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

by Reid, Penny

  I set my iPad on the seat next to me and peeled off my jacket, then unbuttoned the top two buttons of my blouse. I didn’t care if he knew he made me hot. He did make me hot. That was truth. We were getting married, and I might as well own the fact that, when he wanted to and sometimes when he didn’t want to, he affected my internal temperature, heart rate, blood pressure, and endorphin levels.

  “Are you warm?” he asked, looking only mildly interested.

  “No, Quinn. I’m hot. In fact, I’m burning up, in case you didn’t already know.” Throwing caution to the wind, I stood and released a third button, pulled my shirttails from my skirt, and fanned the fabric, trying to encourage air flow. “You have an incendiary effect on me, and I’m quite uncomfortably aroused right now. Your biometrics might be completely unaffected by my presence, but all you have to do is call me Kitten and I experience vasomotor symptoms.”

  “Vasomotor symptoms?”

  “A hot flash,” I said simply. “But it’s not a real hot flash, not like the kind brought on by menopause. If it were then I’d have to go get my pituitary gland inspected. Hot flashes are typically associated with the hormone changes that occur during menopause, but…in some women….”

  Quinn cut me off by sliding his hands to the back of my legs and up my skirt, and pulling me to his lap. I basically crashed into him, and he took advantage of my stunned flailing to caress me, cup me through my panties.

  “Guh,” I said and paired it with a gasp, every nerve ending abruptly on fire. Quinn grabbed a fistful of my hair with the hand that was not pressing against my center, and—quite roughly—tugged my head back to expose my throat.

  He sucked on my neck. Then, he bit me. Like, bit me. It was painful and fantastic, and tangentially my mind told me that it would leave a mark. At once, I was aware of a few things.

  First, he was hard—in a way that I imagined was quite painful—beneath my bottom. Even through the clothes that separated us, I felt how markedly his biometrics were affected.

  Second, his fingers were pushing my underwear out of the way and entering my body. I was so ready for his invasion—I was beyond ready. If ready were the Illinois-Iowa state line, I was doing circles around the moon.

  Third, we were no longer alone.

  “Mr. Sullivan, the pilot wants to know—oh my God! Sorry!” I heard Donna’s voice over my shoulder. I stiffened.

  Quinn removed his mouth from my neck just long enough to issue the command, “Go away.”

  The next sound I heard—other than my own frenetic breathing—was Donna’s shoes scurrying down the aisle back to the galley.

  His kisses felt both frantic and methodical, as did his fingers between my legs, which were beginning to shake. I shifted on his lap, my hips bucking, my hands searching for purchase, and bursts of light rimmed my vision. It didn’t take long before I was ready to explode.

  Then, I did explode. At least, it felt like an explosion, and this time he didn’t capture my mouth with a kiss to deafen the sound. Instead, he just let my moans turn into screams—because I was a screamer—until my throat was sore and I was completely spent.

  I collapsed against him, curling into his body, gripping whatever part of him I could.

  Quinn released his hold on my hair and wrapped me in his arms, though he made no attempt to put either of us to rights. My skirt was around my waist, my underwear halfway down my hips; and at some point, my shirt had been pulled open and several buttons were missing.

  I swallowed, my throat a tad sore from my expressive appreciation, and I placed several kisses on his neck and jaw.

  It occurred to me that the bet was over, that we would be getting married within the next twenty-four hours, that I could say goodbye to all the manufactured stress. It was an amazing feeling. I smiled and nipped at his chin.

  “So…I guess the wedding’s off,” I said, my voice raspy.

  Quinn nuzzled my ear, licked it, made me shiver. “Why would you say that?”

  I pulled away so I could look into his eyes. “Because I lost the bet. I couldn’t last.”

  “You didn’t lose the bet.”

  I frowned. “I didn’t?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “But…but we….”

  “No. We didn’t. I did.” He kissed me quickly then slid his nose along mine. “The bet was that you had to last, but we said nothing about me lasting.”

