Guarding Gabriel Read online

  Guarding Gabriel

  J. A. Wynters

  Guarding Gabriel: Copyright © 2019 by J. A. Wynters

  All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof, may NOT be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form or by any means whatsoever, including photocopying, recording or other mechanical methods, without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non- commercial uses permitted by copy-right law.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Guarding Gabriel

  Editing by: Caitlin Fitzgerald

  Cover design: Jo- Anne Walker

  Interior Formatting: Dawn Lucous, Yours Truly Book Services

  This book is dedicated to those who go to sleep clutching a book in their hands wishing their book boyfriends would step out and devour them.

  Careful what you wish for.

  It just might come true.

  Contents

  1. 2005

  2. 2003

  3. 2003

  4. 2005

  5. 2003

  6. 2005

  7. 2003

  8. 2005

  9. 2003

  10. 2005

  11. 2004

  12. 2005

  13. 2006

  14. 2007

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by J. A. Wynters

  2005

  “Why are you not real?” I scowled at my screen speaking to Gabriel.

  “Why do you keep saying that?” he whispered in my ear as he snuck in behind me, his warm breath tickling my earlobe. I groaned at the prospect of him, my mouth watering.

  I turned to him and grinned like the fool I was. He was melt worthy. Everything melted when he was around. My brain, my bones, my underwear. But of course, he was. That’s how I designed him.

  Gabriel was perfect. He was the husband I never had and the boyfriend I could never keep. I conjured him from pure air and he was just that, pure. He had a deep rumbling voice that turned to honey whenever he needed something from me. A frown that could turn water to ice, and a playful laugh, that swept you away. He had a chiselled jaw, with a permanent five o’clock shadow, that scratched in all the right places.

  Liquid pools of chocolate brown eyes. The kind that pierced right through your clothes. The kind that told you exactly what he was thinking and in what position he was thinking of doing it.

  He had untameable hair. Thick and lush. The kind that made your fingers twitch for just one touch. Mahogany brown, rich, deep, cut and styled but often I left it wild and unruly. I loved to gather it in my fist and curl my fingers against the thick locks.

  He had the sort of lips that were full and soft. Ones that could possess you with a single kiss. They made me quiver. Not just when they were on me, but whenever he spoke.

  Sometimes he was cruel, others coy, often he played hard to get, and sometimes I pretended like it was over just to feel the thrill of being chased. To watch his rippling chest, puff up when another suitor showed up. I loved the flare of his nostrils and the curl of his lips.

  He wanted me to stay his.

  He claimed me.

  Just as I had wanted.

  On occasion, I would push him aside. Watch him distraught as I dated another. He’d brood and sob and stalk the apartment until I took him back.

  And when we made up…

  I allowed him to take me in ways that took my mind to divine places. His powerful physique would clench and hold me. He would cage me in his arms as his large cock pumped into me furiously.

  Filling me up.

  Making me his.

  Loving me.

  God, I loved him. I loved his muscular arms and back covered in tattoos.

  Gabriel.

  The perfect man.

  He was a God. An alpha, a biker, a billionaire, a broken cowboy and every woman’s wet dream. Once he was even the owner of an exclusive BDSM club. That was a very fun time in my life.

  Thing was. I had to share him. With millions of other women. I didn’t resent him. I mean, I made him to be loved, cherished and coveted. And I knew that deep down, he was truly only mine. I created him. I breathed life into him and our affair was long and fruitful.

  One doesn’t become, and remain, a NYT bestselling author for a three-year stint without the perfect man.

  Now I know you are rolling your eyes at me. How can he possibly be the perfect man?

  Simple.

  Because he was.

  He cooked pasta in the nude and took me to Paris on his private jet, where he would send the air hostess away and go down on me for the duration of the flight. Of course, it’s possible. He was a fictional character.

  Well to most women he was. But to me, he grew as real as the desk I write at, or the pen I was holding, or the chair I was sitting on.

  We were in love.

  In lust.

  In perpetual harmony. Except for the odd occasion. Because who really wants a man that doesn’t call you on your shit and challenges your thoughts and actions?

  We would argue about dialogue and how he would look. I’d give him a neck tattoo, and he’d argue that it would look better on his arm. We’d shout, he’d peel off his shirt and demonstrate. He’d be right. I’d grumble. He would grab my waist and kiss the back of my neck, softening my defeat.

  It would happen with his clothes and hairstyle, the type of motorbike he rode and the jeans he wore. We once didn’t speak for a month because I made him a millionaire instead of a billionaire. I mean what are a few zeros between lovers?

  It was bliss.

  A perfect existence of love and sex, and endless imagination and silly fights and hot naked nights.

  Until.

  I don’t even know how to start this part of our story. It’s so hard for me to write about something, someone - other than Gabe.

  It was our first series, how it all started for us.

  Gabriel.

  His name is like prayer on my lips.

