His response took me by surprise. "He's my best friend. Love him like a brother."
"How long have you known him again?"
"Since I was twenty-one. He saved my mother's life."
"How?" I asked, intrigued.
He side-eyed me, probably debating whether to tell me or not. "From a domestic abuse dispute. He got a call about it, showed up in less than five minutes since he was nearby. I was on my way home from college and still an hour away."
"Domestic abuse?"
His lips pressed thin. "Between my mother and my father."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
His nostrils flared, head dropping, eyes focused on his lap instead. "Thanks to Derek, my mother wasn't killed that night. My father had pulled a gun on her. He was drunk and accused her of cheating, but he was the cheater. We all knew it. Derek came at the right time and took care of it, sent my sorry-ass father to jail, and I haven't seen him since. I was only twenty-one then. Derek was twenty-eight and new to the job. I haven't been able to thank Derek enough for it. He put his life on the line for hers. He considered it his duty—said he was just doing his job—but I respect that much more than he will ever be able to imagine. She could have been seriously hurt or dead if he hadn't shown up when he had. After that, I invited him to meet me about once a week, whenever he was free, so I could repay him with cheap beers and hot wings at this late-night bar a short drive from downtown. As we got older, and when I finally kick-started Tempt, we got a little busier. We still kept in touch with phone calls and texts, but didn't get to see each other as often. He was raising a child, taking care of his family, and I was building my career."
"That's cool," I said softly. "I'm glad he saved your mom."
"Me too."
I lowered my gaze to his glass. "What are you drinking?"
"Macallan scotch. Strong stuff. And expensive."
"Can I try it?"
He cocked a brow, looking from me to the glass. I could tell he wanted to say no, but instead he lifted it up and handed it to me. This was my pity drink from him to me. I didn't care. I wanted it.
"A little," he said, "and only because I don't know how else to make you feel better right now."
I accepted it, taking a sip. It was strong and burned my throat, but also seemed to soothe the fire in my veins. I took another big sip, and then two bigger gulps.
"Kandy, come on," he grumbled, taking the glass away from me. He looked at the nearly empty glass, sighing and picking up the decanter of scotch from the table. He topped off his glass again, keeping it to himself this time.
"I'm scared, Cane," I confessed after a brief silence. "I don't want him to die."
"He won't," he said, cut and dry.
I laughed a little, but it hurt, and my eyes welled up.
"What?" he murmured.
"I don't know. It's just…funny. I always saw my dad as this hero, you know? Like a man who could take on anything, even bullets. Kind of like my own superhero. Nothing is ever supposed to hurt him. In my mind, he's this indestructible man who will always protect and save me. Live forever."
Cane huffed a small laugh. “Yep, I know. He talked about that a lot. He told me once that he used to have you call him Mr. Strong-O.”
A giggle bubbled out of me. Cane chuckled.
“Yeah…I remember that.”
We both went quiet again. It was a long silence, but far from uncomfortable. I dropped my legs and pressed my back into the cushion, shutting my eyes. I felt tears building back up again, burning behind my eyelids.
"Can you distract me, please?" I begged, voice cracking. "I can't—I mean, I just don't know what else to do—shit." The tears dripped, despite my eyes being sealed.
"Stop crying, Kandy. Please," he pleaded when I pressed my palms to my face. "I'm not good with tears. Never have been."
"Yeah," I huffed, swiping hard at my face. "I can see that."
He reached up and ran the pad of his thumb over my cheek, brushing a teardrop away. I avoided his eyes.
"Look at me," he murmured.
But I couldn't. Looking at him would have made me cry even harder.
"Look at me, Bits."
I swallowed hard, pulling my gaze up, and locking eyes with him. His hand was still on my cheek, his eyes swimming with a mix of sincerity and grief. He stroked the apple of my cheek.
"What do you want me to do to make you feel better?" he asked, voice low, deep, and husky. He studied my face, like he really wanted to know what could help.
