RILEY
I don't know Gabriel at all. Hell, I only met the man last week. I don't know his favorite book, or whether he likes tacos (god, I hope he does), or how he takes his coffee.
But I do know one thing: grief.
I know how it can strike in an instant, how it can wrap its icy fingers around your neck and squeeze until you're breathless. I know the shock of finding out someone you love has died suddenly, and that first, heartbreaking moment when you realize you'll never see them again.
All of that was etched on Gabriel's face back at the restaurant. He didn't know it, of course, because in those moments between him getting the phone call and walking back to me, he revealed something new to me.
Pure, raw emotion.
Even now, as we sit in his driveway, breathing in the new car smell of this absurd and luxurious car he's bought me, Gabriel's eyes are clouded with profound anguish.
I catch a glimpse of myself in him. Am reminded of that awful, shitty time after I found out Lorna had been killed.
And this is why I can't leave Gabriel alone. No one deserves to be alone with their grief. No matter how the circumstances of our screwed-up situation and our confusing, heady lust, he needs a kind person in his life tonight.
A person he isn't paying, a person who will hold his hand and listen. Not because he's rich or powerful, not because he can make or break someone's entire life.
He needs someone to treat him gently.
"You don't have to stay." Gabriel's hand is on the door handle.
"I know I don't have to. But I'd like to." I brush my lips over his.
"I'm afraid I won't be good company." He takes my hand and kisses the palm, a gesture that makes me melt every time he does it.
"I don't care. We don't have to talk, if you don't want to. We can just watch a movie. Or hold hands. Or sit in silence. You just need someone near you tonight. Nobody should be alone after they've gotten bad news."
His mouth opens and for a split second, his bottom lip trembles. There. It's another sign of his humanity, of the deep emotion that runs through him. Emotion that I suspect doesn't bubble to the surface all that often. Then he flashes a dazzling smile, the change in his expression as quick as a flash of lightning.
"It's impossible for me to say no to you. And yeah, I would like you to stay. You make me feel, I don't know..."
I don't ask him to finish his sentence. Now isn't the time.
We go inside the house, and the minute we open the door, his assistant Andre steps into the foyer.
"Sir, I'm so sorry. Alessandro Bianchi called, and I've heard about the funeral arra—Oh. I didn't realize you were bringing home company this evening." Andre looks me up and down, as if he's not sure whether he can trust me.
Probably a smart assessment, considering I'm a reporter. Still, I'm not here on assignment. Not tonight.
Gabriel deserves privacy if he needs to discuss his friend's funeral.
"Why don't I go on the terrace? Meet me out there when you're done." I squeeze Gabriel's arm.
He nods once. "Good idea. I won't be long. Feel free to put on some music, or have a drink."
He and Andre march down the hall, and I make my way out to the terrace, where an automatic light flickers on, revealing the luxury setup. My heart aches for Gabriel, and seeing him upset dredges up all those terrible moments after I found out that Lorna died.
I consider making myself a drink, but I've already had two. And I do have to work tomorrow. It might feel like I've stepped into a fairy tale with Gabriel, but the cold, harsh reality is that I'm still just a new reporter, making jack and trying to get to a larger place that will pay better.
Sinking into the lounge sofa, I shut my eyes. It's difficult to process the night; we'd been having an amazing time until Gabriel got the news about his friend.
What did he say his friend's name was? Alessandro? No, that's another guy. My eyelids snap open and I reach for my phone. Donnie...Sant-something. I do a Google search, and a news story from the New York Times comes up. Whoa, the biggest paper in the nation, not just some small Florida rag like my own.
Alleged Florida Mobster Acquitted on Racketeering, Fraud Charges
I sip in a breath and hold it as I skim the article. Donnie wasn't merely a grandfather-like figure. He was a known mafioso who rubbed elbows with the Genovese and Colombo crime families—and was just as powerful.
I toss the phone back into my purse. Why does everything have to be so complicated with Gabriel?
Because he's not a good man, a little voice inside me says.
But I know that's not entirely true, either. He's a complex man, not a law-abiding one. That doesn't mean he can't grieve and feel and love. Tonight, I can't hold his past or his mafia ties against him. Or can I?
The dark night sky is sliced in haloes by the lights of the mansion across the canal. The chorus of the cicadas reaches a near ear-splitting pitch, and I wonder if I'm ever going to get used to life in the tropics. It's all so different from Boston.
Finally, I hear footsteps.
"Did you make yourself a drink?" It's Gabriel, his voice like sandpaper.
I twist in my seat to find him coming toward me, with Reese the dog following at his heels. "No, I'm done drinking for the night. I see you've found my friend."
"I knew you'd be happy if I brought him to you."
Wagging his entire body—not just his tail—the dog jumps into my lap. I give Reese a quick squeeze as Gabriel sits next to me. When I release Reese, who scampers off, Gabriel pulls me close.
"This is way harder than I thought. It's like losing my grandfather all over again."
"The first night is the hardest." I rest my head against his chest, feeling conflicted. My rational side is telling me to leave, but my heart...