  My frown deepened. “Wait—perhaps I don’t understand the terms. You mean…you mean…what do you mean?”

  “You still haven’t touched me,” he said simply, then added in his kitten voice, “but I couldn’t go another minute without touching you.”

  I sighed despondently even as I shivered, a lovely involuntary response to his tone and words. “That’s not equitable,” I said. Actually, it might have been a whine. “The bet should be over.”

  “Nope. Wedding is still on, unless….”

  “Penetration.” I supplied the word, scowling at him.

  I wasn’t angry with Quinn. I was annoyed with myself because I’d been happy to hand my decision-making reins over to his capable hands—no pun intended. Quinn, being Quinn, handed them right back to me. This should have made me feel empowered. Instead, I felt irritated.

  But then, just as suddenly, I felt grateful and…certain.

  Quinn and me were always going to be Quinn and me. I could go through the motions, but the end result was going to be the same. Postponing the inevitable was making me miserable, and being miserable wasn’t okay with me anymore.

  In fact, I wasn’t okay with being just okay anymore either, not when I could take a simple action and grab happiness by the scrotum.

  As Fiona had said, happiness doesn’t have to be fleeting if you accept it. I think in a lot of ways, I had difficulty allowing myself to be happy. Maybe I thought I wasn’t deserving enough to be happy, that I hadn’t earned it. Maybe I thought it wouldn’t last, and I was frightened of one day facing the end of my happiness. Maybe I associated it with selfishness, because my mother always seemed to choose her own happiness over everyone else’s wellbeing.

  More likely, I didn’t think it was possible to just be happy.

  Just…happy.

  No one else was in the wings, suffering because I was happy.

  No rigorous minefield of proof was necessary.

  No litmus test of worthiness.

  No secret handshake.

  My eyes were open. I was in love. I wanted to be happy.

  I didn’t surrender to it. I grabbed the reins. I loved Quinn without condition.

  I chose happy.

  I jumped off his lap.

  “Take your pants off.” I motioned to his pants with a flick of my wrist, straightened my skirt and underwear.

  Quinn lifted a single eyebrow at me, a cautious smile pulling at his lips. “Janie….”

  “Take them off.” I whipped my shirt from my arms, tossed it over my shoulder, and unhooked my bra, casting that aside as well.

  Quinn’s eyes immediately went to my breasts and I thought I heard him growl. He reached for me, brought my bare chest to his mouth, and lavished my skin with hungry bites and kisses.

  “Pants. Off,” I repeated, arching against him and slipping my hands down his stomach to his belt.

  “Why, Kitten? What are you going to do?”

  I smiled, kissed him quickly, sank to my knees, and said, “I’m getting married.”

  * * *

  Suffice to say, both Quinn and I were very relaxed when the plane touched down in Boston.

  He was smirking. It was the worst kind of smirk, too—a smug, arrogant, proud smirk, and I didn’t mind one bit. Yes, I’d abandoned my plans for a big wedding. Yes, I would have to break the news to Marie that all her good advice was for naught. Yes, I was a quitter.

  But I didn’t care, because I was happy.

  I did feel sorry for our flight attendant, however. If anyone was waiting in the wings suffering due to our happiness, it had to be Do
nna. Technically, she wasn’t in the wings; she was in the galley. I found her there just before the plane landed.

  When I apologized profusely, she was very gracious about it, said that she was happy for us, and then she also apologized. I suggested we work out some kind of signal, like the seatbelt sign on commercial airlines, for future trips. She seemed to think this was a good plan.

  Pragmatically, I knew this flight was not the last time Quinn and I would be intimate on the plane. As such, I would have to work on my loud sex noises.

  I also thought noise-cancelling headphones would make a great gift for her birthday and made a mental note to pick up a pair.

  The plane landed. We changed clothes. Dan was waiting for us in the limo.