I couldn't speak as he looked at me. Couldn't breathe. I smashed my lips together, my eyes dropping down to his hands. I knew exactly what I wanted.
I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted him to hold me. I wanted him to keep telling me everything was going to be okay while he stroked my hair and held me close, wrapping me up in his big, strong arms.
But I knew he couldn't do that, so instead I said, "Just…hold me, I guess?"
He didn't hesitate much. He wrapped his arm around me as I hooked one of mine behind his back. He pulled me into him until my cheek was pressed on his chest. It was then that I noticed he wasn't wearing a suit or dressy clothes. He wore a solid gray T-shirt and jeans. It was the most casual thing I'd ever seen him wear.
His chin dropped down on the top of my head, and a hard sigh escaped him. I rested my other arm on top of his lap to get more comfortable, sighing from how calming this actually was. I was wrapped around him, the left half of my face pressed on his chest. He smelled so good. Manly and delicious. I wanted to bury my face into his hard, chiseled body and breathe him in forever.
He lifted his glass and sipped, longer this time.
All I heard was his throat working with each sip he took. The ice clinking around in the glass. I stared at the fireplace to distract myself.
When his glass was empty, he sat forward a bit to place it down on the coffee table, but kept me secure in his arms. When he sat back again, I tilted my head up to look at him.
"Are you scared?" I whispered, catching his eyes.
"Yes."
"You don't seem like the type to get scared."
"When it comes to the people I care about getting hurt, I do."
"Do you care about a lot of people?"
"I can count on one hand how many people I truly care about."
"And who are those people?"
"My mother. Your father, of course. Mindy, your mom. My sister, Loralei…" He paused, eyes sparkling as he looked down at me. "And you."
I was relieved when he didn't say Kelly's name. More than relieved actually. Apparently I was more important to him than she was. Or maybe he didn't love her. Still a good sign to me.
It was then I realized how close our faces were, how hard I was pressed against his solid body. My arm was still on his lap, my hand close to his groin. He looked down at where my hand was, like he'd noticed too, but didn’t want to mention it.
I squeezed the hem of his shirt, my head still tilted up. I should have moved away, but I couldn't. That drink was chasing away all of my inhibitions, making me want to attempt something bold.
"I'm glad to know you care about me," I whispered. I leaned in more, until our lips were a hairsbreadth away. His eyes were on my mouth, his grip tightening on my waist, probably without even realizing it. My pulse skittered, but I leaned in more, until his lips created a feathery-light sensation on top of mine.
"Kandy," he warned.
"What?"
"No." A solid command that couldn’t be mistaken.
I never liked being told no, though. Maybe he was right about the whole brat thing. I could act like a spoiled little girl when I wanted to. I liked things to go my way, and sometimes that made me pesky and infuriating.
I slid my hand down, running it over the bulge in his pants anyway. I moved it over the denim, shifting it back up gradually. I felt him getting harder, his breaths unsteady now, body tensing.
"Kandy," he said, but this time it wasn't a warning. It was a plea.
"Should I stop?" I asked, my voice so low I could hardly hear it myself.
He didn't answer—only stared down at me with intense, hungry, smoky eyes. I kept moving my hand up and down on his groin, pressing in more and more, making sure my breasts were completely pushed against him.
"You know damn well you should stop," he mumbled on my mouth, but I felt his grip get even tighter around me, like he was saying one thing, but thinking the complete opposite.
I pressed my hand down again, getting a better feel of the thick, hard ridge resting on the inside of his thigh.
I couldn't help myself. I couldn't stop. I couldn't believe this was happening, and I refused to pass this chance up.
Quinton Cane was hard for me, and I wanted him. Bad.
10
KANDY
Without giving it much thought, I pressed my lips on his, and climbed on top of his lap, deepening the kiss. His lips were soft and smooth, just like I’d imagined they would be.
His body tensed up again, and a guttural groan filled the back of his throat. He was straining in his jeans, rock solid.
He broke the kiss, pressing a hand against my shoulder to push me back. He frowned at me, eyes hard and intense as he tore himself away. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he snapped through a raspy voice.
