Even if Moira wasn’t a virgin and liable to transmute the first time he had intercourse with her, he couldn’t handle an affair with her. Not because he couldn’t think of plenty of ways to have sex without sticking his dick into her. It was just that his heart wasn’t strong enough to survive messing around with his mate. It was marriage or nothing.
Looking back, he couldn’t believe he had ever thought he could marry Cynthia. The feelings she had aroused in him were so wishy-washy compared to his feelings for Moira, that he couldn’t believe he had mistaken them for love. They wouldn’t have lasted a year. Whereas he knew that whether or not Moira accepted him, he was bound to her for life.
Anyway, he had a good excuse to approach Robin. He would visit her and inquire about the judges. Explain about Elena and Whitlock and then feel her out about a marriage between a Fairchild and a Drake. There were advantages to marrying into a billionaire clan. West Haven already benefited from the Drakes investing in the island’s economy. He was perfectly prepared to buy the Council’s consent.
Not Moira. Never Moira. She had to make a free choice. That was why he had given her space and time. But he was prepared to use his family’s wealth to bribe the Council. His parents would pay any price to see him married to a virgin and assure themselves of grandchildren. Maybe even a granddaughter.
He wanted to stay on West Haven as much because this was where Moira wished to be, as because he had found his talent flowering here. But that would ultimately depend on Moira and the Council. If she turned him down, he couldn’t stay. If the Council banished them for marrying, they would have to face exile together. Could she love him enough to give up the island?
Time to find out. He drove into town. He had expected to see Robin in her office. Instead, he was shown into her private sitting room. It was a pretty space. All gilt and brocade, with the sort of spindly furniture that made him feel every one of his inches and twice as broad and clumsy as he really was. He hoped she would not ask him to sit on any of those dainty chairs. He had a feeling that at the first touch his bulk would reduce them to splinters.
Robin greeted him with her customary courtesy and a placid smile. She waved a genteel hand. “Do have a seat, Quinn.”
Unbelievably, Moira appeared not to have confided in her aunt, yet he knew that they were close. Hadn’t Robin heard the gossip? He looked around for the sturdiest option. Even the couch was a fragile two-seater settee. He didn’t dare sit on its narrow cushion.
“Try the blue one,” Robin said.
That one was upholstered in cream and blue roses and looked just as flimsy as all the other furniture. He sat down with a sinking heart. But it held his weight and was surprisingly comfortable. He leaned back and nothing cracked or gave. He relaxed a trifle.
“What brings you to the Tidewater?” asked Robin. “I hope there’s nothing wrong at the cottage?”
“The cottage is fine.” It needed a vault, but he could scarcely ask his landlady to build him one. “I came because I heard the judges have been selected for the art show.”
“Ah.” She beamed at him. “Yes. The university has arranged for five experts to judge the Art Fair. I have the list here. All excellent, highly thought of people. I planned to make an announcement at the colony today.”
Quinn cleared his throat. “We already heard.”
“Let’s have some coffee, shall we?” suggested Robin. She rang a little silver bell. A server appeared, took an order for a pot of coffee, and vanished efficiently.
“Go on, Quinn.”
“The thing is that one of the judges is Elena Androvitch, who happens to be my art instructor. I don’t know if she can be asked to give an unbiased opinion of my work.”
The door opened. The server placed a silver tray with two delicate hand-painted cups and a matching coffeepot before Robin. There was a plate of cookies beside the cups. The saucer of the cup he was handed looked like a doll’s in his big hand. He sighed inwardly. “Thank you,” he said.
Robin waited until the server had gone before she spoke. “If there is a problem, I would expect Ms. Androvitch to excuse herself.”
“Which means my work will be judged only by four people, rather than five,” Quinn pointed out.
“Hmm. That is unfortunate. However, I left the selection of the judges entirely in the hands of the university. I can’t alter their roster. Although I could perhaps ask for a sixth member to step in whenever there is a difficulty.”