What the fuck is wrong with my heart, anyway?
We sit in silence, until Gabriel clears his throat. "Donnie didn't have any grandkids. He always said my sister and I were the grandkids he never had."
I twine my fingers into his. "Does he have any family?
"A wife, his second. His first died years ago of cancer. He has a daughter, but she disowned him."
Whoa. I wonder what the backstory is there. It's probably not the time to ask. "Did you see him often?"
"I saw him...every couple of months. We had. Ah. Some business interests together."
It seems like Gabriel's measuring his words, and I hum a "hmmm" in response, hoping he'll continue talking.
Instead, he lets out a little laugh. "Donnie was very traditional. Old-school Italian, like my grandfather. We're talking bocce ball and cigars. Gruff old guys talking in their native tongue in smoke-filled back rooms. He was my godfather, you know."
I squeeze his hand.
"I'm sorry, we only just met, I don't know why I'm telling you all this."
"It's okay. I like listening to you." Our eyes meet and something passes between us, something that's beyond two people hooking up for a weekend. It instantly makes me self conscious, and I look away. He does, too.
"He was in his eighties, so, like I said, not a surprise. But it's taken the wind out of me."
"We're never prepared for death."
Again we lapse into silence, cuddled on the lounger, listening to the sounds of the cicadas.
He untangles himself from me. "Can we... Would you like to go to bed? Or, you can go, if you'd rather. I wouldn't blame you, if you wanted to leave."
"No, I'd like to stay." I look at him for a few seconds and smile.
Obviously, I give him the wrong impression, because he kisses my temple and says, "I don't think I'm up for the sex Olympics like the other night."
The phrase sex Olympics makes me giggle softly. "I think we can train for those games another night."
"I like the way you think, Murphy." He kisses my nose, and a little surge goes through me at his use of my last name.
We walk hand-in-hand up to his bedroom. He wordlessly takes one of his T-shirts out of a drawer, and even turns his back as I change. We slip into bed, with me in his big, soft tee and my lace panties, and him in boxers.
Neither of us says a word as he takes me in his arms, positioning my body against his so we're spooning.
I shut my eyes, feeling awkward, yet oddly happy, under the circumstances. Just as I'm about to drift off, he kisses my neck.
"Thank you for being here, Riley," he says in a hoarse whisper.
***
Sometime in the night, I'm dimly aware of him caressing my breast. It feels so incredible, him softly squeezing, then pinching, my nipple. He's still behind me, and his hand is skimming my breasts under the T-shirt.
I don't question how long he's been doing this, or why he's suddenly so interested, or even wonder what time it is. All I know is that I need him, now, in the dead of night when darkness has plunged this room into an ink-black abyss.
I roll over to face him and find his mouth, kissing him fiercely. Does he really want this while he's grieving? My hand goes to his cock and it's hard as a diamond under his boxers.
I tug those down, and he practically tears the shirt off me. His hands are in my panties and I hear the rip of the lace.
Before I have time to register what's happening, Gabriel hauls me on top of him and my mind is swimming from the sudden movement. I'm almost not sure if this is a dream, because Gabriel's kissing me like he's starving, and I'm his only nourishment.
Or maybe that's the specter of death. I remember when Lorna died, I had my first and only one night stand—I needed someone, anyone, to touch and consume me, to console me with a kiss. And I needed to consume something that was alive. So I picked up a guy in a bar in downtown Boston, something totally out of character.
I never even got his full name, and I'm sure "Jack" wasn't real—but then again, I told him a fake name, too. It was totally forgettable sex, unlike what I have with Gabriel.
He's ripped with muscle, and I squeeze him, running my hands all over his skin. I climb on top of him and take his shaft, rubbing it between my pussy lips. We're close, so close, to fucking without a condom, and I have the presence of mind to shift away from him and kiss down his chest, down his stomach, and lower.
He's so hard and big, I can barely fit him in my mouth. But that doesn't stop me from sucking him, making little sounds of pleasure there in the pitch blackness, swirling my tongue around his shaft. He gently pushes my head back down, guiding his cock in and out of my mouth.
By the way he's clutching, then releasing my hair, I know he's fighting the urge to fuck my throat. When I plunge down on him, he lets out a deep groan.
"Touch yourself," he grows.
I do, and pause from sucking because I almost explode when my finger hits my clit. He brings my head close to his cock again and I continue, trying to keep a rhythm between my mouth and my hand.
It feels so fucking good, having him in my mouth, and at my mercy. Hearing him react to every lick and stroke, knowing I'm bringing him as much pleasure as he brings me.
"Riley. Fuck. What are you doing to me?" he whispers.
I deep throat him more, then rub my clit hard. I'm so close...
"I'm coming, Riley. Now. Now." He thrusts into me, and I take him all in while twirling my finger around my clit.
My orgasm matches his, hitting each of us at the same time. I'm stunned at the intensity, by the stark fact that I can climax and simultaneously want more, more, more.
Like a drug.
His salty fluid hits my tongue, and I drink it in, wanting him to feel better, to feel amazing, to feel something.
For me. Me and only me.