The Neanderthal Box Set: A Workplace Romance, 2020 Revised and Expanded Edition

by Reid, Penny

  His mouth pulled away and began alternately biting and sucking and kissing my neck, the scruff of his sixteen hours between shaves was pleasurably painful, each skillful stroke of his tongue soothed light abrasions left by stubble.

  Quinn caressed my back, loitered and squeezed the small of my waist, his fingers splaying over my hips. One hand moved downward and cupped my bottom, urging me closer. He stroked a slow rhythm over my bottom, up and down, until his fingers traced lower and threaded inside my panties, grabbing my bare skin and growling against my neck.

  “You have the most magnificent ass.”

  My back arched, pressing aforementioned ass against his palm, and I lifted my hands to Quinn’s stomach, dragging my nails against the solid ridges of his torso, enjoying the way he felt beneath my fingers—hot skin, hard body.

  “Maybe if you’re very nice I’ll hold it against you.” I murmured mindlessly, arching against him once more. This time it was mostly involuntary. In fact, my body was doing a lot of involuntary things. It seemed to just know what to do without me telling it anything at all.

  Before I could consider this bizarre turn of involuntary events, Quinn nipped at my ear, dipping and swirling his obviously very talented tongue inside. I shuddered. Involuntarily. And I clawed at him, needing . . .

  Needing.

  This was so crazy. I was crazy. I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t even thinking about the fact that I wasn’t thinking. I’d entered a previously fallow, completely bizarre, primal area of my subconscious, an area well outside the Venn diagram of my comfort level. As his hand moved to the front of my stomach, my senses narrowed and sharpened, the whole of my person becoming tuned to his touch.

  With an achingly languid pace, his fingertips feathered upward, lifting my shirt as he went, sending pinpricks of electrified sensation straight to my lower belly. Pulling his head from my neck, Quinn leaned back—just a fraction—so that our eyes met. I lost my breath and more of my mind as he cupped my left breast under my shirt and began tracing circles around the nipple with his rough thumb, never touching the center.

  I panted. (I was panting. That was me.)

  And Quinn smiled.

  It was a smile I could easily see the devil employing when he knows he’s won. I didn’t care. I wanted him to win. I wanted him to win all night long.

  Shifting his eyes from mine, he bent to my aching breast; he opened his mouth; he lavished the neglected center with a hot, wet, open kiss through my tank top, taking me into his mouth and sucking.

  I cried out. It was a wholly ungraceful sound. Quinn didn’t seem to mind as he answered my strangled moan with a deep, grumbly groan, which made me cry out more, especially as he bit me through the fabric of my shirt.

  I shifted away on instinct, overwhelmed by the newness of it, the intensity, but he held me in place, tugging the strap of my shirt past my shoulder, capturing my bare breast with loving, soothing, worshipful kisses.

  Gripping the back of his head, I laced my fingers through his hair, both pulling him away and holding him in place. Meanwhile, my body continued to know what was what, how to behave, what to do. My chest pushed forward as his mouth, hot breath, and tongue worked to devour me, the back of his hand now caressing my stomach.

  His fingers dipped shallowly into my underwear, tips brushing the short hair, sliding lower with each pass until his long middle finger slid between the cleft at my center.

  My body stiffened, strained, my fingers and nails digging into his neck and back.

  “Gabaguh,” I said, which apparently means holy fuck in Janie-sex-speak.

  “Shhh.” His smiling mouth skillfully working my breast, and the whisper of his hot breath against the wet skin made me shiver.

  Making a short, needful grunting sound, Quinn placed his tongue flat against the peak and licked. It was a hard, deliberate stroke and the movement was accompanied by a less hard but equally deliberate tracing of his fingers between my legs, and then further downward into my body.

  Panting became gasping, groaning, moaning, and then pleading. It didn’t occur to me that I sounded absolutely ridiculous, or that my reactions were likely out of proportion. Panting and gasping at second base? Never happens.

  Except, I guess with Quinn it did. And he didn’t appear to mind. If anything, it seemed to galvanize his movements. I would have to think about the correlation later when I was capable of thinking. So fuck off, correlation analysis. I have no time for you now.

