18. Gabriel

18

GAbrIEL

I know, as I watch Bella hurry from the gym to the stairs outside, that I’ve gotten myself into a situation that can only end badly.

It’s easy enough to rationalize the guilt of wanting another woman away. I loved my wife, was fiercely faithful to her when she was alive, and I’ve grieved her deeply. It took me over a year to even come around to the idea of going to bed with a woman again, and longer still before I acted on it casually, so desperate for touch that I couldn’t bear it any longer. I’m young still, and I know that Delilah wouldn’t have wanted me to be miserable and alone. She would have understood. I just haven’t really wanted anyone, other than brief moments of desperation, until now.

But Bella has changed that. What I feel for her is a desire that I haven’t felt in four long years, and worse still, it’s mingled with more than just lust. I care for her in a way that’s dangerous, a way that complicates desire. Even worse than that is the fact that she works for me. It would be bad enough if she didn’t live in my house as my employee, care for my children, if she wasn’t part of a structure that I don’t want to undermine in the slightest. But sex will complicate that to a degree that I don’t even want to begin to consider.

And then, beyond that?—

Even if I could rationalize away every other objection to my desire for her, even if I could find a way to justify wanting her against every other consideration—there’s the fact that I know she deserves more than something casual. And that’s all I can offer her, if I were to offer her anything at all.

I don’t think I have the capacity to fall in love again. To give my heart to another woman, after the weight of the grief of losing my first wife. The most that I think I could offer someone else is an exchange of pleasure—maybe, in time, a friendship, if I found someone who I saw more often than once every year or so. But Bella has never had any kind of relationship at all, and she deserves so much more than that. Far more.

If she were a different woman, one with experience, I could maybe justify trying to have a casual fling with her. Something that would scratch an itch for both of us.

If she wasn’t my children’s nanny. If she hadn’t been through all the trauma that’s been imposed on her.

If, if, if.

At the core of Bella is a woman I would like to spend more time with, a woman that I’d like to do a hell of a lot more with, god only knows. But all of those other things are a part of her, and her place in my life, and they can’t be undone.

But the desire throbbing through my body as I watch her go wants too badly to ignore all of that.

I re-rack the weights, heading upstairs and hoping I don’t run into her. I hear the sound of the shower running from somewhere down the hall as I reach the floor her room is on, and every part of my body tightens all at once.

The image of her standing in the shower, naked and wet, soap suds dripping off of her perfect breasts and running in rivulets down her smooth skin, the humid room filled at first with the scent of her sweaty, warm skin and then the cleaner, fresher scent of her after she’s scrubbed down?—

I was already half-hard, my cock swollen just from being near her in the gym. I’d been fighting a hard-on all morning, and now, at that image, I feel my cock stiffen in an instant, all the blood in my body rushing south as I go rock-hard, the need for release nearly overriding all else.

Fuck. I pivot, making a beeline for my bedroom, and my own shower.

My hand is already around my cock as soon as I strip my clothes off, my breath coming hard and fast as I drop them in a sweaty pile on the floor and reach with my other hand to twist the taps on in the shower. My hand is moving with a mind of its own, running up and down my stiff, throbbing length, and I grit my teeth to bite back a moan.

I’m going to come quick and hard. It won’t take long. My balls are already tight, that electric tingle rushing up and down my spine. I step into the water, bracing one hand against the tile as I jerk my cock hard, and the image of Bella in front of me, her perfect, heart-shaped ass tilted up as I push myself between her warm, soft thighs into the wet heat waiting for me sends me over the edge.

“ Fuck!” I nearly snarl the word between gritted teeth, hips pumping as I fuck my fist hard, sending spurts of cum shooting against the tiles. My toes curl against the shower floor, my head spinning, and I’m breathing so hard I feel dizzy. My cock throbs again, another jet of cum hitting the tiles, and I swear I’ve never come so hard or as much as I do when I’m thinking about her. What happens when you go months without ever jerking off, I guess , I think somewhere in the back of my mind as I gasp, hand still stuttering along my oversensitive length as I swallow hard, my mouth dry.

And then I let out a frustrated groan, because I can tell that’s barely even taken the edge off. I’m still hard, still aching, so stiff I probably wouldn’t even be able to get dressed. And all I can think about is her.

I need to get laid. I grit my teeth as I drop my hand away from my cock, willing my erection to subside. I need to get over myself, and get over this growing obsession with Bella, and go out to a bar like any other normal, wealthy man in his mid-thirties. I like to think I’m not vain, but I’m not unaware of what I see in the mirror—I wouldn’t have much trouble picking up a woman for the night. I never have before. Or I have contacts—getting into an exclusive club for the night where I can pay a woman to satisfy any desire I can think of would also be as simple as picking up the phone.

But it’s not what I want. The process of going out and trying to meet someone just for a night sounds exhausting, and I don’t like paying for sex.

