Page 98 of Clinically Delicious
Chapter Twenty
Cate
One week.
Seven days since Gabriel had told me to “stay” and then ruined me completely for all other men forever.
Not that I was complaining.
Okay, I wasn’t complaining at all.
I was actually—and this was terrifying to admit even to myself—happy. Like, genuinely, stupidly, giddily happy in a way that made me want to break into spontaneous song like some kind of deranged Disney princess.
Except Disney princesses probably didn’t have sex in hall closets while their prince’s daughter was taking a bath twenty feet away.
Oh my God, the closet.
That had been Tuesday. Day three of... whatever this was.
Gabriel had come home early from the hospital, found me folding laundry in the hallway, and the next thing I knew, I was pressed against the wall between the vacuum cleaner and a stack of towels while he fucked me with his hand over my mouth to keep me quiet.
“You’re so wet,” he’d whispered against my ear, his fingers working me expertly while his cock filled me completely. “Did you think about this all day? About me?”
I had. God help me, I had.
And then there was Thursday night. Or technically Friday morning at three AM when my phone had buzzed with a text.
Gabriel: I miss you.
Three words that had me creeping out of my house in my pajamas. Okay, fine, one of his old T-shirts that I’d stolen from his laundry—to find him in the kitchen, shirtless and dangerous and looking at me like I was the only thing he wanted to consume.
We’d had sex on the kitchen counter.
The kitchen counter where we eat breakfast.
Where Megan ate her cereal every morning, completely oblivious to the fact that her nanny had been bent over that same surface seventy-two hours earlier, gasping Gabriel’s name while he—“Cate! CATE! Are you even listening?”
I jolted back to reality, blinking at Megan, who was currently covered head to toe in what appeared to be... glitter?
Oh no.
“Sorry, sweetie, I was just...”Thinking about your dad’s hands on my body.“Planning our next activity! What were you saying?”
“I said, do you think we have enough glitter?”
I looked around the dining room.
There was glitter on the table. Glitter on the chairs. Glitter on the floor, the walls, somehow on the ceiling, and—oh God—glitter in Megan’s hair, on her face, and coating both of her arms like she’d been dipped in a vat of sparkly fairy dust.
“I think,” I said carefully, “we might have usedallthe glitter in Connecticut.”
“Perfect!” Megan beamed, holding up her current project. A papier-mâché volcano that I found online thinking it would keep Megan occupied. Though now it looked like a disco ball had exploded on Mount Vesuvius. “Dad’s going to love it!”
Dad’s going to have a stroke.
Gabriel was particular about his house. Everything had a place. Everything was organized, clean, and controlled, and I just let his daughter turn the dining room into a glitter bomb crime scene.
“Maybe we should clean up a little before he gets home?” I suggested, already reaching for the paper towels.