"Nothing is wrong with me.” I smashed my lips together, focused on his mouth, wanting another illicit taste.
"Fuck," he cursed. He watched me longer. "Why are you doing this to me, Kandy?"
"What am I doing?" I whispered.
"You're making me want you."
"You want me?"
"Yes, I fucking want you, and I hate that I'm even admitting it."
My heart caught speed, and I climbed off his lap to sit beside him again, but fisted his shirt in my hands. "Cane, please. Don’t treat me like a kid tonight, okay?"
His head shook, his self-control slowly but surely slipping away. I slid closer to him, running my hand over the hard rock in his pants like I did before. His eyes fell down and locked on my mouth. I kept rubbing him, feeling his cock twitch through the jean and beneath my palm. Our lips moved closer. I wanted him so bad I couldn't think straight.
Grabbing my face between his fingers, he tilted my chin, looking me all over with a searing-hot gaze. He exhaled raggedly, the tip of his nose running down my jawline and then back up, over my cheek and then the arch of my nose. He sighed and groaned, bringing his mouth down, closer to mine.
He paused, hesitated, hardly breathing.
I wasn't breathing either. Not much. How could I? Cane—my Cane—was touching me the way I’d always wanted him to. I didn’t want to make any sudden moves, fearing he would stop if I did.
Just when I thought he would pull away, he brought my face closer to his, fulfilling the ache. He crushed my lips with his and pressed his body to mine.
I sighed when his tongue traced the line between my lips, demanding that I give him access. I parted them, and his tongue slid through, dancing and playing with mine.
I could taste the scotch on his breath, and a trace of the cigarette he'd probably smoked before picking me up. His breathing was heavier, more ragged, like he couldn't control himself. Like he wanted to stop, but wasn't strong enough to pull away.
I tore at his belt buckle then, unzipping his pants blindly. I wasn't an amateur at this. I'd made out with a lot of boys at parties I wasn't supposed to attend. I'd lie to my parents and say I was just having a sleepover at Frankie’s place, when really I was planning on going to a party with her and then crashing at her place afterwards.
It was in that moment, when his jeans were unzipped and my moan filled him up, that Cane took full control. He gripped my shoulders and forced my back down on the couch. I shoved his jeans down with my hands and feet, and then pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his upper body.
His body was just as I'd imagined. Strong. Broad. Solid. Tan, smooth, and toned in all the beautiful places. He had even more tattoos, so many different and creative works of art on his body. He was a work of art himself.
He lowered his body, thrusting his groin between my thighs, and kissing my neck as my fingers ran over the dips in his muscular back.
His lips trailed downward until he reached my collarbone. I could feel him grinding between my legs. He was so hard.
"Goddamn it. What the hell is wrong with me?" he rasped, coming back up and sucking on my bottom lip, still grinding between my legs. He sat up a bit, pulling my sweatpants down in a flash and revealing yellow panties. I was glad I had my good panties on, the lace ones I bought at Victoria's Secret with Mom during one of our rare shopping dates. His eyes blazed with hunger and lust, like he loved what he was seeing.
"Look at you," he groaned, his eyes glittering as they scanned my frame. ”Fucking look at you."
Gripping my hips and hauling me closer, he pressed the hard ridge of his cock on my lace-clad pussy, grinding up and down, making me clench, ache, and sigh.
"Fuck,” he cursed, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can't do this with you, Kandy." He groaned when I tried to kiss the hollow of his throat.
"I want it," I said on his chin. "I want you, Cane. Please, don't stop."
He cupped the back of my head, tangling rough fingers in my hair. He tugged on it, just enough to crane my neck and expose it.
"I know you want me," he growled. His tongue swirled on the bend of my neck, and then he sucked, thrusting his cock between my thighs again, the thick weight of it still on my pussy. "You feel how hard I am for you?" he panted. "You make me so fucking hard, and I hate myself for it."