  As soon as Quinn saw him, everything about his demeanor changed. The smirk disappeared, his eyes shuttered, and a coolness seemed to radiate from his pores. It was like someone had yelled “I need a tampon” in a sports bar.

  Scootching farther on the bench seat, I glanced from Quinn to Dan then back again.

  “Hey, Dan the security man,” I said, giving him a half wave as the car pulled away from the airport.

  “Hey, Janie,” he responded, a tight smile on his face, then he turned his eyes back to Quinn.

  Quinn met his gaze and held it for a few moments, and something passed between them that I didn’t understand. It was some secret guy code or telepathy. At length Quinn moved his attention to the window and the landscape beyond.

  The limo was basically silent during the entire ride.

  At one point I said, “Boston is fairly unusual because it’s the most populated city in Massachusetts and also the state capital. Very few state capitals are also the most populated city in the state.”

  Quinn glanced at me as I spoke and for a few beats afterward. Then, with no change in his expression, he returned his gaze to the window.

  Dan grimaced. I thought I heard him mutter, “Fucking Boston….”

  Where Quinn looked ambivalent, Dan looked uncomfortable.

  I began to understand why Steven didn’t like riding in limos with Quinn. I thought back to a conversation Steven and I had had some months ago, the day I learned Quinn was The Boss.

  Since I was nervous and the interior of the car was completely quiet, my mind began to wander with complete abandon. Therefore, when the limo pulled to a stop and the engine cut off, I was a little surprised that we’d arrived.

  “Are you ready to do this?” Dan’s eyes were narrowed on Quinn, and I heard the faint sound of the driver’s side door shutting.

  Quinn stared at his friend, and for several seconds made no outward sign that he’d heard Dan’s question, then shrugged his shoulders. “Sure.”

  Something like frustration or worry cast a shadow over Dan’s expression, and his eyes shifted from Quinn to me.

  “Call me if….” He started, stopped, gritted his teeth. “Just call me.”

  I nodded. The back door to the limo opened revealing a sidewalk, a black wrought iron gate, and cement steps leading to a blue-gray row house with white trim.

  As usual, Quinn exited first. He’d changed into a new suit on the plane after I’d annihilated our bet. It was dark gray, his shirt was white, and his tie was a gradient of black to gray with a single red, diagonal stripe. I liked this tie. It was strange to think that I would have an opinion on a man’s tie, but I did.

  On top of his suit, he wore a black, cashmere overcoat. He looked quite dashing.

  He held out his hand. I took it then held on to it as the driver closed the door behind us. I glanced at Quinn and saw him conducting a sweep of the street, his eyes taking in every detail with his typical aloof precision.

  My attention was drawn to the three-story row house in front of us, the potted plants that lined the steps, and a cluster of new tulips giving the otherwise cold, gray day hope for the approaching spring.

  “Is this where you grew up?” I studied the house in front of us. It was old but well maintained. The white trim was newly painted, as was the red door.

  He nodded, still glancing around the street.

  I briefly wondered if he were actually still surveying our surroundings or just postponing having to face his childhood home.

  Eventually, I was the one who took the first step toward the house, tugging him behind me. “Come on. It’s cold out here.”

  I was nervous.

  I was a tad nervous about meeting Quinn’s mom and dad in person. I worried a little that they wouldn’t like me or would think I was strange. I’d conducted a self-examination of these feelings and believed they were typical reactions to meeting one’s new in-laws. These feelings weren’t overwhelming; just present enough to be noticed.

  More than that, much more than that, I was nervous for Quinn. He’d shut down every time I’d tried to talk to him about the situation with his parents. I wanted him to be okay. Actually, I wanted him to be happy. I hoped that today wouldn’t undermine that.

  If it did, then I would make it up to him. Maybe we would get a puppy, or maybe a new biometric watch that recorded your heart rate, steps taken, and calories burned. Or, maybe I’d go a week without wearing underwear.

  Or maybe all three.

