Rock My Heart (Luminescent Juliet #4) (13 page)

His gaze narrows as he flicks open the buttons.

Button fly jeans. Hot, hot, hot. Thank you jean makers
somewhere in the world.

My mouth turns dry as he stands at the end of the bed,
shedding both pants and boxers, then plucking out a condom from his wallet.

Like him, I revel in the naked sight in front of me. He’s
beautiful long, lean, sculpted muscle from shoulder to thighs, and his evident
desire for me…marvelous. I haven’t seen a penis in the flesh since—well, never,
and it seems that I’ve been missing out. On a lot.

He rolls on the condom—and whoa, him holding himself is so
hot that my toes curl in the sheets—then he kneels back on the bed over me, and
my heart
and
lust go into overdrive.

This is happening. Now. I’m having sex. With Gabe.

Amazing. Incredible. Insane.

My hands grip his biceps. Oh, how I want this, have secretly
wanted it for longer than I’d admit, even to myself. And now it’s finally
happening.

He settles over me, his hands on each side of my head, the
tip of him sliding between my legs, making me musically gasp once more.

“Do that again,” he demands in a hoarse voice, sliding over
me, and without trying my throat complies. “Damn,” he hisses. “I could probably
come at just the sound you make.”

He kisses me hard and fast before positioning himself at my
center. I drag in an anxious breath and lift my hips. Closing his eyes, he
plunges forward.

“
Ahhh
…
owww
,”
escapes me in a long wail at the burning sensation. My nails dig into the skin
of his arms. I’m not a total idiot. I knew it was going to hurt, but after so much
pleasure, the pain is foreign.

Gabe braces himself above me. “What the hell, April?” he says
harshly. “You’re a—a
virgin
?” His
tone makes the world foul.

Wiggling my butt, hoping to find an angle of relief, I wince
instead of answer.

“Fuck!” He shakes his head as his arms begin to tremble. “We
can’t do this.” He shakily pushes up.

I wrap my legs around him, ignoring the pain. “I want this.
I’ve wanted this. Don’t stop.”

The skin along his cheekbones tightens as he draws in a deep
breath. “Okay, okay,” he says, and I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or to
himself. “I’ll try to take it slow.” He draws in another gulp of air and gently
lowers himself.

Besides the fact that the pain has dimmed, I’m ready for the
burning throb as he moves within me. I keep my breath even as he lowers himself
on his elbows and takes my face in his palms.

For several long seconds, he studies me in the dim light, his
expression filled with wonder. Finally, he kisses me,
slow
and sweet
and intense. When he begins moving again, the pain is a back
note to all the other sensations. The length of his skin aligned with mine. The
heat of him. The incredible slide of him inside of me. I’m caught between the
passion and the wondrous sense of being this close to someone. I never imagined
it would be this intimate. In this moment, it feels like he knows me. I know
him. Every little piece.

I open my eyes to find him watching me. Strain and concern
etch his face. The concern brings a soft smile to my mouth. He releases a
relief filled groan, then lowers his head and slides a hand between my legs.
With his mouth on my breast and his fingers moving between us, I can’t
concentrate on the lovely intimacy. The building passion takes over once again.
The pain is just a small nuisance as I grip his back, raise my hips, and follow
the pounding rhythm he sets until I unravel beneath him, sighing out another
long music like breath, my thighs clamping around him.

“Fuck!” he whispers, his mouth over my heart, his body
shuddering, his clutch on my shoulders tight.

I wrap my arms around him and bask in the intimacy of him
orgasming
in and above me.

He lays there breathing hard for over a minute, then pushes
up, his eyes fiercer than ever. “What the—why wouldn’t you…how the hell were
you still a virgin?” he demands in a harsh tone.

Chapter 20

~April~

“Well, ah…” I say, trying to collect my thoughts, while becoming hurt he
isn’t on the same cloud nine I am.

Suddenly, a loud blaring
horn sounds from inside the apartment. For a split second, we stare in surprise
and confusion at one another. Gabe is the first to realize what is going on and
scrambles out of bed. Finally understanding the blare is coming from the smoke
detector, I quickly wrap a sheet around myself and follow.

The blare of the
detector grows as I get in the main apartment.

In the kitchen, inside
a cloud of smoke, naked Gabe has the pasta pan under running water in the sink.
I get the broom from the side of the stove and knock the alarm down from the
ceiling, keeping a tight grip on the sheet.
 
With
the loud blare gone, the smoke hanging in the air becomes the next major
annoyance. After tightening my hold on the sheet, I open the door and with one
hand on the broom, fan air outside.
 

I’m still fanning air out when Gabe, wearing just his jeans,
comes into the living room. “Here let me,” he says, taking the broom.