What I do want, I can’t have. And as I finish my shower, my hand resignedly wraps around my cock again in an effort to calm my arousal enough to go about my day; I don’t know what the solution is. If it were anyone else, I’d try to stay away from her, until the feelings went away.

And with Bella, that’s one solution that isn’t an option.

—

I come back home earlier than usual, intending to stick to the plans I had for this afternoon, even though I know they’re only going to complicate things even more. Bella and the children are nowhere to be seen when I walk in, but I go straight to the kitchen, on a hunch that I’ll find Agnes there.

I’m right, as I thought I would be. She’s standing at the counter chopping fruit—probably for some kind of fruit salad, if I had to guess—and turns as soon as she hears me walking in.

“Gabriel! You’re home early.” Agnes sets the knife down, wiping a hand across her apron. “Bella and the children are in the movie room, I think. They usually watch something this time of day. I think Danny was very excited about something involving elephants.”

“I’ll go find them in a minute. But I wanted to ask—can you keep an eye on them for a while, until dinnertime? I want to take Bella out.”

Agnes’ brows shoot up, her eyes widening, just in time for me to think about how I phrased that sentence. “Out for a driving lesson,” I clarify, maybe a little too quickly, because I see the appraising look Agnes gives me. Like most women her age, with the added benefit of having spent her life watching me grow up, she sees through me too easily. She’s seen my attraction to Bella from the very beginning, and she’s not going to let me forget about it anytime soon.

“She doesn’t know how to drive,” I continue. “And I’d like her to feel that she has a bit more independence. So I told her I’d teach her.”

“Hmm.” One of Agnes’ eyebrows is still raised. “I overheard all of that about you opening accounts for her, you know. Skirting around the rules to go over her father’s head. That’s more than just a ‘bit more independence.’”

I’m not sure where Agnes is going with this. “Her father has too much control over her. She’s a grown woman. She deserves to be able to make her own decisions.”

“Decisions that might involve you?” Agnes tilts her chin up, but I see the look on her face when mine shutters, and she knows she’s pushed a little too far.

“Bella is my employee. I’m looking out for her well-being.” I say it flatly, without any hint of encouragement to continue this conversation. “That’s all.”

Agnes makes a humming noise in the back of her throat. “You’re a good man, Gabriel,” she says finally. “You deserve more than what you’re allowing yourself.” She looks at me for a long moment, her wrinkled face contemplative, and whatever she sees there causes her to shrug, turning back to the counter. “I’ll watch Cecelia and Danny while you take Bella on her driving lesson. It’s no trouble at all.”

I know her well enough to know that there’s more to what she’s thinking than what she’s said out loud, but I have no intention of pressing the issue. It certainly won’t help me sort through what’s already clogging up my mind.

Bella is in the movie room with Cecelia and Danny, where Agnes thought they would be. I walk in just as the documentary they’re watching is ending. I stand in the doorway for a moment, watching as Bella gets up and collects their empty snack boxes, laughing at something quietly with Danny before she turns off the television and goes to bring up the lights. She does it all effortlessly, cheerfully, more relaxed than I’ve seen her in most of the time that I’ve known her, and I feel a pang in my chest as I realize that it’s more than just desire that makes me want to be near her.

There’s so much more to her than what she’s been allowed to be. She’s beautiful, which makes me want her, and she’s fantastic and loving with my children, which makes me feel affection for her, but I can see the person that she could blossom into if given the chance, just below the surface. A vibrant, intelligent, talented young woman, the kind of woman that a man could only hope to be lucky enough to have in his life, the kind of partner that I once had and have never allowed myself to want again.

It’s bad enough that I want her physically, I remind myself, shoving my hands into my pockets as I watch her move around the room. I can’t allow myself to fall for her, too.

I clear my throat, to keep from startling Bella when she turns around to see me there, but she still jumps a little. I see her tense, just for a moment, her lips pressing together at the sight of me, but she relaxes a moment later, as Cecelia and Danny clamber off of the couch and come running towards me, taking my attention off of her.

“Go find Agnes in the kitchen,” I direct them, after hugging them both and hearing the excited conversation about their day. “She’s going to keep an eye on you two for a little while.”

There’s no objection from either of them as they go barreling past me out into the hall, but I look up to see a quizzical, almost wary look on Bella’s face. I can’t blame her—I’d have to be dead to not know we both felt the tension in the gym this morning. The picture of her sitting on the gym mat at my feet, one movement away from being on her knees in front of me, is burned into my memory, and I have to actively push it away, lest I end up with an erection that isn’t going to go away for the rest of the night.

“Is something wrong?” Bella asks tentatively. She can’t seem to quite look me in the eye, and I feel my cock twitch, imagining why that might be. Did she feel as confused and turned on this morning as I did. Did she ? —

I push that thought down, hard, because the image of Bella touching herself in the shower is one that will absolutely wreck me if I let myself think about it for even a moment. “No,” I tell her quickly. “Nothing’s wrong. I was going to take you out for that driving lesson, if you’re up for it, before dinner.”

