by Ivy Jordan
Chapter Twenty-Four
QUINN
There was something almost dangerously unpredictable in the way that Sawyer took to me. I never knew whether to count on him losing his inhibitions, snapping and pulling me roughly, whether he would be gentle, almost timid, or whether he might blend the two. After only two encounters with him, I found myself blissfully unsure of what he might do.
I didn’t want to waste time fumbling towards my bedroom, so when I pulled away, I led him by the hand. He didn’t say anything, but when I got the door closed, his hands were on me faster than I could have prepared for.
I skimmed my fingers along the buttons on his shirt, attempting to gain some sort of self-control while he claimed my mouth. His tongue pressed to mine, and he starved me for breath, and when I nearly had to break away, he broke away, mouth to jaw, mouth to neck, and I could only try to hold on.
He sat down on the bed with me. I was more than eager to help him slide the dress from my shoulders, and I didn’t have to help him with the bra straps. My hands glided along the smooth yet tough muscle on his abdomen, and when he pulled my hips down against his, I could feel how hard he was, and marveled at his restraint.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered to me, as though drunk on the moment. I ground against him again, and he sighed against my lips.
It wasn’t a good time for talking. My underwear came off next, and he did away with his own pants. I didn’t give him time to take charge of the situation before slipping my hand down the front of his boxers and tugging, gently, suddenly worried that I would break him. The way he bucked up into my hand, though, suggested he wouldn’t; I tightened my grip, and he groaned aloud.
As if in retaliation, he began to press kisses to my neck again, and he wandered further down, pressing my back to the mattress. Every time his mouth met sensitive skin I thought I met explode from the tension.
He mumbled something, but it was lost to our action. A strong hand on my hip moved further down, and he nudged my legs apart almost insistently. I was more than pliable in his grip, more than eager to grant him access. His fingers, the palm of his hand, the pad of his thumb worked in circles, strokes, movements rushed and relaxed to bring me to a gasping mess.
“Please,” I whispered. I didn’t want to come yet; I wanted to feel him first. “Please.”
It took us no time to locate a condom—I couldn’t bring myself to be wary of the fact he’d brought one with him, like he’d known this would happen, when I wanted it so badly to happen—and once he’d rolled it on, he was back over me.
I pushed him back, though. I pushed him back and then motioned for him to lay down, and I pressed my knees into the bed on either side of him. His light eyes were alit with a hunger that ought to have frightened me. I watched his face as I sank down onto him, and my eyelids fluttered shut. I ground my hips against him, pulling him up, further into me, never far enough into me, and heard him moan his pleasure.
For a moment we lay like that, me fucking myself slowly on him, the sounds of our contentment filling the room. After a few seconds, he leaned forward slightly, and he grabbed his hands with mine.
He met my gaze, a moment of hesitation, asking permission before he did what he wanted to do. I could only pull up and nod as best I could; finding a breath, a coherent statement, was unspeakably difficult.
He drove up into me, his strokes harsh but measured. I could feel him brushing that spot inside me time and time again, and I threw my head back, crying out for the feeling of it. My hand flew between my legs to finish myself off; I couldn’t wait any longer.
“Fucking hell, Quinn,” I couldn’t imagine what the sight of me like this did to him, and he bore down once more, thrusting almost painfully until he combusted with a small shout. I rolled my hips against him, practically milking him, prolonging his pleasure as long as I could.
When I couldn’t stay up anymore, I rolled off him, laying down next to him. I could hear my own heart thudding in my chest, and I thought, maybe, I could hear his too.
I laid in blissful ignorance for a long time. I heard him get up and go the restroom, heard the gentle clink of the faucet and the water falling into the sink. When he returned, I rose, too, and walked to the bathroom to sort myself out. I didn’t feel like myself, or like anyone, for that matter. I felt like things had always been this way, like this was the most natural state of being, and we were both immortal.
I brushed my hair and washed my face, used the restroom, went through the motions of cleaning up and when I was done, I walked back into the bedroom. There sat Sawyer on my bed, sprawled out in boxers, looking up at me with a peaceful smile.
I wanted to stand there for a while and take him in like that, covered in tattoos and muscles and looking very much like the cover of a romance novel come to life. But while I could stand and appreciate him from afar, something was beginning to eat at me, and when I got into bed, I made my descion to talk to him about it.
“I have something to tell you,” I told him.
The fear on his face held enough confusion to suggest he thought I was pregnant, though we’d used a condom and I wouldn’t know seconds after anyway.
“Not about sex,” I clarified.
He exhaled.
“It’s about Stacy.”
