Gabriel might not have fumbled and stammered and blushed with Olivia, but he still understood how Gwynn felt, that terror of losing what he had if he took the next step. While he had not been so acutely anxious about Olivia and Ricky, he had to admit that he found a patch of common ground with Gwynn here, too. Ricky was younger, more charming, better-looking, and much easier to get on with. The only clear advantage Gabriel had was his bank account...which Olivia did not need and would not have wanted even if she did.
As for sex...yes, he would be honest there. That was where he feared Ricky had him beat. Gabriel knew Olivia liked sex, and he knew it was not his area of expertise, having never been a skill he'd cared to improve. If he was better at it, women might not be so willing to let him slip out before morning.
And yet, that worrying had been for naught. The key, it seemed, was simply to care. To care that she enjoyed herself, to care enough to pay attention. To watch and listen and feel her responses and use them as a guide, and those responses were their own reward, the satisfaction of knowing he pleased her, and the more he pleased her, the more she responded in kind.
Quid pro quo, he thought with a chuckle.
If Gabriel could give Gwynn any advice, that would be it. You love her. You care about her. You want her to be happy. Keep all that in mind, and you'll do fine.
Of course, he could say no such thing, not to a memory of events long past, and all that passed in a heartbeat anyway--Gwynn's anxieties and Gabriel's reflections. Matilda was still lying there, awaiting a response as Gwynn stammered.
"Do you want to stop?" she asked carefully. "I'd never push..."
"No, I just...I..."
She touched his shirtfront. "May I take this off?"
Gwynn nodded mutely, and Matilda sat up and pushed the shirt over his head, her hands running up his chest as he shivered, desire igniting again.
"You're so beautiful," she said, her own voice taking that husky note of Olivia's. "Can I just...?" She bit her lip and ran her fingertips over his chest, and when he nodded, she said, "Would you lie back? So I can..."
Her cheeks flushed, and she didn't finish, but Gwynn lay on his back and she straddled him, her fingers running up his stomach, touching and exploring as she leaned down to kiss him, her hair tickling.
That was when Gabriel woke up. Or, more accurately, when he decided it was time to wake up, pushing himself out of the memory until he could feel the cool sheets of Olivia's bed and smell her shampoo on the pillow and hear the soft exhale of her breathing...
No, that wasn't her breathing. And there was another smell, one that was oddly comforting, in its way, but not nearly as welcoming as Olivia's. Gabriel opened one eye to find himself on the edge of the bed, looking down at Lloergan. The hound lifted her shaggy head and gave him what he presumed was a good morning grunt. He returned it and flipped over, reaching for Olivia, to pull her into his arms and bury his face in her hair and replace the smell of dog with--
His hands touched down on empty sheets. He patted them. And then bolted up. He looked in the direction of the hall bathroom, listening for the flush of the toilet or the pad of her feet on the hardwood. When he heard nothing, he patted the bed again, finding her spot cold, and a chill seeped through him.
She left. She woke up in the night and realized she'd made a mistake, and she went to sleep somewhere else.
I've lost her.
I always lose her.
Gabriel pressed his palms to his eyelids. Stop that. Just stop that. He knew who he was talking to. Yes, it was partly Gwynn, but it was partly himself, too, that equally endless doubt.
I won't keep her. Can't keep her. Never could, and I was a fool to think I could change that.
I was so pleased with myself in that dream, wishing I could give Gwynn some advice. Like the fifteen-year-old boy who has sex for the first time and fancies himself an authority.
Stop. Now.
If Lloergan was here, then Olivia hadn't gone far. Perhaps the room got too light. Perhaps he'd taken up too much of the bed. Perhaps she'd simply gone downstairs to read. All perfectly rational explanations, but he was still disappointed, as if he'd failed to do something that would have kept her
here despite the light or the discomfort or the boredom.
He sat up and looked for his clothing, only to remember they'd shed their clothes in front of the fire. He walked into the hall. The bathroom door stood open, as did the office, both dark inside. He grabbed a pair of shorts from his dresser, pulled them on, and hurried downstairs.
The main level was as silent as the upstairs.
Had Olivia gone for a walk? A jog? He'd have joined her for either, and the fact she'd go alone only bolstered his fear that she needed time to herself. Time to reconsider.
He glanced into the parlor. It was as they'd left it--a tangle of blankets and clothing in front of the now-smoldering fire. He was looking for his shirt when he caught a creak from the kitchen and noticed that the door was closed. He jogged down the hall to throw it open.
The smell of fresh-brewed coffee and sizzling bacon rushed out to greet him. Olivia stood in front of the stove, spatula in hand. Her dark blond hair was tousled, as if she'd just rolled out of bed. Her feet were bare, her long legs equally bare, and he realized where his shirt had gone. She wore it. Unbuttoned. With nothing underneath.
As she turned, he stopped to stare. Olivia, fresh out of bed, naked but for his shirt. There was a moment where he was quite certain he really was dreaming, conjuring up a favorite fantasy image, the memory of the first morning he'd woken in her apartment and seen her like this.