by Reid, Penny
I noted that his pace slowed as he neared and that his eyes were snagged on my shoes. I was quite proud of them to be honest. They were red satin with an oversized matching bow at the toe. The heel was severely spiked. But since they were slightly platform, the four-inch heel was really only three inches, max. I’d just acquired them earlier in the afternoon from a remarkable shoe store in the fashionable alleyway behind Liberty of London.
The purchase had cheered and warmed me at the time. Now, under the level and pointed heat of his gaze, I was nearly burning up.
He stopped some two yards from where I stood and slowly tucked his hands into his pockets. His eyes were still pointed at my feet when he said, “Nice shoes.”
I let that statement and the delicious timbre of his voice dance between my head and heart; then predictably, it settled between my hipbones in the vicinity of my ovaries. If my body were a map, the area currently suffering prolonged side effects was just south of my uterus and north of my thighs.
So, my vagina.
Hence, my helplessness.
Before Quinn, my vagina and I were acquainted but not really friends. It seemed like a bother mostly, a mystery, always underperforming or causing me pain. I reflected that my troubles were likely user error; but I wasn’t certain how to operate it. Admittedly, I’d never successfully navigated the labyrinth known as the labia, never mind the confounding clitoris.
However, since Quinn, I’d become willingly powerless against all of its parts (not to mention his parts).
“Thank you.” I watched as his languid perusal began at my ankles and climbed to my legs, thighs, and upward. Aside from my shoes, I was wearing the outfit he’d picked out for me earlier that morning. He’d left it on the edge of the bed along with black lingerie accompanied by a note that simply stated Wear me.
The little black dress with white polka dots was much tighter and shorter than I was accustomed to wearing. But he’d never explicitly requested that I wear anything before. In fact, all of my clothes seemed to irritate him, my underwear especially. Therefore, as it was no bother to me, I dressed as requested.
Finally, his eyes met mine. Judging by the ferocity of his gaze, I’d made the right decision to wear the outfit he’d prescribed. My chest dually tightened and expanded. The sensation was discombobulating, and his eyes, so blue, had arrested my breath and brains.
“Your eyes are blue.” I said.
He blinked once, his mouth hooked subtly to one side, and he leisurely strolled three steps closer to me. “Yes. That is true.”
“I have brown eyes.” I said; the words fell from my mouth like chunks of unmasticated food—clumsily and with the inattention that accompanies being mesmerized and brainless.
Quinn bit his top lip and glanced over my shoulder at Jacob. I knew he was fighting a smile. This was how he frequently reacted to my strange blurts of nonsense.
“We’re going out.” Quinn was now addressing Jacob. “Bring the car.”
“Yes, Mr. Sullivan.” The guard’s curt reply was soon followed by the sound of his retreating footsteps. I noted that only Jacob was departing; this left us with my other two guards, not counting any that might be trailing Quinn.
Not for the first time since we’d arrived in London, my confusion at the need for such a breadth of security snagged my attention. However, my disgruntlement at being saddled with a nuisance of men (where nuisance is the collective noun) dressed in nicely tailored suits dispersed the longer I gazed at Quinn.
I watched as he scanned the cavernous space, his gaze lingering for a brief moment on two distinct spots over my left shoulder. His eyes seemed to be a source of light and were more than visible in the dimly lit expanse. They were the exact color of glacial ice—as filmed by National Geographic in their very informative IMAX film on the retreating solid formations of the Antarctic.
“Why is Dan here? Where’s Pete?” he asked me, his attention still over my shoulder.
I blinked twice, pulled from my recollections of the Antarctic as related to Quinn’s eyes, and glanced behind me. I attempted and failed to find Dan (or Pete) in the shadows.
“Is Dan here? Where is he? I don’t see him.” I squinted and asked the echoing vastness. “Are you here, Dan the security man?”
Quinn’s hands were suddenly at my waist, and I started, jumped at the unexpected contact, and turned back to him. He was in my space. I didn’t hate that he moved silently or that he had a habit of suddenly appearing where before I was alone. But I hadn’t yet been able to acclimate to it.
He gazed down at me. I gazed up at him. A soft sigh—at his nearness, his warmth, the smell of his lovely cologne, the small whisper of a smile hovering in his eyes—passed between my lips.
Then, in his quiet way that always disarmed me, he said, “I missed you today.”
I sighed again, this time because his sweet words chased the breath out of me. I grinned like a content cat—which didn’t make any sense, because no other animals but humans smile in order to demonstrate pleasure.
I pressed my lips together to keep from relating this as a fact.
Quinn’s gaze narrowed on mine. He must’ve perceived that I was suppressing a tangent, because he said, “Say it.”
“What?”
He lifted his eyebrows, dipped his chin, and issued me a very effective glare that said, You know what.
I shook my head. “It’s nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s completely unnecessary information.”
“I want to know.” He dropped his voice nearly an octave and held me against him as though to emphasize his point.
This only served to make me more deliciously agitated. “Quinn...” I whispered. I didn’t know why I whispered.
“Janie, everything you say is fascinating.” He whispered too.