  The move wasn’t my idea. Gabriel suggested it after the third book of Guarding Gabriel hit the number one spot three days after its release. It remained at number one for 12 weeks. My publisher was laughing, and my bank account now competed with Gabriel’s millions. I think his billionaire status was safe though.

  We checked out the new high rise together. He found the apartment in a magazine. It belonged to some musician moving out of town, you know, one of those that suddenly needed to reconnect with nature or some such bullshit. Either way, the building was midtown and trendy.

  Gabriel slid his fingers into mine as we rode the elevator to the 37th floor. We walked hand in hand as we looked over the five-bedroom apartment. It was an open plan design, modern in shades of white and grey.

  We loved it.

  I had a perfect city view from every angle, and my office would be a floating glass bubble above the world. We could tower over everyone. I’d put my desk in front of the giant glass window overlooking the park. It was going to be perfect.

  The thing was, I could see us living there. I could see Gabe’s naked ass as he cooked me a meal over the hotplate and I could see him having me for dessert over the kitchen island. The plush couch had more than enough room for the two of us, plus, did I mention the views? Well, they would take anyone’s breath away.

  I signed the contract for that apartment way too enthusiastically. Gabe kept telling me to keep my cool.

  “Don’t show so much interest. Play hard to get, let them chase you, I know you know how to play that game.�
�� He purred that last bit. He cleared his throat to add, “They will probably take 10k off the price. Stand your ground.”

  Of course, he was right, but I just waved him off. We loved the place. Why bother pretending we didn’t? Sure, that 10k would have come in handy but I was in love with the image in my head, the life we would share, I didn’t want to risk losing it all over 10k.

  On the drive back home, he lowered my head onto his chest and brushed his fingers through my hair. It was a quiet ride even though I was bursting at the seams.

  When the taxi dropped us off, he could smell how hungry I was for him. How I needed that celebration underneath him. He was ready, knowing just what I needed.

  As the door shut behind me, he grabbed my waist and spun me around pinning me to the door. His kiss was warm and soft then hungry. His travelling hands found a way up my shirt and soon I was bare and wet and needy. I wrapped my legs around him and his hard cock slipped into me. He grunted like a beast, the low growl emanating from somewhere deep in his throat as he pounded against me, the wall thumping in his wake.

  Those last three months in our old apartment were a blur of boxes and naked packing, coupled with some incredibly long and audible orgasms. I am pretty sure the neighbours had a big party when we left.

  I would miss some of them though. Grish for example, he was always nice to me. Even before the fame and the money came. Especially before. We didn’t see as much of one another as we did at the beginning, maybe cause all my time was occupied with Gabe, maybe because it made him uncomfortable hearing me having sex with someone that wasn’t actually there. Either way, I went to have tea with him the day I left.

  “So you're finally leaving us?” he said with the funny head dance he sometimes did.

  “Yeah, I guess I am.” I sipped the herbal tea he made. I never really liked it - I mean it was tea - but it would have been rude to refuse his offer.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Up town.”

  “Oooo fancy.” His head shook to his whimsical voice.

  I just giggled like a kid. He was like a dad giving me his stamp of approval and I can’t lie I was happy to get it. It filled me up in a warm glow. I’m not sure why I always sought Grish’s approval. Maybe because he’d always protected me, like a lion would their cub, fierce and tender, teaching me life lessons along the way. Maybe it was because he took me under his wing since that very first day.

  2003

  The day I moved in it was pissing down with rain, because - why wouldn’t it? My entire existence felt like it had just been flushed, so why not pile this shit on?

  I had my worn backpack and a cardboard box. The box was slowly disintegrating in the rain and soon the very few possessions I had left would be piled on the street corner as pathetically as I was. Fat drops smacked my face as I stood looking up at the red brick building wishing I was inside. The building manager was meant to meet me there. Of course, he ran late. The awning above the entrance door to the building was rolled up, making it utterly useless. The taxi driver was reluctant to wait unless I paid him extra. I didn't have extra. When he mentioned he was prepared to accept other methods of payment I bailed.

  So there I was, mascara running like snakes down my face, my clothes drenched and my box falling apart around the edges when he opened the door.

  The man who walked through the door was wearing an orange dress. He would later tell me it was called a kurta. His jet-black hair peppered with grey, was combed perfectly to one side trying desperately to cover the obvious balding. His moustache was groomed and gleaming. I suspected it had enough oil in it to power a small motorbike.

  I ran up to the door. With the backpack digging into my shoulders and my box heavy in my hands, I was too slow. The door closed behind the man with a muted click. The newcomer stood under a big black umbrella and we exchanged a brief look.

  “Do you need help miss?”

  I wasn’t sure if I nodded before the tears came. The man gave me a pitiful look. The one you give a dog at a rescue shelter before you claim him as your own and take him home forever.

  “The building manager is late…” I sniffed between heaving breaths, I could feel my lukewarm tears mix with the cold rain.