  “Please,” my voice said, my hips deciding to rock, my hands deciding I needed to feel more of him as they gripped and caressed the hard planes of his totally fantastic body.

  “Please what?” he asked, his voice sounding different to my ears, deeper and darker somehow, rumbly in a way that I felt everywhere.

  “Please make me feel good.”

  “But you already feel good, don’t you?” His fingers withdrew from within my body and he slicked them over the sensitive spot between my legs, jolts of building tension and desire causing me to throw my head back, offer more of myself. I tugged at his hair unthinkingly, wanting so many things, some of which were dirty, several of which might even have been considered debasing, and all of which felt absolutely essential.

  Quinn groaned with what sounded like appreciation at my roughness, saying, “Janie, move.” His voice was ragged, gravely. “Sit here.” He tried to shift me into a sitting position on the couch and pull my undies lower.

  “What?” The word was breathless, I couldn’t make sense of what he wanted.

  Lifting his mouth to my ear, he whispered, “I need to taste you.” His skillful tongue dipped into my ear, which elicited another uncalibrated cry from my throat. “I need you to come against my mouth.”

  Withdrawing his splendid hand from my underwear, which made me sad, I allowed him to set me on the couch. He positioned me so that I was sitting on the edge and leaning back against the cushions. He placed himself between my legs, kneeling like I had just been, and then proceeded to pull the fabric down and off my now wobbly legs, which made me happy.

  His return movements were unhurried. His eyes somehow both sharp and hazy as he watched his hands on my body, he took his time dragging his palms up my calves, tracing his fingers behind my knees, his knuckles caressing small circles along the insides of my thighs, opening me with gentle yet insistent strokes.

  My body was a wreck. An aching, needful wreck. I could only stare, still gasping and moaning at intervals, anxious and rapacious. My need for his mouth on me, for my own release felt close to mercenary. I closed my eyes when I saw him lick his lips and then smile. I couldn’t handle it. I was on sensory overload, unable to breathe.

  His glorious tongue, mimicking the same, purposeful movement from earlier, licked upward with firm, measured movements—as one does when licking an ice cream cone, or at the beginning of a Tootsie Roll lollipop. My thigh muscles immediately flexed, and I fought the urge to squeeze my knees together. Instead, my legs started to shake with effort, my hips deciding to roll against his mouth, and my hands grabbed my breasts, because I had to grab something.

  Quinn moaned against me and I opened my eyes, finding him staring at my hands, the haziness now gone, completely eclipsed by a piercing, determined heat.

  He moved both of his hands to my thighs and, in a fluid motion, wrapped my legs over his shoulders so my knees were behind his head. His fantastically talented tongue and mouth and lips sucked and licked and stroked until my toes pointed and curled and my abdomen wound so tight, I felt as though I might break.

  But then Quinn slid two long fingers into me and I swear I did break. I snapped, a shock of immense and immaculate ecstasy, painful and blissful at once. I came with such a sudden ferocity, my bottom launched completely off the couch, lifting into the air as I screamed his name like a screeching spider monkey.

  Abruptly, his mouth covered mine, wet with the taste of us both as his fingers still moved within me, petting me as though to anchor my body.

  “Shhh,”
he said, lifting his lips from mine, “Janie. Not so loud.” Quinn sounded like he was laughing, or at the very least smiling.

  “Gabaguh.” Holy fuck.

  “Do you feel good?” His fingers slipped completely from my center, his hand sliding upward to my breast. He grabbed me, his touch rougher than before, more aggressive, and my body felt his cock pressing against my inner thigh.

  I shook my head, my hands reaching for him, because they somehow knew: if Quinn was that gifted at cunnilingus, sexual intercourse was going to be exponentially better than anything I’d ever experienced.

  “Not good enough.”

  He laughed, but he didn’t sound amused. He sounded . . . sinister.

  Biting teasingly at my lips, he whispered darkly, “You’re very loud when you come, and very greedy.”