It would have to do. “There is another problem. A bigger one. One of the judges has a bad reputation. Moira’s old partner is among the judges. Several of the artists have complained that he is at best dishonest, and at worst,” Quinn paused, “Vindictive.”
“Adrian Whitlock,” Robin said. Quinn probably imagined he read distaste in her flat tone.
“Yes, ma’am. From what I hear at the colony, Whitlock has an unsavory reputation. I can’t imagine why the university has included him.”
Robin shook her head. “We’ll have to manage with him. He was the university’s choice. It would seem that his reputation for dishonesty and bias has not reached the administration of the School of Art and Design. But thank you for the warning. I like to think that even the most crooked psychic would think twice before attempting mischief on West Haven.” There was steel in her voice. Quinn felt his spine shiver slightly. Interesting.
“And now we come to the real purpose of your visit, Quinn. How do matters stand between you and my niece?”
Ah. Moira had been talking to her aunt. Quinn swallowed. “I haven’t seen her in a couple of days.” He turned both hands palm upwards. “I’ve been giving her space. I was wondering if it was too soon to approach her again.”
“That depends,” Robin said sternly. “On what you want to say.”
She made him feel like a gawky adolescent in the principal’s office. He swallowed. “I want her to marry me,” he said firmly.
“Hmm.” Robin sipped gracefully from her cup. It looked exactly right in her fine-boned hand. Elegant. Sophisticated. Precious. “Have you considered the ramifications?”
He had done nothing but consider them. “I have. I am aware that the Council frowns on marriages between the Fae and hunters. But I hope we can overcome their objections. My family has had a summer home here on West Haven since the Haverstock Era. Our good citizenship cannot be disputed.”
“You obviously have never sat in on a Council meeting,” she responded dryly.
“You think they will forbid our marriage?” he asked.
“Let’s just say that I think it will be easier to obtain forgiveness rather than permission.”
“What do you mean?”
She told him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Moira~
“That will be eighty-eight fifty,” she told Ted Fisher.
Ted pulled his wallet out of his back pocket as if it pained him to part with money. Perhaps it did. Ted was short and thin, with a narrow face and a weedy beard. He always looked hungry. He was another of Robin’s starving artists. A glass worker and a minor sorcerer.
He opened his wallet slowly, perhaps in hopes that Moira would waive the cost of his raw glass, perhaps because the worn brown leather needed careful handling if it was not to fall apart. Moira handed him the credit card verifier. Ted took his time inserting his plastic into the slot and keying in his information. Ah, well, there were no other customers this afternoon.
The buzzer at the door sounded. She glanced up as she always did, ever since a family with small children holding ice cream cones had invaded her store. It was far worse than dripping ice cream. Quinn stood there looking as immovable as Mount Rushmore and pretty much as hard and huge. Ted lifted his head and followed her eyes.
“Hey, Quinn,” Fisher said nervously. His calloused fingers twitched. “How’s it going?”
“Pretty good,” Quinn returned. “You get your glory hole working again?”
“Yeah.” Ted had told Moira that his furnace had gone
out. A disaster since it would take days to return the crucible to a hot enough temperature to melt glass. “But I had to order more glass since my crucible set hard.” He indicated the fifty-pound sack of glass chips on the counter.
Quinn’s expression did not change, but Ted was suddenly in a hurry. He grabbed his stuff and scuttled out of Fairchild’s Art Supply. Quinn turned the latch on the door, changed Moira’s sign to read CLOSED, and lowered the blind. Well, it was nearly closing time.
“How are you, Moira?” He stalked toward her.
The counter was between them but she still backed away until the rack behind her stopped her retreat. Quinn frowned. He halted with his hands outstretched, looked at them as if they belonged to a stranger, and put them in the pockets of his smock. His shoulders hunched and he scowled.
“I’m fine, Quinn. What do you want?” she asked. She was not in the mood to humor Mr. Crankypants.
“You.”
