It pulls me under, and I shout incoherent cries of pleasure.
The world winks off, but as it spins away, Gabe’s grunts and growls land in my ear, echo in my heart.
A few minutes later, when I look in the bathroom mirror, red marks bloom on my ass.
I smile.
Those marks are mine. My private marks from this man.
23
DOG KISSES
ELLIE
Can I go to bed now?
Because…wow.
After the sex, and then the shower—where he luxuriously washed my whole body, then rubbed lotion onto my bruised skin when we got out—I’m…utterly spent.
In the bathroom, he brings me a shirt. It’s royal blue.
A very familiar color.
I take it from him, holding it up, turning it around. Number eighty-eight.
When I pull on his jersey, I’m swimming in it. “It’s like a dress,” I say, gesturing to where the hem hits my thigh.
“A damn sexy one,” he says, and he pulls on boxer briefs. Nice snug black ones.
Then he scoops me up in his arms and carries me out of the spacious bathroom. “Where are you taking me?” I ask, laughing.
“Wherever you want to go, sweetheart,” he says, but he’s got a plan since he crosses the big bedroom, where I eye his king-size bed longingly, then brings me to the living room. Carefully, he sets me down on the plush, U-shaped gray couch. He sits next to me and rubs a hand along my thigh. “Stay the night,” he says.
“Mmm. That sounds nice. You wore me out,” I say on a yawn that I try to stifle.
“Good. You need your rest. Next week is a big one for you,” he says.
It takes me a few seconds to connect the dots. Oh, right. Next week. Just the reason I’m here. Just the start of my new life in Los Angeles. When I work on set. When we have our first table read. When we prep to shoot the first episode of my show.
My show.
“I still can’t believe it’s happening,” I say, a little giddy—maybe from the prospect of living my dreams, or maybe too from the afterglow of intense sex.
Or, possibly, a cocktail of the two.
“You deserve it,” he says, then takes my hand in his and starts rubbing the space between my thumb and forefinger. “These hands will get sore from all that writing,” he says. “Gotta take care of them.”
Can you take care of them?
I moan into the pleasure of the hand rub as he kneads my palm. “Are you ready for Monday?” he asks.
My head is still in such a fog from sex, but I do my best to clear it. “Yes. I worked on the script today at Maddox’s house. Made a few final tweaks. I kind of can’t wait for the table read,” I say.
He digs his thumb into the center of my palm, pressing hard. “Makes sense. That’s how I always feel about training camp too. It’s exhausting, but I love it too.”
“Yes. Exactly. I know I’ll be working crazy hours—probably round the clock—but this is something I’ve wanted for a long time now. I’m lucky to even have the chance to produce a show at all.”
He scoffs. “It’s not luck. It’s talent, skill, hard work.”
He’s not wrong. But Hollywood relies a lot on luck too. “True, but making it in this business definitely takes some stardust and magic. When you find it, you can’t let anything get in the way. This is a huge chance for me to prove to the whole damn world that I have what it takes to jump from being onscreen to being behind the cameras.”
He brings my palm to his soft mouth. “And you will,” he says, then his gaze drifts to my necklace. “That’s cute. Very you.”
I finger the typewriter charm. “Thanks. I do like jewelry. I picked it up at Rachel’s jewelry boutique tonight,” I say, feeling better than I did when I last saw her. I can tell her about tonight, and I won’t feel like I lied. I did open my heart to Gabe. “Oh! And I have dinner with her Sunday night at this place right near her shop. I basically commandeered her into being my new best friend.”
He laughs. “I’m sure it was so hard for her to say yes to spending time with you,” he says, then studies the charm a bit more. “Hold on, just a sec.”
He rises, retreats to the bedroom, and returns with his fist closed, wrapped around something. When he sits back next to me on the couch, he opens it.
I squeal. “It’s gorgeous! How can you not wear this every day? I would never take it off.”
He laughs, then kisses my hair as I fondle his Super Bowl ring. Diamonds and sapphires gleam on the massive piece of jewelry. “It’s like something a mafia boss would wear.”
“Yeah, only it probably won’t fit on your pinkie,” he says.
“I’ll stuff it with cotton or string or whatever and make it fit,” I say, running my fingers along the etching with the number of the game, the name of his team. It’s both gaudy and breathtaking. “I remember seeing you play in this game on TV,” I say, flashing back to a few years ago. “That catch you made.”
“Which one, sweetheart?” he asks, deservedly cocky. “I made a lot of catches in that game.”
I gawk at the ring. “All of them.”
Then, he takes it from my hand, like playtime is over. Except, it’s not. Gently, he wiggles it onto my thumb.
It fits perfectly. My grin is bigger than the sky. “I love it.”
“Looks good on you,” he says, then his gaze travels down to my rear. “Are you sore?”
“Only in the best of ways.”
He lifts up the hem of my shirt, whistling in admiration at the marks he left. “Glad we abandoned the picnic,” he says, with a sly smile. “But are you still hungry?”
“I think that hummus might be calling my name. Maybe the pie. We didn’t even break it open.”
Like it’s such a damn shame we took off early for our version of church.
“And the pie looked damn good,” he says.
“I got it at this cute little bakery near me earlier today. When I was out walking—” I bolt up upright. I can’t believe I forgot my love. “Shoot. I need to go.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks, a line digging into his forehead.
“Gigi has been alone for a few hours now,” I say, then hustle around his living room, hunting for my clothes, my canvas bag, my purse. “How could I have nearly forgotten her? I mean, she can hold it for a long time—she’s trained and everything. I just meant I can’t stay the night.”
He moves swiftly into action, jumping up from the couch to join me. “I’ll get her,” he says, setting a hand on my arm as I’m grabbing my phone from the table.
I jerk my gaze toward him, my hand freezing on the device. “What?”
He tucks a finger under my chin. “You’re exhausted, baby. Stay here. Eat something. I’ll get your dog and bring her back to spend the night too,” he says. “If that’s okay with you?”
If that’s okay with me? Holy smokes. That’s more than okay. That’s next level. “You want to drive to my house, fetch my dog, and bring her here?”
His brow knits deeper. “Um, yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious that’s the sequence.