“Oh!” Bella nods quickly, an interested gleam lighting up her face. “Absolutely. Do you want to go now?”

“I’m going to go change into something a little more casual, and then yes. Meet me in the foyer in fifteen minutes?”

Bella nods, and I head upstairs, my thoughts tangled. She bit her lip when she nodded, looked away from me, her cheeks a little flushed. Was it just the workout this morning? Is it the idea of being alone in a car with me? I’m half-hard by the time I get up to my bedroom, my cock swelling insistently against my thigh, and one look at the smooth blankets atop my bed and the thought of Bella beneath them tonight, when she goes to sleep, has me throbbing.

Fuck . I stride to the bathroom, undoing my belt, leaning forward to rest my forehead against the cool glass of the mirror as I wrap my hand around my cock. Three times. Three times today. Before Bella moved in, I jerked off three times in as many months, if that. I barely thought about sex. My love life was dead and buried, and I was fine with it.

Now, I can’t look at her without getting hard. Without my heart in my throat, choking me with desire as I drag my hand up and down my hard length, my body thrumming with the intense need to come. With the need to come in her , and every moment that I spend doing this is just taking the edge off, just putting a little more time on a ticking bomb. I’m not going to stop wanting her.

And I don’t know what the hell to do about it.

The image of her in the gym comes back to me, at my feet, and I imagine her pushing herself up to her knees, her hands resting on my hips as I fist my cock, resting it on that plush lower lip. Her mouth would be so wet, so warm— god , I used to love getting my cock sucked, and I miss that sometimes more than I miss sex. I miss the taste of a woman, too, that sweet taste on my tongue, the scent of her filling all my senses. I know for sure that Bella’s never been eaten out, and the thought of being her first, of being the only man to ever teach her how much pleasure can be had from a tongue rolling over her clit, licking, sucking?—

I moan, the sound ragged and desperate as my cock explodes in my hand, cum jetting out before I can catch myself and splashing across the mirror. I wince, but I can’t stop it, can’t even think clearly enough to grab tissues. All I can think about is Bella’s mouth as I come, about my cum streaking over her tongue, about my tongue on her , and how badly I want to hear her cry out as she floods my mouth with her taste.

I’m gripping the edge of the counter with my other hand so tightly my knuckles are white, panting with the force of my climax, a death grip on my still-spurting cock. It feels so fucking good, and I moan again as I rub my palm over the swollen, sensitive tip, wanting more. It’s not enough.

It’s not going to be enough until I’m buried inside of her, until I feel her softness all around me, until I’ve licked and tasted, touched and fucked every part of her body, and I can’t have that. I can’t fucking have it, and I’ve never in my life wanted anything I couldn’t have before.

I’ve never thought of myself as entitled, and I certainly don’t think I’m entitled to her just because I want her. But I also never realized how easily everything in my life has come to me, until I’ve been faced with desperately wanting the one thing I absolutely should not have.

I let go of my softening cock—grateful that it at least hasn’t stayed rock-hard the way it did this morning—and let out a long, shuddering breath. This can’t happen, I tell myself firmly, pressing my lips together and trying to think past the shattering pleasure that’s still coursing through me in small jolts of pleasant aftershocks. This can’t fucking happen. So rub your dick raw if you have to, Gabriel, but get the fuck over it.

I’d told Bella it would be fifteen minutes before I met her downstairs, and I know it’s closer to twenty by the time I get down there. If she notices that I’m late, or thinks anything about it at all, she doesn’t say. But I catch her looking at me for one brief second before I walk to her side, and I can see the flush rising up her throat.

She’s flustered around me, too. And that only makes all of this even more of an opportunity for disaster, because I can control myself if my lust is one-sided. I’ve never been the kind of man to keep trying if I’m not wanted, or to push my attentions on someone who doesn’t want them, and I never will be. But I’m getting all of the signals that she’s interested too—maybe for the first time, or at least the very first time in a long time—and that makes it all more difficult.

And no less forbidden.

“You ready?” I ask, trying to keep my face and voice neutral, and Bella nods. “Come on. I’ll take you out to the garage.”

I lead her across the yard, to the large detached garage where I keep a handful of my cars. I have more in a garage in the city, but I rarely take them out—I pay someone to drive them often enough to keep them in decent shape. I haven’t had the time or the inclination to go on a tear through the city in a six-figure sports car in years, like that part of me died, too. Everything I once liked about myself has been buried for these past four years, and it wasn’t until that night I opened up the Ferrari on that back road with Bella that I found myself missing it. Missing the man who used to be wilder, more spontaneous, who knew how to have fun. Who had a second penthouse in the city and liked to drink top-shelf scotch and drive cars for the sheer pleasure of it. Who was a playboy until he met the right woman, and then did all those wild things with her, instead.

Most of the time, I can’t even remember who he was. But Bella makes me want to.

I press a key fob in my pocket, and the garage opens up. Bella’s eyes widen as we walk in, to the stairs that lead down to the cooled, enclosed section where the cars are kept. I catch her out of the corner of my eye, head on a swivel, looking at the six vehicles I keep here. One of them is the Ferrari, and I see her linger on it for a second.