One of his hands slid down, and he shifted his hips sideways to push my panties aside. Oh, God. It was happening. It was really happening.
The tip of his finger dipped inside the slit of my pussy and then glided up to my clit. I gasped and vibrated with pleasure when he slid his finger back down and slowly plunged into me.
"So tight and wet." His voice was heavy with desire. He thrust his finger in and out while his thumb gently rested on my clit.
"Oh, God," I whimpered as he swirled his thumb on the aching bundle of nerves. I had no idea how he was playing with both areas, and I didn't care to question it. He had obviously done this many, many times before, and it felt amazing.
My back arched, and I heard him breathing faster. I could still feel his cock on my thigh, heavy and long in his boxers, straining and dying to be set free.
This was so wrong—doing this with him. My father was in the hospital. He could have been dying for all we knew, yet here we were, being careless fools, doing things we shouldn't have been doing. Doing things that my father would have killed him for.
I felt awful, but I couldn’t stop. I really wanted to, but his touch was my escape from reality. I didn’t want to think or remember or hurt. I just wanted the thrill. The getaway.
For all I knew, this could have been another dream. Well, if so, I needed to relish in it before I was shoved back to reality again.
Cane hovered above me, still making magic happen with his finger. His mouth landed on mine again, and he sucked hard on my bottom lip.
"You're so pretty like this," he groaned on my mouth, breath warm on my skin. "When I play with your pussy."
"Ohh," I moaned, squeezing my eyes tighter as he added another finger.
"Come for me, my pretty little Kandy." He kissed his way down my throat again, and in my ear he said, "Fuck my fingers, little one. Make them yours."
So I did. I rotated my hips in full, round circles, wanting him deeper, aching for more. For it all.
He added another finger, and I gasped from the sudden pressure, but found myself ratcheting even higher with the added pressure.
I shifted up, and he curled the tips of his fingers just enough for me to feel them. He kissed me over and over again with warm, damp lips. He was so hard. I could feel him, so big and pulsing, ready to burst.
I wanted his cock, but was lost with his fingers inside me. My body was swirling with
desire and that splash of liquor. He kept going, in and out, kiss after kiss, until finally, I let go.
My body locked up, paralyzed for a fleeting moment before crying out in ecstasy. I shattered into a million tiny pieces, holding him tight, slowly but surely being pieced back together again somehow. I sucked in a sharp breath, my entire body feeling weaker than before.
Holy shit.
Holy. Shit.
That was…amazing. And to know he did that with only his fingers. I couldn't imagine what he could do with his cock.
When I opened my eyes, his were locked on me. "You happy?" His face was serious, jaw locked. His sudden change of mood confused me. He gripped my face between his fingers, brows stitching. "I was stupid, and I had a weak moment, and I cared enough about you to let that happen, but it can never happen again. Do you understand?"
I swallowed the thick knot that'd formed in my throat. "D-did I do something wrong?"
He released my face and sat up, adjusting himself rapidly. "All of this was fucking wrong." A rough hand ran over his head and then he swiped it across his face. "You—fuck. You're too fucking young, Kandy. And I’m older. I should fucking know better! You're too . . . too small. Too close to me. You're Derek's daughter, for fuck's sake! I fucked up, I know. It’s my fault for giving in. Just know I can never put my hands on you like that again."
I didn't blink as I watched him pick up his shirt and tug it over his head, sliding into it like he was aggravated. I couldn't look away from the thick, large boner in his pants either.
"I wanted it, Cane." My voice was a broken plea.
He looked sideways at me. "I know you did, but you shouldn't want me. I'm the wrong fucking man for you, Kandy. I can't do shit like that with you—doesn't matter if you want it or not." He walked to the dim lamps and shut them off. The hallway light was still on, so I could still make out his silhouette. "Get some rest. I'll call your mother, see what's going on. I'll be around if you need me." I could tell he didn't want to leave me alone right now, but in this moment, I knew he had to. He needed to restrain himself. Cool off.
Wanting Mr. Cane Page 6