’s on the verge of blocking out every other thought.

No. I clench my hands into fists, gritting my teeth. Last night was a mistake. Everything about it was a mistake. I gave into weakness once, and it didn’t help. If I keep doing it, if I keep letting myself sink into fantasies of her, getting off to them, it won’t end there. It will spiral into an obsession that will ruin everything, and I’ll lose what’s most important to me—something that gives stability to my family, that fills in the gaps that I can’t.

Instead, I push myself out of bed, grabbing my workout clothes, and changing into them, ignoring my stubborn erection as I do. I head downstairs in the quiet stillness of the house to the basement gym, straight to the boxing bags, and put my earbuds in, setting it to the loudest, most overwhelming music I can find as I start my routine, ignoring my throbbing cock the entire time.

Somewhere in the middle of the workout, my arousal finally starts to ease, the aching desire transmuting into something else as I go from boxing to weights, pushing my endurance to the brink. I work out harder than I’ve worked out in years, forcing every other thought, every other need out, until there’s nothing but the repetitive motion of pushing my body to lift harder, go further. Until I’m utterly exhausted, and I stumble back to the shower, my libido restrained, at least for now.

I do everything I can, for the rest of the day, not to think about Bella. I don’t linger for breakfast, eating as quickly as I can and telling Agnes I have meetings to get to. I do, in fact, have a few important meetings this morning, and I focus on that, stubbornly guiding my thoughts back to business every time they threaten to wander to the gorgeous woman I somehow thought it was a good idea to employ as my children’s nanny.

You did it because she’s kind, capable, smart, and in need of help, I remind myself. All of my intentions in bringing her into my home were good, and honorable. As long as I can hang onto those, nothing will go wrong.

I work diligently until the end of the day, turn off my laptop and pack up, and go down to get my car, running through my new resolutions in my head. Distance. No more asking her to have a drink with me. No more discussions about her personal life. She’s an employee, and while I wanted to be closer to her, I clearly can’t manage that kind of relationship. Instead, a more formal one will suit us better. Beyond that, I can manage my own mind. I’ve done it in the past, and I’ll do it again now.

With that in mind, I head home, letting out a breath as I hand over the keys to Aldo and walk up to the front door. Everything will go back to normal. One night’s slipup isn’t enough to bring the entire house of cards crashing down.

I walk in and hear an unfamiliar voice in the living room. Confused, I kick off my shoes, setting down my bag, and stride in that direction. As far as I knew, no one should be here other than Agnes, Bella, and the children. I walk into the living room—and stop in my tracks, shocked enough to freeze for just a moment.

Cecelia is sitting on the couch, reading. Danny is on the floor with a comic book. And Bella is sitting on the loveseat—with an unfamiliar blonde across from her, talking animatedly with a smile on her face.

A stranger. Someone I don’t know. In my house .

Irritation floods me, my frustration from last night and this morning feeding it until it turns into irrational anger. Anger that I know is disproportionate to the situation, but my voice is sharp all the same, ringing out through the room as I fold my arms and stare at Bella, who has just noticed I walked in and turns to look at me.

“Bella, what in the hell are you doing?”