“Are you going to teach me to drive the Ferrari?” she asks teasingly, flipping her ponytail to one side, and I feel my stomach clench at the thought of those soft strands sweeping over my hand, of tangling them around my fingers.

God, the things I’d do to her in that Ferrari— and none of them are driving.

I grit my teeth, trying to get it together without leaving her hanging so long that she thinks her comment upset me. “Maybe one day,” I tease back, catching the glimmer of a smile on her face. She’s always beautiful, but she’s exceptionally gorgeous when she smiles, and it makes me want to keep doing and saying things to put that look on her face. Another urge that I haven’t had in a long time. “But for now, we’re going to start with a nice, normal car.”

“Normal for a billionaire,” Bella shoots back, laughing. Her gaze sweeps over the line of vehicles again, and I chuckle.

“What, are you telling me Masseo doesn’t have nice cars? He’s got plenty of his own money.”

“That’s true,” Bella admits. “It’s not like I didn’t grow up comfortably, you’re right. But remember, I told you he doesn’t really care about them. So it was always just the standard black Cadillac SUV, or a town car—whatever suited a mafia man rich enough to have a driver. These are—” She looks around the garage again. “These are different. Stylish. Pretty. My father’s cars are—” She searches for the right word, and shrugs. “Boring.”

“I’m glad you think my choices aren’t boring.” I lead her to a dark blue Mercedes and watch Bella’s eyes shine as she opens the door and takes in the smooth wood-grain trim on the dash and the pristine cream leather. “You like cars, don’t you?”

“I—” She cocks her head, as if slightly confused. “Maybe? I’ve never thought about it until right now. But I think I might.”

Every part of my body tightens for a brief second, as I think about what else she might like, about what else she could discover with me, all of the things I could show her, that we could explore. I can feel the blood thrumming in my temples, thankfully still there and not below my hips, and I do my best to keep it that way.

I’m supposed to be teaching her to drive, and I can’t do that if I’m fighting off a hard-on the whole way.

“I’ll drive us out to the spot I have picked out,” I tell her. “And then we’ll swap, and work on your driving.”

Bella nods, her hands smoothing over the butter-soft leather as she slides into the passenger’s side. “This is beautiful,” she says softly. “I feel spoiled just sitting in it.”

I press the ignition, the car purring to life. “I’m happy to spoil you for as long as you’re staying here,” I tell her, before I can really think the statement through, and I see her mouth turn up at the corners. She’s smiled more in the last fifteen minutes than I think I’ve ever seen her smile steadily, and my heart trips in my chest as I ease the car up and out of the garage, out into the sunlight.

I shouldn’t have said that. Our conversation, the light banter, is more like a conversation between lovers than a boss and his employee, and I know that. And I can’t deny the other truth that is staring me right in the face, and has been for days now—if the circumstances were different, we would be lovers.

They’re not , I remind myself, as I pull out onto the road and watch Bella sigh happily out of the corner of my eye, her hands still rubbing over the seat as she reaches up to turn the radio on. The circumstances are not different. And I can’t let myself imagine what it would be like if they were, because that’s nothing other than a one-way ticket to trouble for us both.

To my surprise, she goes past the pop station, to something more folksy. “I like this,” she says, catching the look on my face. “Clara is more the Top-40 type. I always liked something softer. Maybe a little rock mixed in, depending on the day.”

She’s surprising me again. She surprises me more than anyone ever has, but I don’t know why, exactly. There’s nothing silly or vapid about Bella, and I like that about her, that there’s a gravity to her that I suspect she had even before her life took such a terrible turn. I just wish it hadn’t been underlined by something so awful.

I wish I’d known her four months ago. Six months ago. I wish I’d known her before the Bratva shredded her spirit and tore apart whatever hopes she might have had for her life. Which couldn’t have been much, because her father wouldn’t let her cultivate any. Wouldn’t find her a husband who would let her flourish and have her own life.

I can’t give her what I want. But I’m determined to give her a chance to have what she wants for herself.

We drive out to a big, secluded parking lot, the sounds of Lord Huron filling the car, and I put the Mercedes in park, turning off the radio so Bella can hear me without distractions. “Alright, let’s switch,” I tell her, taking off my seatbelt, and I see the flicker of nerves in her face.

“Okay.” She swallows hard, sliding out of the car. I can see that nervousness grow as she comes around to slide into the driver’s seat, her fingers tapping nervously against her thighs. “What if I’m bad at it?” she blurts out as I sit next to her, her teeth worrying at her lower lip.

“Everyone’s bad at it at first. You get better with practice.” I say it without thinking, like so many other things around her, and the moment the words come out, I want to take them back. Her blue eyes meet mine, a sudden hitch in her breath, and I can feel the tension thickening in the air.