  “Stop talking.” My fingers encircled his erection and I stroked, pulling a surprised sounding hiss from him. “No talking.” Who is that? Was that my voice?

  “Just fucking?” he asked, covering my hand with his to still my movements, his eyes arresting mine.

  I blinked at him, at his freakishly handsome face, his electric blue eyes, and the primal, avaricious part of me moved out of the way enough for a small sliver of reason to peek through. The set of his jaw held an edge of unhappiness and a glimmer of accusation shone from his gaze.

  “Quinn,” I said, sounding more like myself. “Are you—are you mad at me?”

  His expression softened and then heated; his attention dropped to my mouth, neck, and lower; he leaned scant inches away, devouring me with his eyes. “I’m so many things right now, Janie, none of which are mad at you.”

  “Do you want me?” It had seemed like the relevant thing to ask, so I’d asked it before calculating the vulnerability quotient of the question. Immediately, I wished for it back, and regret stirred my dormant mind.

  Before I could engage higher brain function, Quinn pulled my hand from his body. Entwining our fingers, his eyes swept up and returned to mine.

  “More than anything,” he answered, his face still freakishly handsome, his eyes still electric blue, and his jaw still set with unhappiness.

  But I didn’t get a chance to think about that, because his mouth was on mine again, kissing me as though starving for me. Strong arms came around my body and lifted me from the couch. Three purposeful strides later, he had me on the bed. But he didn’t come to me.

  I lifted up on my elbows and fought a flutter of panic as he stalked away to where his pants were on the sofa. He found his wallet, pulled out a foil wrapper, and tossed the garment away. Quinn turned just as he ripped open the packet with his teeth, his eyes on me.

  Gulping, an intense shiver sending goosebumps of awareness racing over and beneath my skin, I slowly lowered back to the bed as he approached, my eyes dropping to the progress of his magnificent hands rolling the condom down his ridiculously gorgeous shaft.

  “Gabaguh.” HOLY FUCK.

  Of course. Of course his penis was also freakishly perfect. Of course.

  Quinn’s gaze pinned me. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter as he placed one knee on the mattress and reached for my calf. Tugging me down the bed as though I weighed nothing, he slid his hand between my legs, spreading my thighs and stroking my center, which apparently was now calibrated to immediate arousal upon the occasion of his touch. Great.

  Leaning over my body, he watched me through that slight glimmer of accusation, gaze direct and daring. “More than anything,” he repeated, the cadence of his voice cutting through my stunned lust long enough for me to hear the rawness and a hint of resentment.

  Once again, the ignition to my brain short-circuited—which I know is mixing analogies, but just go with it—before I could process anything about his words, because he nudged my opening, rubbing himself against me, making my breath catch. In the next beat of my heart, he was inside me, filling me, touching me everywhere, his gaze both steady and yet somehow unstable.

  Our bodies moved together in a discordant pace, mine restless, his deliberate. Something about my eagerness paired with his patience frazzled. My hands found him, absorbing the feel of his muscles straining and rolling beneath my palms.

  Quinn grabbed my hands, entwined our fingers, and brought them above my head. Pressing them and me against the mattress, he ducked his head while continuing the slow rolling of his hips and sucked my breast into his mouth. Swirling his tongue around the peak, he gave me no warning before biting, the sharp pain a delicious contrast to the careful caresses of my body.

  I’m sure I cried out again, but I couldn’t discern any individual sound, just the cacophony of sex: my cries of ecstasy, his rumbly grunts and groans, the bed hitting the wall, the smack of skin against skin. Sensory overload threatened a second time, hovering just beyond the horizon, tightening my throat even as flares and fireworks ignited behind my eyes.

  Like before, Quinn covered my mouth with his. But this time his kisses were rough and raw, demanding, dominating, and his mindful tempo abruptly became wild. Unexpectedly—because this had definitely never happened to me before—my climax peaked a third time, sharper, sending my heart into a frantic rhythm and the sparse wits remaining within my brain to the stars.