It was only one word but it made her entire body quiver. Her nipples peaked inside her nice supportive foam cups, her panties dampened, and so did her armpits. He was so bad for her fairy equilibrium.
“I thought you had decided we were all wrong for one another,” she got out through a mouth that was suddenly parched.
He shook his head. He was back to being shaggy. He was wearing that disreputable smock again, but he must have run it through the laundry for it no longer stank. It was still stained. And now it had a variety of holes to go with the stains.
“I didn’t say or think that. I think we’re made for one another. But it has to be your choice.” He took another backward step. Took his hands out of his pockets. “Your free choice.”
“Does it?”
He looked insulted. “Of course. You’re the one who’s going to be transformed.”
“Robin and Sully think you might live longer,” she returned. “That the effects might go both ways.”
His predator’s eyes narrowed. They looked more feral. More gold than green. “Huh. You discussed this with both of them?”
“I did.”
“Oh. Well, what did you decide?”
“What’s the question?”
“Do you want to be a dragoness? Yes? Or no?” His face was a rigid mask. His beard bristled. He looked ferocious. Hungry. Primitive.
Why wasn’t she terrified? “If I’m good enough to screw, I’m good enough to marry, Mr. Drake,” she shot back.
He nodded. His whole body swelled. But he didn’t speak.
“If you want me, you’ll have to marry me,” she warned. That should fix his wagon. Not once had he suggested marriage. Just a summer affair. The jerk.
Quinn strode to the counter, leaned over and plucked her off the floor. He swung her over the counter and into his arms. “Mine,” he growled. “Mine.” And then he was kissing her, and she had no more thoughts.
His mouth covered hers. She braced herself for demanding passion to go with his plundering gesture. But his kiss was gentle, questioning. He didn’t surge into her mouth, he pressed little kisses all around it. She pressed back and tasted his lips with her tongue.
He was carrying her into the back room. Crap. She was so not going to lose her virginity in the dusty stock room.
“Easy,” he crooned. “I don’t want half of Mystic Bay peering at us through the windows. And the other half heading to the Bean with the news.”
“I can walk,” she told him.
“I like carrying you.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah.” He pushed past the swinging doors that blocked customers’ view of the back room.
Quinn set her carefully on her feet, steadying her until she was balanced on her heels.
“I’m not having sex with you in here,” she said. She wished her voice sounded less squeaky.
He smiled down at her. “Not today,” he assured her. “But a man’s got a right to celebrate his engagement.”
“Are we engaged?”
He scowled. “You asked. I accepted. You changed your mind already?”
“Nooo.” Maybe. She had sort of thought that engagements were more romantic than this utilitarian back room with its sacks of clay and shelves of boxes. “You don’t seem very pleased.”
“That’s where you are mistaken, Moira mine. I’m beyond pleased.” He sat down on one of her two mismatched kitchen chairs and swept her onto his lap and his unmistakable erection. He angled her to the side, and then he was kissing her again.
His beard tickled the delicate skin of her face and neck as he nuzzled his way along her lips. He kissed her softly, slowly, seductively. As if they had all day to enjoy each other. She relaxed slightly and explored his lips in return. His hands cradled her. One forefinger made tender circles on her spine. Tingles shot up and down her vertebrae as if she was the battery and he the terminal.
He turned her in his arms and set her legs on either side of his massive thighs. Her skirts frothed upwards and cool air blew against her damp sex. A thumb roved under the lacy edge of her thong and matched the circles Quinn was still drawing on her back. She moaned into his mouth and bore down on his thumb.
Quinn obliged with slightly harder pressure. He delved deeper into her mouth and captured her tongue. He suckled it and let her return the caress. Back and forth they danced until she was soaking wet and her pussy was spasming. He gave a final upward push on her clit and she came with a violence that had her seeing sparks.
He leaned his forehead against hers, as he had done in his kitchen. They were both flushed and damp. “I’m going to come in my pants if we don’t stop,” he groaned.