This was a bad idea. We’re alone together, in a deserted parking lot in my car, and a dozen thoughts flood my mind all at once, none of them appropriate for what we’re supposed to be doing here. All of the things I could teach her to be good at, all of the things I could show her, all of the things we could practice together—I have to hold back the floodgates with effort, because Bella is looking at me with wide eyes, her teeth still nibbling at her lower lip, and every fantasy that I’ve ever had about her soft mouth is threatening to crash over me and undo my self-control.

She doesn’t like being touched. I repeat it, over and over in my head, to remind myself that if I can’t so much as touch her hand, kissing her the way I want to right now is an impossibility. That if I reached for her and pressed my mouth against hers the way I’m imagining, she wouldn’t kiss me back. She’d have a panic attack, and neither of us wants that.

“Alright. We’re going to take this nice and slow. This is an automatic transmission, so all you have to do is put it in drive. And then just ease down on the gas. A little at a time?—”

Bella follows my instructions, placing her hands on the wheel where I point, putting the car into drive and then immediately clamping both hands back down onto the steering wheel. I force myself to direct her from my side of the car, rather than leaning in like I want to, because getting closer to her will help neither of us. Instead, I encourage her to press down on the gas, stifling a laugh when the car jerks forward and she gasps, immediately slamming on the brake hard enough to jolt us both backward.

“I’m sorry!” she exclaims, and I shake my head.

“You’re fine. Trust me, it’s always like this at first. Easy does it. Soon enough, you’ll get a feel for the car. One day, it’ll be second nature, and it’ll feel crazy to you that this was ever difficult.”

“I’m having a hard time believing that,” Bella admits, licking her lower lip nervously, but she presses down on the gas again, with the same result.

I can tell she’s frustrated, after the first few tries. She looks over at me, and I shrug. “We can practice as many times as you need to. We’ll have as many lessons as it takes. There’s no rush, Bella. You’ll get there when you do, and until then—” I smile reassuringly at her. “There’s no time limit. No expectations.”

She hesitates, as if the concept is foreign to her. But then again, why wouldn’t it be? Her father had no patience for her. No patience for her recovery, no patience for her to be ready to consider an engagement. I have a feeling that my patience with how long it’s going to take for her to learn how to drive is the first time she’s ever experienced that.

It only adds to my guilt over how much I want her. I can’t call her innocent or naive, not after what she’s been through. Still, there’s a fragility about her that makes me feel like I’m taking advantage for even imagining some of the things that have passed through my mind. And at the same time?—

She has a core of steel, that’s for sure, to have survived what she did. To have come out of it still functioning at all, to have been able to make the move to my house, start working for me when she’s never held a job before, to have adjusted to any of this. That dichotomy is part of what makes her so fascinating, part of what makes it so hard not to want her.

We stop and start for another hour, making our way at a snail’s pace around the parking lot. “You’re doing better,” I praise her at the end, and Bella looks at me sideways, a grim little smile on her mouth.

“You’re just being nice,” she says, putting the car in park. “I’ve probably killed your poor car. The engine will never be the same.”

“See? You know at least one of the parts. And if you did kill her, it’s not a big deal.” I shrug. “I’ll buy another one.”

Bella pauses. “You act like it would just be fine. If I screwed something up like that.”

“It would be.” I return her gaze evenly. “That’s why you’re not driving the Ferrari yet. Now that?—”

“I’m being serious, Gabriel.”

The sound of her saying my name feels more and more like a gut punch, every time I hear it. Like all the air is snatched out of my lungs, like everything inside of me gets twisted up and I don’t know how to respond to any of it. I can’t recall a woman making me feel like this before. I can’t remember the last time just the sound of my name made me feel like I had to work to breathe.

I get out of the car, circling around to the other side, because I need air. I need a minute not sitting within a hand’s length of her, the scent of her skin and soap filling the warmth between us, the way she makes me want to laugh and lightens every mood, only adding to the choked, tight feeling that I get every time I’m around her.

What I don’t count on is her sliding out of the car at the same moment, so that I nearly collide with her as I come around the car.

Just like that first morning. Except this time, she’s not crying. This time, I grab the side of the door to keep from slamming into her or grabbing her instead, because I know that she doesn’t like to be touched. And it leaves her in between me and the car, her breathing suddenly faster, her chest rising and falling as she looks up at me with those huge doe eyes and her lips part.

An alarm goes off in my head, because I’ve technically trapped her in this space, and I don’t want to frighten her. Not after what she’s been through. But she doesn’t look frightened. She looks?—

I close my eyes, fighting back the urge to kiss her. To cover her mouth with mine and find out what it tastes like. To push her back down in the driver’s seat and lean her back against the center console, pull her jeans down, and get down on my knees right here on the hot asphalt so I can spread her legs and lick every inch of her between them. So I can make her scream when she comes. Scream my name, the way I want to hear her say it.

Every drop of blood in my body goes to my cock, my muscles tight, my pulse hammering in my ears. I’m squeezing the door so hard I can feel it biting into my fingers.

“Gabriel?”