  I glanced down at my outfit as I climbed the steps, fiddled with the large brass button of my dark navy coat and thought about the average height of steps. Step height—as well as the currently accepted depth and width—were determined in 1927. Humans have grown taller, their legs longer, and I wondered when construction norms would be re-evaluated to account for the increase in stature.

  Beneath the coat, I wore a light blue button down shirt, a cream pencil skirt, and cream stockings. I’d paired the outfit with navy blue and off white stilettos. They were really pretty shoes.

  We reached the top of the stairs, and I pushed thoughts of construction norms from my mind, tried to focus on the present. I gave Quinn a reassuring smile even though his face was as impassive as I’d ever seen it.

  I attempted a swallow, but found it a bit difficult. With a shaking hand, I reached for the doorbell and pressed the button, flinching when the chime sounded from within the house.

  I stepped back, waited, then blurted to Quinn in a rushed whisper, “I’m really nervous.”

  His hand squeezed mine, his lips suddenly at my ear, and he whispered in response. “Don’t be. They’re going to love you.”

  I didn’t get a chance to tell him that I wasn’t nervous for me.

  Part IV

  Meeting the Family

  Chapter Fifteen

  *Quinn*

  I was dreading this moment.

  How do you face the people whose son you murdered? How do you greet your parents when you played a large part in the death of your brother?

  I didn’t hold the gun or pull the trigger, but criminals had been free to shoot my brother Des because I’d helped them walk free.

  I knew Dan being in the limo when we landed was his way of showing me support. He’d been there when it all went down. I still needed to ask him about being my best man, but it would have to wait.

  Telling Janie about the death of my brother hadn’t been in my plans. I hadn’t expected to tell her; when I did, I thought she’d say the same thing everyone else said: it wasn’t your fault, you can’t hold yourself responsible, you couldn’t have known.

  That was all bullshit.

  I knew what I was doing. I knew I was putting people in danger. Even worse, I was a smart kid who came from a good family, and I knew better.

  I knew better.

  What she’d said was, “I understand why you blame yourself.”

  Her words were a revelation. She didn’t try to make me feel better about it. She didn’t try to feed me a line. She looked at the situation with cold logic and concluded that the blame I carried made sense.

  That’s why, when I asked her if she blamed me, her response was important, because her honest answer would be meaningful.

  She’d responded, “I blame
the bad guy who actually pulled the trigger and killed him. In this situation, you sound like a person who has recognized the error of his ways and attempted to change. If you recall, that is the difference between a good guy and a bad guy.”

  And that made all the difference.

  Her response was a rational analysis of the situation. She had nothing to gain, and she wasn’t the type to offer empty words meant to absolve me of my responsibility.

  What I didn’t expect was that she would recognize that I needed to be held accountable.

  I needed it.

  I needed accountability so that I could change. I needed to make different decisions. I never would have made different decisions without taking responsibility for what I’d done.

  I was responsible. I needed to be held accountable.

  But none of that, no amount of restitution, would bring Des back.

  That’s why meeting my father’s eyes was just as difficult as it had been on the day of my brother’s funeral.

  But I did it.

  The door opened and they were there. My father’s eyes found mine first. He looked older, shorter than I remembered—but that’s not to say that he was small. He was exactly my size now; when I was a kid, he’d just seemed so much larger.

  My brother took after my mother, blonde hair and light brown eyes, medium build. But Shelly and I looked like my father. Janie said I reminded her of a hawk. If that was the case, then my father was an eagle—big and proud, and quiet until just before the kill.

  He was also the most patient man I knew. He could out-wait a statue. Reading him had always been difficult, unless he wanted you to know what he was thinking. That’s probably why he was such an excellent police detective.

  My mother was speaking to Janie, Janie had let go of my hand to accept a handshake, and still my father and I looked at each other, sharing nothing. The interaction was numbing.

  I didn’t know what he was looking for—maybe remorse. Whatever it was, I couldn’t give it to him because it would never be enough. Nothing I would do would ever be enough.