“And I have a business to run here,” she returned primly. What had gotten into her? Besides his hand in her panties? “I have stuff to do before I can leave.”
“Yeah. I’ll wait for you,” he told her. He put her on the other chair and adjusted his jeans.
“What?” She felt disheveled and sticky. The aftershocks of her orgasm were still rippling through her.
“I’ll take you to dinner when you’re done. Okay?”
“I guess.” Despite the over-the-top climax, she felt flattened. Was this all her big romance amounted to? Maybe she needed to rethink this whole thing?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Quinn~
He had gone to see Moira hoping to be given a chance to woo her. Her demand that he marry her had taken him entirely by surprise. Nothing like having your quarry fall into your trap unawares. But it was a little discombobulating. Not two hours ago, Robin had given him what had seemed like a staggeringly short timeline. Now he was days ahead of schedule.
He hadn’t been hopeful when he had realized Moira wasn’t wearing any of his gifts. Not even those dainty Victorian flower earrings. The colored stones spelled out REGARD in ruby, emerald, garnet, amethyst, ruby, and diamond petals. The filigree leaves were tiny enough for Moira’s diminutive lobes.
Yet she had asked him to marry her. Demanded marriage. Short-circuited his stupid male brain. Blown the speech he had been working on for four days out of what passed for his brain this summer. He hadn’t even given her a ring, much less sealed it to her hand.
Well, he still had the ring. He would ask her to wear it and glue it to her finger before they left. He stalked after her and watched while she closed out the cash register and restocked some shelves. He sent Robin a text. He hoped she could work some fairy magic and put a rush on their scheme.
It seemed to take Moira forever to finish her puttering, but eventually she mumbled, “I’m done.”
“Okay.” He grabbed his car keys. “Let’s go.”
“Let’s go? Let’s go? Just where the heck are we going, Dragon?”
He had pissed off the fairy princess. “Back to your cottage,” he said hopefully. “I thought that dinner at the inn would be nice, considering what we have to celebrate.”
“You haven’t thought. We can’t go public with this until after the Fair. The Council isn’t going to like it. They’re going to move heaven and earth to
stop our marriage.”
He stroked her cheek. “Stop worrying. They already think we’re lovers. We’ll let them go on thinking that. But I want my ring on your finger before we make love.”
“We probably shouldn’t rush into things,” she said. “Remember, marry in haste, repent at leisure.”
“I will never repent of marrying my fated mate.”
“Fated mate? You actually think I’m your fated mate? Really?” Her voice was squeaky.
“Absolutely. Unquestionably. We are bound together by destiny.” He pulled the ring box out of his pocket. Knelt on the floor at her feet. “Will you do me the honor of wearing my ring?” He flipped the box open.
Diamonds flashed and caught the light and refracted it. The rings were dainty, platinum and diamonds. The wedding band was engraved with a flowering vine with inset diamond chips forming the flowers. The matching engagement ring had a large central diamond surrounded by smaller ones. To his mind, it struck a nice balance between being small enough for her hand, and large enough to indicate that she was taken.
“Where did you get that?” she asked, peering suspiciously into the box.
“Vault. It belonged to one of my great-aunts.”
“It’s not the one you gave to Cynthia Fitzhugh?” she cried.
It was not. That vulgar rock was far too large for Moira’s hand. “No. You can have a modern one, if you prefer it,” he offered. “But I thought this one would look beautiful on you.” He took out the engagement ring.
“If I wear that, no one will think we’re just lovers.”
He shrugged. “They may think I’m placating you – or your family. But you will know that it is a token of my love. Of my fidelity. Of our bond.” He picked up her left hand. The ring slid on and nestled on her finger as if it had been made for her.
“This ring signifies our union,” he told her. “From this hour forward you are mine, and I am yours. Bonded for all eternity.” He kissed her finger.
Her eyes grew round. “What about you? Do you get a token too?”
Desired by the Dragon: A Shifters in Love Fun & Flirty Romance (Mystic Bay Book 1) Page 13