from their kissing, but her lips turned down slightly at the edges. Her hair was tumbled everywhere around her face from how he’d combed his fingers through it while pressing her down into the mattress. He looked away. Della was far too tempting.
He slid a look as she bent down to pick up something from the floor, the edge of the robe riding up to the edge of her upper thigh. He groaned, crossing to where she stood and sliding his hands over the soft roundness of her backside. He pushed the robe up, nudged his erection against her bottom and heard her catch her breath.
“Maybe I could stay a bit longer,” he said, giving in as she rose and leaned back against him.
She turned to him with a sigh. She planted her hands on his chest and shook her head.
“We can’t. No more protection.”
He was truly disappointed, but slid his arm around the small of her back and tugged her closer, not willing to give up entirely.
Burying his face in the soft skin of her neck, he licked the spot behind her ear and felt her shudder.
She was sensitive all over, loving to be touched. That made him want to do it even more.
“Gabe, we—”
“Have options,” he said with a chuckle, and kissed a path down to her breast, sucking the sweet flesh there in between his lips as his hands delved lower.
She was already hot, wet, and cried out, gripping his shoulders the minute his fingers found her.
He slipped her hand inside his boxers to stoke his erection, showing her the rhythm he liked. And then he turned all of his attention to kissing every soft spot he could find as they stroked and brought each other to another slow, incredible climax. Gabe thought his knees might actually be slightly shaky; he knew hers were as she sagged against him.
“You are one sexy lady, Della Clark,” he said on a breathless chuckle.
She sighed and buried her face in his chest, nuzzling there. He let her, enjoying that moment, but gently disentangled himself a few minutes later.
“I do have to go.”
She looked at him, sleepy and satisfied, and nodded.
“I know.”
After a quick wash in her en suite, which nearly had them all over each other again, they walked downstairs together.
Gabe couldn’t help but feel mildly regretful that he had to leave. He imagined waking up next to Della would be fun. There were so many ways he could rouse her in the morning.
He stopped short for a second. He never had thoughts like that with other women he’d slept with. Never had a problem leaving after the moment had passed. As he plucked his clothes from the floor and the coffee table where he’d thrown them earlier, he realized he didn’t really want to say goodbye. He wanted to see her again.
That didn’t happen often, either. But Della was...different. She leaned on the doorjamb between the living room and the entryway, watching him, looking sleepy, and maybe a bit sad.
Or was Gabe imagining that? Wishful thinking?
Once he was dressed, he planted his hands on his hips, took a breath, his resolve returning.
“I should get some sleep,” she said, clearly trying to avoid the awkward goodbye. “Thank you. I hope you...have a nice stay in the city.”
“Della, wait.”
He walked toward her and drew her into a hug, kissed her hair, then her cheek and her lips, before he backed away.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Her lips parted like she was going to say something, but no words came out, so he walked to the door, stepping out into the early morning darkness. The upper Manhattan streets were quiet. There wasn’t a cab in sight, so Gabe headed to the nearest subway station, refocusing on his task and leaving Della’s welcoming warmth behind.
* * *
DELLA DIDN’T HEAR the conversation going on around her, she was too busy thinking about randomness. The odds of her meeting Gabe were, in the context of the entire world, astronomical. If he hadn’t been seated next to her, would the night before have even happened? Would they have met by some other mechanism? Would she have tripped over his foot in the aisle on her way to the bathrooms, and he might have caught her? Or would they still have mixed up their bags?
No, her analytical mind rebelled. That would suggest fate or determinism. That they were “meant to be.” That was romantic nonsense, according to her mathematician’s mind. It was impossible to know how they ended up sitting next to each other, only that they did. If she had more data, such as when they had bought tickets, how many seats were gone at the time and a swath of other information, she could figure out the probabilities. Then their ending up together would seem far less magical.
But the night they’d spent together had been magic. Chemistry, not physics.
“Della? Della, what do you think? What do you have there?”
Chloe Brown, her colleague and friend, marched across the carpeted floor of the fancy dressing room to pluck a napkin from Della’s fingers that had been under her champagne glass. The ladies she had been chatting with walked back out into the main area of the store, no doubt to retrieve more dresses.
Chloe’s huge blue eyes widened as she glanced at the paper in her hand.
“Math? You’re doing math? I need opinions on this dress, and then we need to get your dress, as well. The wedding is in three weeks, you know.” Chloe sighed. “I must have been out of my mind to agree to such a rushed date, but with Justin’s job moving, we couldn’t wait.”
“I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to be the one supporting you, but I’m just distracted today,” Della apologized.
She should be focusing more on the dress choices and helping Chloe, but all she seemed to be able to think about was what happened with Gabe last night.
Chloe looked at the napkin more closely.
“Wait a minute...what’s that graph? Who’s Gabe?”
Della had forgotten that she’d labeled her variables with G and D, and reached to snatch the slip of paper from Chloe’s hands.
“Nuh-uh. Come to think of it, you were late this morning, and you’re never late. You have shadows under your eyes, like you didn’t sleep well. And what’s that red mark behind your ear...is that a hickey?”
Della scrunched her shoulders, hiding the mark, and inwardly chastising herself for not wearing a scarf, but it was summer in New York—wearing a scarf would draw even more attention.
“What are you, a detective?” Della grumbled, sticking her tongue out, but having a tough time hiding a smile.
She, Della Clark, had girl talk to share.
How many times had she sat at lunch or out for drinks, listening to friends talk about their dates, man troubles and sex lives, when she had nothing to contribute. Now she did.
But she was finding it hard to talk about her news, surprisingly.
What would Chloe think of her? She was marrying a guy she’d been with for years, since college. And Della had taken a man she met on the plane to her apartment for a night of amazing sex.
And she wished she could do it again. Maybe that was the problem with her dating life. She was looking for Mr. Right instead of Mr. Right Now. If she wanted great sex, did she really need a relationship?
Chloe plopped down in the large, cushiony chair next to Della, the satin and lace of the dress she wore billowing all around her. Della reached out and took one edge of the lovely fabric between her fingers, marveling at how soft it was and how detailed the design of the lace.
“It almost looks like fractals,”