“No, it’s not. And the fact that you think I’ll believe that you believe that I’ll believe a statement so patently false is somewhat concerning to me.”
He took a moment to sort through the tangled web of my words before he responded. “I’m not really sure what that means. However, the fact that you think I’d say something patently false to you is very concerning to me.”
We held each other’s eyes, a showdown of manufactured guilt. He won.
“Fine. You want to know? I was just thinking that I was smiling like a contented cat, which troubled me as an analogy because no animals other than humans smile as a demonstration of pleasure. Some people think animals do, especially cats and dogs, but those people are mistaken. The mouth curve is incidental. Cats purr to demonstrate pleasure, and dogs wag their tails.”
“How do we know for sure that purring is the only way cats demonstrate pleasure?”
“The two studies I reviewed on animal behavior didn’t definitively rule out other outward signs of pleasure. Rather, they noted that the only reliable demonstration—specifically, for a cat—was purring.”
“People do more than smile to show happiness and contentment. It seems to me that cats, dogs, and other animals likely display other outward manifestations as well.” He shrugged. As usual when we conversed about such things—some tangent of my trivial knowledge—he appeared to be genuinely interested and engaged.
I loved this about him. No one had ever done this with me before, engagement on the random topics. He always asked questions, tried to relate it back to a different concept, make the small fact seem large and important.
I nodded at his excellent point, because it was an excellent point. “You are absolutely correct. I admit that one major flaw of both the studies was that they only sought to discover whether animals smile to denote happiness or pleasure. Once they ruled smiling out, they provided very little in the way of additional information. Maybe I should contact one of the authors and ask if there were any outward displays shared between species in the entire animal kingdom.”
“Maybe we should document all your outward demonstrations of pleasure first.”
I frowned
at him, opened my mouth to ask what the scientific value would be, then snapped it shut when I noted the subtle simmer in his usually icicle eyes.
I didn’t have to wait for the blush that stained my cheeks. All these months later and I was still embarrassed by his ability to fluster me.
Actually, embarrassed wasn’t the right word.
I used to get embarrassed. Now I just felt hyperconscious of him, of his reactions, the tilt of his head, the subtle lift of his lips.
Like right now, how his expression abruptly became impossibly soft and cherishing as it moved over my flushed skin as though I was some great treasure or new discovery. It disconcerted and thrilled me, and I was becoming addicted to it. Logically, I couldn’t fathom that his response could possibly last. No one could sustain this level of interest in my eccentricities forever. At some point, I was going to bore or irritate the hell out of him.
Nor could my hyperawareness of all things Quinn last. Eventually this—what we shared, the intensity—would have to fade.
Therefore, I blurted, “Do you think this will ever stop?”
“What’s that?”
“Do you think I’ll ever be able to look at you without losing all my wits?”
His smile intensified; the softness sharpened. “I hope not.”
“You like me witless?”
“Let’s just say it evens the playing field a little.”
I frowned at that. Now that I had something to focus on and think about, my head settled more squarely on my shoulders. “You can’t be suggesting that you’re witless.”
He gave me a silent smile in response then a quick kiss, or what I imagined he meant to be a quick kiss. No sooner had his lips left mine did he grunt disapprovingly and fasten his mouth on mine once again. Then he really kissed me.
As usual—when we really kissed—I lost track of my surroundings, the operation of my limbs, and the functionality of my vocal chords. I may have started to climb him.
After an indeterminate period, Quinn set me away, though his hands gripped my upper arms a bit too tightly.
Of course, I felt immediately bereft without him, his body against mine. I opened my eyes and found him glaring at me, his jaw tight. This was not unusual, especially after a kiss in public. I had to wonder at the saneness of his perpetual, self-imposed frustration.
However, at present—and of particular note—a perceivable undercurrent of something else flashed behind his eyes, something that startled me. Yes, he usually glared at me and/or parts of me for several seconds after separating us from our public displays of affection. This time he looked like he wanted to speak but was holding himself in check. His lips were pressed together in a tight line. He swallowed twice.
The light sound of my somewhat labored breathing was interrupted by a burst of laughter from the restaurant. His eyes flickered to the sound, and I could tell he was looking without seeing. I recognized that he was lost in his thoughts, and they appeared to be of the stormy sort.
“Quinn?”
“We need to leave. Dan will grab your things.” His attention moved back to me as he spoke, and I was surprised to find his expression guarded. Not giving me any time to respond, he released one of my arms, turned, and used the other to pull me after him toward the exit.
“Wait!” I glanced over my shoulder, saw Dan and my other guard emerge from the shadows, and gave him a small wave. “I’d like to say goodbye to the knitting group, and I need my jacket.”
“He’ll get your jacket. I made reservations and we have…” I heard him clear his throat before he continued, “…things to discuss.”
“We’re going out?” I blinked at his back; usually, after post-public-kiss-frustration, we would go back to his apartment—or, since we were in London, the hotel room—and attack each other for several delicious hours.
“Yes.”
“In public?”
He hesitated before responding, yet his steps never faltered. My legs were long. His were longer. I was forced to move in double time to keep pace.