I rush off to the bedroom and slip on a pair of yoga pants
and a T-shirt. Back in the main apartment, the smoke has dispersed to a slight
haze and a strong, burnt smell hangs in the air. The door is closed but Gabe is
opening the window above the bookshelves.

The pan of burnt food lies in the kitchen sink full of water
and burnt gunk. Knowing Gabe’s huge appetite, I go to the fridge. The idea of
cooking seems refreshingly normal after the lustful bizarreness of the evening.

“You like omelets?” I ask over my shoulder.

“You don’t have to cook for me, April. Especially after…I…ah,
burned a pan of pasta on your stove.” His tone is harsh. I read his underlining
thought,
and
took your virginity.

 
I keep piling stuff on
the counter. “It’s not a big deal. They’re easy to make, and you haven’t had
dinner.” I get a cutting board, a knife, a bowl, and a pan. I’m trying to stay
busy, not dissect what happened between us in bed. I want to dissect that
later. Alone.

He comes into the little kitchen. “Just let me order
something in.”

“This is healthier,” I say in a tense tone, unwrapping a
carton of mushrooms. I concentrate on my task, not the chaotic emotions beating
through my head.

He steps next to me. “Let me do it then.”

Apparently, the loss of my hymen has made me an invalid.
“Gabe—”

“Sit down,” he says roughly. “
You
are not cooking.”

His tone and the hard lines of his face, tell me arguing is
futile. I go sit on a stool at the counter, fuming a bit at his control.

Gabe brings the cutting board over to the peninsula, pours me
a glass of wine, and begins slicing mushrooms. Becoming more irate by the
second, I glare at him, then the wine. Well,
that
pill has already been swallowed. I take a large gulp. It’s
awful.

He clears his throat and glances up. “So…why me? Why now? Why
wouldn’t you have told me before? I—what the hell, April?” he repeats in the
same tone as he did in bed less than an hour ago, hacking a mushroom to
mush.
 

I gulp more sickly sweet wine down instead of lashing out at
him.

He pauses chopping to stare at me. “April—”

“Stop it!” I blurt, smacking a hand on the counter. “You’re
ruining it! It was passionate and spontaneous and
wonderful. Quit trying to label it with regret.” I pick up the
wine bottle. “I don’t
and
won’t
regret it.”

Apparently collecting his thoughts, he stares at me. Ignoring
him, I fill my glass to the brim, hoping that the wine will moderate my ire. He
pushes away from the counter, then comes around the corner to take my jaw in
his hands. Worry lines his features.

“It was more than wonderful
and spontaneous and passionate.” He lightly kisses me. “It was—you
were amazing and hot and mind blowing.” He kisses me again. “Better than I’d
ever imagined, and I have been imagining.” Another soft kiss follows. “I’m
sorry. I don’t mean to be an asshole. Anger is
always
my first response.” His thumbs caress my skin before he
releases his hold on my face. “It was just a shock finding out about your lack
of experience in the middle of my mind being blown by you.”

All warm and fuzzy from his descriptions, I can only nod at
his apology.

He goes back around the counter and pours some of the wine in
his glass, then smiles at me, raising the glass. “To sharing a bottle of shitty
strawberry wine.”

I clink my glass with his, though the list is kind of mute at
this point. I got the interview, but I don’t want to talk about that mess right
now. The reminder of it has me taking another sip of wine.

Gabe starts cutting a red pepper, his strong hands moving
methodically as he cuts.

His apology and sudden patience prompt me to share a bit. “I
only had two boyfriends in high school. One for about two months of freshman
year, and the other for half of junior year. Perhaps if that relationship had
continued…” I watch the pepper become a pile of diced cubes as I reach for the
bottle of wine. “I had other hobbies, so boys and relationships were always
second.”

“What about Romeo?”

I snap up. His eyes stay fastened on the pepper he’s cutting,
but from his tone, I get the sense that he has thought about me being with
Romeo a lot. I suppose his assumption that the relationship was sexual is
natural.

“Romeo and I were never—there wasn’t a spark there.” I take a
long drink then set the glass down with a clunk, recalling how much Romeo
reminds me of my father. That should have been my first clue that things
wouldn’t work. “We get along so well, I think we both expected a lot more than
we got. At first, we both chalked up the awkward goodnight kisses as something
that would pass as we got more comfortable.” I shake my head at the memory, and
my openness—I’d say it’s the wine but being with Gabe brings out my honesty.
“They didn’t, and although hanging out together was fun, we did not connect
romantically, at all. Eventually, we decided to
just
hang out.”

He pauses cutting an onion in half to smirk at me. “So I give
you that spark?”

My lids lower. “Apparently.”

He smirks wider before concentrating on slicing the onion.
“Since high school you’ve only dated Romeo?” he asks a touch of incredulity in
his tone.

I shrug. “I’ve been on a few other dates, but college has
always been about my future and career instead of partying or dating.”