Bella’s voice, small and uncertain, comes from the other side of the car. I open my eyes, and guilt washes over me, because I see immediately that she ducked under my arm and went around to get in on the passenger’s side, all while I stood here and wrestled with the urge to ravish her. Her eyes are fixed on my face, but the way her throat works as she swallows tells me she’s fighting the urge to look lower.

That she knows what she’ll see if she does.

“You ready to go home?” I drop into the seat, resisting the urge to adjust myself. My cock is bent in my jeans in the worst of ways, but that’s my punishment for being unable to keep my thoughts in the correct lane. I glance over at her, and I see her eyes widen at the same moment that I realize the word home came out of my mouth.

It’s my home, of course. But it’s beginning to feel like hers, too. Like she belongs there. And if there’s one thing I don’t doubt, it’s that she’s starting to feel the same way about it.

“That sounds good,” Bella manages hoarsely, her hands wrapped tightly together between her knees. She’s tugged her sleeves down over them, the way I’ve noticed she does when she gets nervous, and I feel a little more like an asshole than before.

I’m lusting over her, and it’s making her uncomfortable.

I’m going to screw everything up, and it’s going to be my fault. She deserves better than this. Better than me thinking about her like I’m starving, and she’s something I can’t wait to devour.

At this point, I don’t know how I’d even trust myself to touch her. How I could believe that I’d have the restraint to go as slowly as she’d need me to, without scaring her. A girl afraid of being touched even casually isn’t a girl I should take to bed after four years of living like a monk. Four years in which I’ve fucked maybe that many times, and gotten myself off probably a couple dozen, all told.

My self-control is in tatters just from being near her. There’s no way in hell I can be trusted to touch her.

“Thank you,” Bella says suddenly, breaking the silence and dragging me out of my thoughts. “For teaching me. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted this to be the only lesson.”

“You’re welcome. And I meant what I said. I’ll give you as many lessons as you need.”

“You might regret that.” She laughs. “But I do like the idea of being able to drive.” She hesitates. “It’s been nice, being out. I mean—I love being in your home. I love living there so far, and I have everything I could possibly want. But I do feel guilty asking to use the driver, just to go out. And I don’t get out often as it is. So this—” She looks out of the window. It’s a warm summer evening in upstate New York—the trees are green, and the air is soft with a hint of dry heat, the light lasting well into the evening. “This is really nice.”

“You don’t ever have to feel guilty about asking to use the driver.” I glance over at her, taking in her wistful expression, and I make a snap decision.

“Where are you going?” she asks confusedly, as we drive past the road I’d normally turn on to head back to the house. I’m surprised that she picked up the way back so quickly, but maybe I shouldn’t have been. She’s smart, and clearly notices a lot. It’s part of what makes her good with my children.

“I’ve changed my mind.” I look at her, hoping I haven’t miscalculated, and that she’ll be happy about this. “We’re going out to dinner.”

Bella’s eyes widen. “What about Agnes? And the kids?—”

“I’ll send Agnes a text. She won’t mind.” I know that’s an understatement. Agnes will be thrilled that I’m taking Bella out to dinner, for all of the reasons that I shouldn’t be doing this. She won’t let me hear the end of it, either; I know that. And I know, deep down, that this impetuous decision is just another symptom of what I should be trying to put a stop to between us.

This is the kind of thing that the man I was four years ago would have done. The younger, more carefree, spontaneous version of me. The more I lean into this, the more I let myself be the kind of man that I want to be around her, the harder it’s going to be to stop.

“Are you sure?” I can hear in Bella’s voice that she’s biting her lip; I don’t even have to look at her to know. “We don’t have to do this, Gabriel?—”

“I know.” I glance towards her, then a sharp, quick look. “Do you want to go back to the house?”

“I—” She hesitates, and that’s all the answer I need. She wants to go out, likes the idea of the impulse decision, but she’s afraid of it. Afraid of what it means, maybe, or what will happen, but I’m in control of that.

It doesn’t have to mean anything. Nothing will happen between us. It can just be something we both enjoy. A moment for us to stop thinking about all the baggage we carry around, all the trauma weighing us down, and just be .

“Where are we going to go?” Bella asks softly, and I shrug.

“What do you want to eat?”

She hesitates. “Um—” A beat of silence passes, and then another, and I can tell she’s not used to being asked that question. But I want her to answer. I want to know what she likes.

I want to know more about her. I like being around her. I like our conversations, and I’ve enjoyed myself more, during every moment we’ve spent together, than I have in years. I want to find out what decisions she makes when she’s the one doing the choosing. What she wants to do when she can pick anything she likes.

“What about steak?” she ventures. “Some kind of steakhouse, maybe. That sounds good.” She glances over at me quickly, nervously, and I see it out of the corner of my eye. “Is that too much?”

I can’t help but laugh at that. “Bella, there isn’t a restaurant in Manhattan that would be too much for me. I can buy you whatever dinner you want.” I look over at her as I slow down, making a turn. “But you know that. So that’s not what it’s about, is it?”