“More or less.” He said.
“More or less?”
“Yes. It’s a place where the public goes.”
I grimaced at his back. “This is you being purposefully vague.”
He stopped suddenly and spun around. I tripped on my own feet and Muppet flailed into his arms—which he’d opened to embrace me, as though he knew my movements would be markedly ungraceful.
No sooner had I lifted my chin to chastise him for his sudden stoppage than Quinn brushed his lips against mine, his hands smoothing down my form-fitting dress of his choosing until they rested on my backside. I may have made a small noise resembling a whimper when his fingers dug into my bottom.
“Sometimes…” Quinn whispered against my lips, his voice both painfully seductive and sweetly teasing, “…it’s fun to be surprised.”
Chapter Two
I was surprised.
I’d expected Sir McHotpants Von Grabby Hands as soon as the limo door was closed. However, what I got instead was Sir McCoolpants Von No Touchy.
One minute into the car ride and I deduced that he had plans for our evening that didn’t include limo groping. I surmised this fact when he didn’t make an attempt at getting me naked.
Actually, he sat apart from me on the bench and faced the window, giving me the back of his head. His hand rested between us, his arm stiff and straight during most of the very short ride to our destination.
I hadn’t yet grown accustomed to riding in limos; I didn’t know if I ever would. It felt extravagant and elitist. Taxis would do just as well, or even better, public transportation. The Tube would certainly have been a more fuel-efficient method of transportation.
But I tolerated the limo because it meant alone time with Quinn. Alone time with Quinn was precious. Therefore, I kept glancing between him and the surrounding streets, waiting for him to make a move and not hiding my confusion.
Mansell Street became Shorter Street, and when the car stopped, I knew where we were.
“The Tower of London?” I bounced a little in my seat. “We’re going to the Tower of London?”
A big black bird swooped upward from the stone wall in the prolonged dusk of late spring. My eyes followed its path as it circled above the imposing structure. The bird was a raven.
This was impossibly exciting and explained why I’d been cajoled by my guards into going everywhere in London other than the Tower. Along with the British Museum and the Globe Theater, the Tower was on my list of must-see places during our visit.
I glanced back to Quinn as the limo slowed then stopped, and found him watching me. His face was an impassive mask, but this didn’t bother me. I knew him well enough now to know that impassive-mask-face was his baseline. What bothered me was how the usual mischief in his eyes had been replaced with an air of guarded distraction.
“Are you okay?” I covered his hand with mine, wanting the physical contact. This was an action on my part that would have been remarkable six months ago as I’d never been one to seek or give physical touches as comfort. But with Quinn, touching and being touched felt as natural and essential as breathing or reading comic books.
“Yeah. Fine. You?” His eyes searched mine, but they were cagey and distant.
I frowned at him for a moment before speaking my thoughts. “I feel like there is something wrong—with you—and you don’t want to tell me, or you’re waiting to tell me. Is it work? Does it have something to do with why I have three guards with me everywhere I go?”
“Why do you think there’s anything wrong?”
“Because you’re McCoolpants Von No Touchy since we entered the limo.”
One of his eyebrows arched, his cool expression wavering.
“What’s this? A new nickname?”
“I hope not. But it’s the most efficient way I can think of to describe how strangely you’re behaving.”
“What’s strange?”
“You haven’t made any attempt to tak
e off my clothes. In fact, you haven’t even reached under my skirt. Based on historical data, this behavior is strange.”
He gave me his slow, sexy grin—made even more potent by our semi-touching closeness. “It was a short ride.”
I shrugged. “That’s never stopped you before.”
“This is good news.” His voice was barely contained mirth.
“What is good news?”
“I now have your expectations calibrated to expect sex every time we ride in a limo.”
I blinked at him with wide eyes, considered the veracity of this assertion then nodded at the accuracy of his statement. “You’re right. Although, more accurately, it’s not sex that I expect. I expect groping at a minimum and an orgasm at a maximum.”
“Just one?”
“No need for me to be greedy, although it’s always nice when you exceed my expectations.”
“You know how I love to exceed your expectations.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
We smiled at each other for a beat, all of the earlier distracted aloofness evaporated from his eyes and expression. We shared such a lovely moment of silent staring that my mind cleared, I stopped thinking, and all I felt was warm and loved.
The sound of a siren in the distance brought me back to the present. I shook myself, blinked at him. “Wait, what are we talking about?”
His smile grew. “How you’ve come to expect, at a minimum, groping in the limo.”
“Yes, right. Those are my expectations. Congratulations. Very nicely done.”
“Thank you.” He tipped his head in acknowledgement of my praise. I had the distinct impression that he would have bowed had we been standing.
The door to the limo opened, pulling our attention from each other and to the chilly spring evening. Quinn exited first then held his hand out for me.
Sure enough, Dan stood just outside and handed Quinn my jacket, which Quinn immediately placed on my shoulders. He was always doing this kind of stuff—holding my coat while I shrugged it on, helping me take it off, holding doors, pulling out chairs—and it had taken me some time to get used to.