He chops with a precision that conveys he knows his way
around a kitchen. “What were these hobbies that kept you from being a normal
boy crazed teenage girl?” He pushes the onions into a neat pile next to the
mushrooms and peppers.

“Lots of stuff.”

“Like?”

“Like music,” I say, deciding it’s really not a big deal if
he knows I can play.

He pauses cracking an egg at the edge of a bowl. “That guitar
in you room?”

“Yeah,” I say, my grip tensing around the glass.

He starts beating the egg whites with a fork. “You should
play
me something. You
have
to play something for me.”

“I don’t play anymore,” I say stiffly.

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t.” My tone is icy, but I can’t help it. The
reason is off limits. Even in
my
head. For my own sanity.

 
He takes a long swing
of wine, then cuts butter into the pan and turns on the stove.

“You were good?” he asks, grabbing a spatula.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” The words come out
embarrassingly like a plea.

He glances over his shoulder at me.

I look at the counter, at the bright, red rings from the wine
and force my mind away from the memories he is bringing up.

When I glance up, he is adding the yolks to the bowl. I take
a long gulp of the strawberry wine. Only a teenager would dream of drinking
this horrid stuff, but it is making my head feel deliciously light, after all
the emotion over the last few days, and especially the last few hours.

Gabe rims the pan with the spatula.

“How’d you learn to cook?”

“My dad cooked at work. He didn’t like coming home and doing
it.” He drops veggies into the center of the pan. “Learned by necessity, and
eggs are cheap.”

I don’t like thinking about his childhood. It angers me, and
because my head is starting to feel like a wad of cotton, I decide to watch him
cook. I like watching him. The precise way he moves. The intensity of his gaze
while he concentrates. The masculine perfection of him. I sigh, putting my jaw
in my hand. He is just so lovely.

I take another drink of wine. It’s actually not that bad,
just sort of bad.

Gabe continues cooking, his muscles moving, his face stoic
with concentration, and his movements so meticulous, I wonder in another life,
one where he wasn’t raised with
his
father, if he could have had a future in some sport, or maybe the wine in me
wonders such things. He adds cheese and flips the omelet over before cutting it
in half and serving it on two plates. My eyes are on the huge portion as he
sits next to me since the small dining table is covered with notes for my
upcoming poster board presentation, handing me a fork.

“It looks awesome, but I can’t eat all of that.”

“Then I’ll finish it,” he says, pouring a bit of wine in his
glass, then finishing the bottle off in mine.

With an off kilter nod, I dig the fork in and take a bite.
Wow. Best food ever. “This kicks my would-have-made-omelet’s butt.”

Chewing, he grins closed mouthed at me.

I take another bite. Delicious. “How’d you get it so fluffy?”

He takes a sip of wine. “Beat the whites, then fold in the
yolks. Saw it on some cooking show once like at three in the morning on PBS—no
cable at my house—or some shit and it stuck with me.”

It’s quiet for several long minutes as we both stuff in food.
Me like a caveman, him slow and meticulous.

 
“What else can you
cook?” I ask, during a breath of air, not food, thinking of inviting him over
more, just to cook, unless…

He taps his fork on the edge of the plate. “Meatloaf, chicken
and rice, goulash, homemade mac and cheese, butter and noodles, sloppy
joes…cheap shit. My dad tended to spend more on beer than food.”

“Hmm…” Whenever he talks about his dad, I want to punch
something—like his dad’s face—especially after more than half a of bottle of
crap wine. I concentrate on cutting another piece of the best omelet I ever
ate, while mumbling, “Your dad is an asshole.”

Surprisingly, Gabe laughs. “He is.”

“And that’s funny?” I ask, gawking at his laughing mouth.

He shakes his head. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear.”

“Ah, my mother drilled that into me, expected me to act like
a lady—her vague yet extensive scale.” I wave my hand in exaggeration at the
last word, forgetting there is a large chunk of food on my fork. I drop the
piece of omelet on myself. Half goes down my shirt, the other half rolls across
my shirt and onto the floor.

Now I laugh. “Oh, I think I’m a bit tipsy.” I stand and try
to shake the food out of my shirt. “And greasy,” I add, scrunching my nose at
the sensation of slimy bits across my front.

Laughing again, Gabe bends to pick the pieces off the floor.
“Go clean up. I’ll get this.”

Grossed out, I nod, then rush to the bathroom. Tipsy and
uncoordinated—I’m like a mix of exhausted and buzzed—it takes me two tries to
get my shirt
off
. I almost fall over, removing my
pants. Afraid I might break something, like an arm, I take a shower slash bath
sitting and kneeling on the bottom of the tub, gripping my body wash and body
scrubber. It takes forever to put on my robe that always hangs behind the door,
and longer to brush my teeth. When did getting toothpaste out of a tube become
challenging?