Bella sinks back into the seat, and I think maybe I’ve pushed her too far. She lets out a soft sigh. “I don’t want to be difficult,” she says finally. “Or demanding. You don’t need to take me to a fancy dinner. Or anywhere at all.”

“Bella.” It takes me a moment to form her name, because I come far too close to calling her something else, an endearment, a pet name that has no business on my lips. My palms itch with the need to touch her, and I’m eternally grateful that I’m driving, because I’m not sure that I’d be able to stop myself if I wasn’t.

Which is why you have no business thinking about it at all.

“It’s not difficult for me to take you out. It was my idea, remember?” I quickly look at her again, before refocusing on the road.

“I don’t know if I’m dressed for it.” She rubs her hands along her legs, and I don’t need to glance over to remember what she was wearing when we left the house. Dark-wash jeans, a little too big for her frame, and a pale blue lightweight sweater, made out of some soft-looking wool that made me sweat just thinking about wearing it in the summer. Her hair is up in a ponytail, soft and lush, and I have to push that thought out of my head, because it brings to mind this morning in the gym, and the way the small hairs at the back of her neck stuck to her skin, the way I wanted to push them aside with my fingertips, the way I wanted to taste the salt there with my tongue.

My cock, which only just started to soften over the discussion of dinner, instantly thickens along my leg again.

“You look fine,” I reassure her. “I’m in jeans, too. We might be a little underdressed, but it’s fine. Who cares?”

Bella winces. “My father would. He hates the way I dress.”

I hesitate, because I’m not entirely sure what to say on that topic. “I’m not him,” I say finally, and it’s the biggest understatement I’ve ever spoken. My feelings for Bella are a million miles from fatherly, not even remotely close. There’s an age difference between us, yes, but it’s not that wide—I’d guess less than ten years. Seven, maybe, at most. And even if it were wider, none of the thoughts I’ve had about Bella skew remotely close to that.

“I know.” She swallows audibly, as if she can hear what I’m thinking. I can’t help but wish that I had some clue into what she’s thinking at this moment, too. But it might be better that I can’t, because we’re already nearing dangerous enough territory as it is. If I heard an echo of my own thoughts in her head, it would be even harder to steer us away from all those places that we don’t need to go.

“I’m not ever going to tell you what to do, Bella. Not when it comes to things like that. How you dress is your own business. I only care about what affects my house and my family. And I trust you with those things.”

Bella falls silent for a moment, as if taking in what I just said. “That means a lot,” she says finally, her voice soft, and then she looks out of the window, her fingers twisting in the sleeves of her sweater.

I dictate a text to Agnes through the car, telling her that we got hungry and decided to go out to dinner. I get a message shortly after, telling me that’s fine, and that she’ll get Cecelia and Danny fed and taken care of—a clear hint that I should stay out as long as I want to with Bella, and one that I choose to ignore. The message is spoken through the car, though, of course, and I can’t help but wonder if Bella picked up on the same thing.

If she did, she doesn’t say anything. She’s fallen silent, and I turn on the radio again, putting directions into a restaurant that I’ve been to before, and know is good. When we pull up at the curb, I hand my keys to the valet and come around to open Bella’s door, and she gets out, running her fingers anxiously through her ponytail.

The once-over that the hostess gives her before leading us to our table doesn’t help. It’s not very busy—it’s still somewhat early on a weeknight—and Bella sinks into one side of the black leather booth that we’re taken to, chewing on her lower lip.

“I knew I was underdressed,” she mutters, picking at the edge of her sleeves, and I hesitate. “What?” she asks, frowning. “You’re thinking something. What is it?”

The blunt way she asks convinces me to answer, even though I don’t know how she’ll take it. The conversation, like this dinner, is already stripping past the boundaries I have and should set for us.

“It’s not that you’re underdressed,” I tell her carefully. “It’s what you’re wearing.”

“What I’m—” Bella lets out a breath. “Oh. I get it.”

“Jeans and a sweater would be fine here. A little casual, maybe, but plenty of rich people dress casually at a place like this. It would be fine in October,” I add. “It’s July, and just looking at you makes me feel hot.” In a number of ways, my traitorous mind adds, but I bite it back.

“I’m sorry.” Bella bites her lip. “I know it’s weird. I’m weird.”

“You’re not,” I reassure her, fighting the urge to reach across the table and touch her hand. It’s difficult, because with her, every comforting instinct I have would be the wrong one. Everything I think I know has to be rethought, reexamined. I have to be careful with her, and once upon a time, I might have imagined that someone like her would feel like a burden, but now I feel ashamed that that might ever have been the case.

Bella is anything but a burden. And I want to keep reminding her of that, over and over again.