  The man nodded. He dug into the folds of his perfectly, fitted kurta and dug out a small bunch of keys. They jingled against each other as he unlocked the door. He held it open for me and we stepped into the foyer.

  I stood dripping. A puddle of water gathered around me. The man’s eyes twitched as he stared at me intently, examining, calculating. I could see his mind working. He was probably wondering what to do with this stray he had picked up from the street. Could he trust me? Was I who I said I was? Could he leave me by myself?

  I might have looked better if the rain hadn't ruined my hair and makeup. I could only guess that I looked like Alice Cooper having a very bad day. My clothes clung to me for dear life, they were probably ruined. Maybe not the worst thing. They were shit anyway. The long black skirt was old and stretched and since I hadn’t eaten a proper meal in a few months was starting to slip off my hips, and not in a sexy way, but the - you need to eat something - way. The black singlet had a faded Van Halen album cover and a giant hole by the left armpit which I hid with my leather jacket. It belonged to Josh. Along with my heart and so much other stuff I just left behind.

  Now that we were inside, I couldn't hide my shivering or my tears.

  “What’s your name miss?”

  “Jane,” I started and then felt the need to elaborate, just like I always do, which is why I guess I ended up where I did. “I’m meant to move into number 19 today, but the building manager just called and he’s running late. He didn’t leave me a key, and I had nowhere else to go…” I rattled off and Grish took a step back. He probably didn't want to get any crazy on his beautiful kurta.

  He pulled out his phone from a hidden pocket in his kurta and put it to his ear. He spoke in Hindi, his voice remaining calm, though I could hear the person on the other end shouting. He did a good job pretending he couldn’t hear them, then hung up and called a second number.

  “Hello Barry?” he swayed his head as he talked. “This is Grish. I am taking the new girl to my apartment, when you come with her key, just knock on the door. She is soaking wet.” I heard a mumble on the other end. “Well, then you should have told her sooner.” His voice was stern, and that was the moment I knew things were going to get better.

  When he finished, he put his phone away. “Come.” He crossed the small entryway in three strides and pressed for the elevator. When the doors swung open, he held them open for me. This was a strange welcome to my new life.

  We went up to the third floor, he shuffled into the dim corridor, the scratched old carpet lifting from the edges, frayed in places and worn to the concrete in others. I followed him in silence and stopped outside number 17. He pushed the door open, the smell of spice and incense hit me like a wall and once I recovered, I stepped into his apartment.

  “Please take your shoes off and leave them by the door.”

  I did as he asked and waited. The box in my hands starting to feel like dead weight.

  Grish disappeared behind a wall and came back a minute later with a towel in his hand. “You can put the box by the door too – dry yourself off and come to the kitchen. Straight through and on your left.”

  It seemed that somewhere between speaking to Barry and the elevator ride he made the decision to trust me, well, just long enough until Barry took me off his hands.

  I put the box down, my hands cramping in agony. I peeled the soaking backpack from my back and placed it on top of the box.

  Patting myself dry as best I could I looked around. The yellowing couch had the marks of a well-loved piece of furniture with a pronounced favourite side.

  The orange curtains were partially opened and bathed the room in an orangey hue from the pale light leaking from outside.

  A portrait of an elderly bearded man hung on his wall and th
e mantle held pictures of a stunning young woman and a younger version of the man who had shown me so much kindness. There were pictures of two kids also, a boy and a girl.

  I took a few tentative steps and reached the kitchen. He was standing by a boiled kettle. Next to it stood a steaming teapot. He was busy pulling two cups from the light green kitchen cupboard above his head. It was a blindingly ugly colour, but I was grateful for anything other than that eye gouging orange.

  He gestured to a chair pulled away from the oval table. I folded his towel in a semi-perfect square and sat on it knowing I would drench through it in a matter of minutes. If he suspected the same, he said nothing.

  “I made tea.” He smiled stiffly and placed the two cups on the table. He put the pot in the middle, then ruffled around in a cupboard and produced a tray of cookies. Most of which were gone. He looked at me sheepishly. I reached for one and shoved it down my throat. Whether it was my dishevelled appearance or the fact that I shovelled a second cookie too quickly I'll never know, but he pushed the tray closer to me and sat down.

  He meticulously poured us each a cup and placed the teapot down.

  He held the cup to his nose and sniffed the herbal infusion then took a short sip and put his cup back on the table.

  “Jane, my name is Mr. Agrawal, but you can call me Grish.”

  “Thank you so much for your help. It’s been a shit day.” I immediately regretted my language as I saw the look in his eye. “Sorry.” I grabbed my cup hoping to hide behind it. I brought it to my lips and sucked the drink.

  It’s harder than you think to keep a straight face while wanting to spew out a hot beverage from your mouth, whilst simultaneously holding the boiling cup of said beverage in your hand. I grimaced and eventually swallowed and explained quickly, “Too hot.”