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Dear readers,
There is no sex in this chapter. This is my first long(ish) story on Literotica, and I'm still trying to figure out how to work sex into EVERY chapter.
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Chapter 3
Gabriel tried to stifle a yawn at the thirtieth-minute mark of the speech about how art and literature could change the world because it changed people, and people made changes happen in the world.
And global warming.
He felt the tension in his sinuses, and he made a conscious effort to tighten his jaw, squashing another yawn.
He never liked these publisher parties. There were few ideas on earth worse than giving a writer a microphone, a podium and an audience; for no writer enjoyed other writers' words as much as they enjoyed their own. But of course, if they sat through the endless ramblings, they could get to the alcohol, and no writer could resist the promise of the green fairy—and gratis.
Since Gabriel had no patience for other men's words, and had a steady supply of quality liquor, when he received the invitation to the party weeks ago, he left-swiped and deleted it without even opening the email, but last week, he found himself searching in his trash folder for that exact invitation.
"Celebrate this year's literary achievements with writers, editors, and the giants of the industry."
He had better go to keep an eye on his editor before she smart-mouthed her way to wiggle out from their agreement, or worse, she might make the connection between the publisher and The Order, thus ruining his chance to freedom, so he clicked yes on the RSVP, donned his black tie attire and drove his way to the edge of the city to attend this gala.
He was not here because he wanted to see her, spend more time with her, or listen to her talk about anything that quick brain of hers could come up with. In fact, she was seated on the other side of the big hall at the editor's table, and he was stuck with a bunch of writers.
But he did see her at the entrance, in a floor-length black evening gown that sheathed her curves and bared her shoulders and arms with a simple bodice that came together at her collarbone. She moved towards her table, extending one graceful leg before the other; the skirt of the dress parted at the side of her shapely leg just above her knee, and that was when he stared, at the black pump, the stretched calf, the dimple of her knee, and a hint of the soft smooth skin of her thigh.
Her pink lips curved; she smiled at the other editors, and then chose that moment to turn her head and met his eyes. There were countless glamorously dressed people swimming in the space, but they saw only each other.
Their gaze held for a moment before her colleague came to lead her to the table.
Once she was seated, Gabriel could not see Rosaline so clearly anymore through a sea of elaborate hairdos, so he let out that overdue yawn at the speaker.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
"Be polite." The text message from Rosaline read.
He lifted a corner of his mouth. Apparently, she could see him just fine. He started typing.
"
I am
being polite."
"He's won awards." She texted back, then immediately another one. "Multiple."
"I leave literary criticism to people who didn't go to uni." He bowed his head low, his fingers busy typing.
Her reply came without a beat. "You should at least credit where that line came from."
"Great artists steal." He wrote.
"Steals the best-selling writer."
"Who you didn't recognize when you first met."
"Whom. You were not my genre." A beat, then a text of correction. "You
are not
my genre."
"But am I your type?"
He set his phone down on the table, willing himself to stop staring at it. He looked up to search for her, but saw only her lowered head. Gabriel checked the message window again, the ellipsis galloping like a wild horse, thudding in his ears.
"You would rather be a type than a league of your own?"
God, he liked this girl.
"Should I take that as a compliment?"
The applause came entirely too early and unbidden, marking the commencement of the actual party. The mass came untethered from their assigned seats as they gravitated towards the open bar, chattering and circling around the floating hors d'oeuvres. His phone was too quiet.
Gabriel stood up; even with his height, he could not find her in the crowd, but then the ellipsis started its dance again. "I'm sending compliments your way."
What?
He looked up from his phone and met three starry-eyed girls from, and he assumed, marketing. At least, they knew how to market themselves well; sparklingly dressed, showing off the expanse of skin and layered in makeup, they smiled at Gabriel.
He got outsmarted by the smart mouth.
He put on his dazzling smile. The sooner the marketing girls were out of his way, the sooner he could get to his girl. "Ladies, what can I do for you?"
By the time that he found out what they wanted—or rather, decided that he could not give them what they wanted—Rosaline had disappeared into the ever-moving crowd. Getting himself a tonic water at the bar, he observed the space. The ceiling-to-floor windows looked out to a vast garden that merged itself into the forest. The light oak floor was lit with recessed spotlights, obscuring the divide between the outside and in. A light drizzle had just started, dampening the air and the grass, forcing the party inside.
In the midst of the migration, Gabriel caught a glimpse of those black pumps by the door that opened to the garden. He ordered a glass of gin before making his way over to Rosaline.
"That was some compliments you sent," he said.
She swirled around to face him, and a smile splayed on her face. She was beautiful, the makeup making her lashes thicker, her eyes rounder, and her pink lips softer.
He handed her the gin. She twirled the tumbler and sniffed the clear liquid, and gave him an appreciative look.
"I hope you guys had fun," she said.
"You have no idea."
She smirked. "I have ideas."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Well, Nadia"—she paused when he stared at her with a blank face—"blond, blue dress, blue eyes?"
He continued to look as though his most recent memory was created three seconds ago, and she rolled her eyes.
"The one with the biggest boobs—"
"Ah, now I remember, do continue." He grinned. He had no idea which girl she was talking about because he was too busy looking for the girl standing in front of him.
"Asshole." Insulting him, no less.
"Arrogant asshole," he corrected her.
She smiled. "Anyway, Big Boobs et al. from marketing were excited to work with you, wanted to meet you in person, yadi yadi yada, they want to fuck you."
"All of them?"
She nodded. "Careful, you sound like you can't handle all three of them at the same time."
He laughed. He could handle all one hundred of those girls; there was just that one girl he could not, and he should not, but talking to that one girl was more invigorating than thinking about his freedom.
"And you?" he asked.
"What?" Her head tilted.
"Is that what you want?" He leaned against the window.
"To fuck you?" She wetted her lips, then immediately her brow furrowed in mock concern. "Are you sure you can handle a fourth one? You didn't sound so confident."
He did not want the first three. "I meant if you want me to go after them."
She shook her head, and looked to one of the marketing girls. "It's up to you. You have many choices."
He turned to her, searching for her eyes. She seemed determined of something, like she was convinced of