“It’s weird,” she repeats flatly. “Sweaters and jeans and heavy boots in the dead of summer. I get it. I just—” She lets out a breath. “It was weird when I wore that shawl to that first dinner you took me out to. I see how Clara looks at me every time we’re together. I told her I have low iron, and she believed me.” Bella gives me a crooked smile. “I can’t tell her the truth. About any of it. She just knows I had a broken engagement. She doesn’t know any of the rest. I’ve never been able to talk about it out loud. I probably still wouldn’t have at all, except for the fact that you came in that night, and I had to.”

I feel a twinge of guilt at that, for forcing it out of her, but a part of me is glad. “It’s not good to keep something like that bottled up forever,” I say quietly, and Bella nods.

“I have a psychiatrist. But it’s not the same as telling someone who knows you. Someone who cares. And Clara is the only person I’ve ever had who really cared about me. Like— really cares. I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want her to feel sorry for me. Or maybe it’s that she has nothing to do with the mafia, and she can’t possibly understand what the repercussions are, or how things work in this world. She just thinks I should get out of it, and she’d think that even more if she knew. But she doesn’t get how impossible it is to get out. Especially for a woman.”

Something in my chest squeezes at that. I’ve been trying to give her a way out, after all. But deep down, I want her to stay, despite that way out. I want her to keep living in my house. Caring for Cecelia and Danny. Being a bright spot in my life, when I didn’t think I’d find another one.

“I’m glad you told me,” I say quietly. “I understand better now.”

Bella nods, going quiet for a moment as the server approaches our table. She asks for water, and I order a glass of red wine for us both, glancing at her as I do. “It’s not too dry,” I tell her, as the server walks away. “You’ll like it.”

“We’ll see. I don’t have much experience with wine. You saw that the first time.” Her mouth quirks in a small, lopsided smile. “I don’t have experience with much, really. I know too much and not enough about some things, all at the same time. That’s why I wear these clothes,” she adds, her voice dropping a little, quiet enough that no one can hear her other than me. “After what happened—I don’t feel safe unless I’m completely covered. I don’t want anyone to see me. Any—part of me.” Her voice trembles a little, her lips pressing together as the waiter brings us our wine, and I feel another twinge of guilt, because I’ve been looking at her. I can’t pretend otherwise.

But another small murmur of my own intuition says that she doesn’t mean me. Or at least—not with the same vehemence that she thinks of everyone else who might look at her.

I’m quiet for a moment, as we order our appetizers, thinking over what to say. “I can’t imagine how that must feel,” I finally murmur, swirling the wine in my glass. “I can’t begin to fathom it. Nothing like that has ever happened to me, and I don’t have to fear it happening. But—” I hesitate. “If it makes you feel safer, Bella, then it’s what you should do. Regardless of what anyone else thinks. It’s no one’s business but yours, for as long as you need that to make you feel safer.”

Bella nods, a small smile on her lips. “That’s nice to hear,” she says softly. “You’re the first person I’ve ever talked with about this, honestly. Other than my psychiatrist,” she adds. “But the first person not—paid to listen.” There’s that lopsided smile again, widening a little on one half of her mouth. “It means a lot, Gabriel, honestly.”

There it is. My name on her lips again, and my heart twists in my chest, feelings ricocheting through me that I know will only make everything harder, down the line. “I want to do whatever I can to make you feel safe,” I say quietly. “To help you heal from what happened.”

I see Bella tense slightly, as the waiter drops off bruschetta toast for me and a Caesar salad for her. I can see the wheels spinning in her head as we put in the rest of our dinner orders, and she takes her wine glass gingerly, taking a small sip from it.

“You’ve already done so much,” she murmurs, setting it back down, her gaze coming up to meet mine. “I can’t ever repay you for any of it.”

“You don’t need to. In a lot of ways, you already have.”

“How?” Bella’s brow wrinkles in confusion, and I sigh.

“My children are happier. I see it in them every day when I come home. You’ve brought life and happiness back into the house and brightened everything up. I can see them flourishing with you.” I can see her eyes widening as I speak, and I know I’m saying too much, telling her too much of how I feel about all of this, but it’s hard to stop. I want her to know the difference she’s made, why I care for her, why I want to do so much for her. Why I want to make a difference in her life, too.

“You’ve brought back the stability that we needed. It matters, Bella. Everything has been better since you came to help with Cecelia and Danny. I mean that.”

She ducks her head, and I think I see a glimmer of something misty in her eyes that she blinks back so quickly that it’s gone when she looks up again. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her fingers twirling around the stem of her wine glass. “I’m glad.”

My chest feels tight, looking at her from across the booth. The feeling doesn’t let up, not as we enjoy our dinner—filet with red wine sauce for her, and a ribeye with peppercorn sauce for me—and not when we go back out to the car, and Bella slides into her side, her hands tucked between her knees and the memory of our first dinner standing out in my head.

That night felt far too much like a date. So does this one. I haven’t been on a date in four years, but I at least remember what it felt like, and it’s this. If this were a date, it would be the best one I’ve been on in a long time.

But it’s not, I remind myself, as we drive back on the dark, winding roads, and I force myself not to sneak glimpses of Bella as we near the house. It’s not a date.

And that’s how it has to stay.