  Riding the cresting wave, I barely comprehended that Quinn had come along with me, that his body had lowered to mine, that he covered me fully and had gathered me into his arms, that he’d spoken, that his stubble still felt like sandpaper, but that was okay because he was raining worshipful kisses on my neck, chest, and shoulders.

  Because holy fuck.

  Holy fucking THOR!

  I glanced at him, watched his progress through narrowed eyes while trying to catch my breath. All reason had abandoned me, and still I didn’t care. I didn’t care at all. I wanted . . . I wanted.

  I wanted to do it again.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Life is funny.

  And I don’t mean just ha-ha funny; I also mean cunning, curious, capricious, and, “The joke’s on you, Batman!” funny.

  Sleep gradually receded and I blinked against unforgiving brightness. The first thing I saw was the staunchly, almost glowingly white pillow and empty sheets next to me. To my still drowsy eyes, the sheets did not look familiar and the room was too bright. I frowned, closed my eyes, and opened them again, and then I remembered.

  Naked.

  On a bed.

  In a hotel.

  In Las Vegas.

  Having just spent the better part of the early morning engaging in insouciantly indulgent lovemaking with Quinn Sullivan.

  I sat up abruptly and unthinkingly. My eyes were no longer drowsy. I was shocked awake as though an electric current had just been passed through my spine. My gaze tried to absorb everything at once: the room, the window, the door, the clock, the bed, my nakedness, the discarded piles of clothes peppering the floor like anthills, and the equally discarded pile of cards next to the ottoman.

  Rigidly, I listened intently for sounds—footsteps, breathing, shower, faucet—and spent several seconds holding my breath until I was convinced that I was alone. I released the breath I’d been holding slowly, and allowed my muscles to relax just a little. I allowed my brain to turn its attention to thoughts and feelings other than alarm and battle readiness as my eyes slowly took in my surroundings. I looked at the details rather than ascertain whether or not I was in immediate danger of encountering Quinn.

  Because, impulsively, on first recognizing and realizing where I was and what I’d done, that’s what it felt like: danger.

  Since I spent much of my childhood being left behind and ignored, one might think that, as an adult, moments of perceived abandonment would feel old hat. The truth is, as an adult, I am always waiting to be left behind. I’m always ready to be discarded and, therefore, I spend a significant amount of time preparing for this eventuality.

  I lower my expectations, I don’t seek out meaningful relationships, and I don’t engage in any sort of real intimacy, physical or oth
erwise.

  Engage is the key word here.

  Except, when I do engage, when it happens, when I’m left behind it doesn’t feel old hat. It feels like it did the first time, and it takes me by surprise.

  So I don’t let it happen.

  I swallowed, then licked my lips, absentmindedly pulled the bottom one through my teeth with worry. I glanced around the room and noted with cool detachment that the clock read 9:31 a.m. The only clothes strewn about belonged to me. I was alone.

  There was, however, a note.

  A white piece of paper lay on the bed next to me. I recognized the hotel logo at the top and Quinn’s efficient script beneath. The note was illegible from where I sat, so I stared at it.

  I stared at it.

  And, I stared at it.

  Then, I stared at it.

  After that, I stared at it.

  Dragging my attention elsewhere, I pushed my heavy, long hair away from my eyes and behind my shoulder then rested my forehead in my hand; my thumb and index fingers rubbed my temples. Tangible memories, not just initial scattered fragments, of what occurred before I fell asleep, of what I’d done and said, of what we did together, flooded into focus, and a faintly familiar small pain originating in my heart made it suddenly difficult to breathe.

  Impaired judgment.

  It wasn’t anxiety or fear. It was something like wishing, or longing—or hope. The sensation reminded me of when my mother would actually be present for one of my birthdays when I was a child, or when my parents would sit us down, the three girls, and tell us that my mom would be staying this time.

  I was uncomfortable with the sensation, and it made me feel despondent and weary. So I pushed it away as I’d done last night after we made love the first time, and I walked to the bathroom to take my shower. I encouraged my mind to wander, to think about something other than what Quinn’s note said and what, if anything, had changed because of last night; whether, in the light of day, my decisions had been good ones; where Quinn was; or when I would see Quinn again.