“I’m not—”
I held a finger up so that he would let me finish speaking. “It’s not about whether you still like her. I’m not worried about that. She came by my office the other day to… I don’t know, talk to me? She just told me that she hated the therapy system and her parents. But she knows you’re out, and she knows we’re involved.”
“Why would she want to stop by your office?” Sawyer frowned. “Doesn’t make sense.”
“I know. But I didn’t want to tell you because I was worried it would freak you out, but it’s been pointed out to me that running into her unprepared would be worse. I don’t know. I just wanted to tell you.”
Sawyer pulled me closer to him and kissed the top of my head. “I’m glad you did,” he said. “But I don’t need to worry about it. I don’t. She’s bad for me. The mistakes I made were my fault, and I own up to that, but she’s bad for me and I know that. I’m not interested in hearing anything she has to say. I have everything I need.”
I smiled and a blush rose to my cheeks. It was what I’d wanted to hear, despite what I’d told myself about telling him for his own benefit alone. “I’m glad.”
“Things are looking up,” he reminded me. “I don’t want to sabotage it.”
“Me neither.”
“I’m going to buy that house,” he mentioned. My eyes were beginning to droop in my tiredness, and he yawned behind me. “I forgot to tell you, I’m signing the paperwork soon and the house is going to be mine.”
I smiled lazily. “That’s good, Sawyer,” I said. It seemed like despite everything, the mess with his father and the mess with Stacy and all the demons of the past that threatened to snatch him back to where he’d come from, things were looking up for him. I rested my head on his chest and let myself drift off to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Five
SAWYER
“You had a whole week to sit on your ass, now help me move this box!” Pete hollered across the house from the front door.
I jogged from the back porch to help him with the box. Since the home came pre-furnished, there wasn’t a lot of work to do moving in, but I did need a little help getting my boxes of garbage into the house and unloading them. Pete didn’t know much about interior decorating, but Quinn was coming over later, and she could help make sure the place didn’t look too much like a barracks of some sort.
We pulled the box into the living room and set it down on the floor. It held some of my service memorabilia, which I didn’t have enough of to really constitute more than a half of one box, and some of the things I’d taken from home. I brought a few pictures with my family, for example, and a few class pictures from my graduating class. I didn’t feel attached to it, but
it seemed like the sort of thing I was supposed to have a picture of in my home.
“I hope you’re not expectin’ me to help you set up and make everything pretty,” Pete huffed. He sat back on the couch and pushed his cap down onto his head.
“Nope.”
“Is Quinn coming by later?”
“Yeah.” Actually, she would be by sooner than later. “She’ll help with all the decorating and stuff. She’s good with that.” From what little I’d seen of the inside of her house—I didn’t spent a lot of time pensively observing the decorations when I was over there—she was good at that sort of thing.
“You two getting along well?” Pete took his cap off and set it aside. His hair had a comical dent where his hat had been, but I knew he was just trying to cool off a little.
“Yeah, it’s been great.” I sat down on top of the box we’d brought in. “She’s really positive. We haven’t seen much of each other this past week since she’s been busy with work and I’ve been packing, but we’ve been in touch.”
“You’re not having any trouble without a therapist?” Pete asked. “I don’t want you to go to some pill-pusher in the city.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not having trouble. When I have an issue, I tend to talk to Quinn about it more often than not. If I end up needing therapy, we’ll talk about it. But things have been really great lately. I don’t want to throw a wrench in it by seeing another therapist.”
“What, would that be cheating? Are y’all in a relationship technically?” Pete asked.
I wasn’t sure about that. “Seeing a therapist wouldn’t be cheating, no.” As to his other question… “I don’t know if we’re in a relationship. It’s complicated, I guess. We see a lot of each other, and I think we’re exclusive, but I don’t think she’s calling me her boyfriend. Seems kind of childish, if that makes sense.”
“Yeah,” Pete agreed. “I mean, to each their own. But I always think of high-schoolers when I think of boyfriends and girlfriends. I think adults have boyfriends and girlfriends too, though. And it might do you well to clarify that little label with her.”
“In time.” I looked out the window and squinted into the sunset. “I’m not really in a hurry to do much of anything now.”
A knock at the door made Pete shift over in his chair.
“Speak of the devil,” he said.
“Not the devil!” I protested, walking to the door.
He rolled his eyes. “Figure of speech,” he defended.
I made a face at him and opened the door. Quinn stood in the doorway, wearing jeans and a t-shirt and her hair pulled back in a bun. She had a box in her hand and a smile on her face, and I leaned down to kiss her in lieu of a greeting.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
“Should I go?” Pete asked.
Quinn laughed and walked in. “No, you’re fine. I’m just here to, you know.” She adjusted a pot that sat on the mantle by the fireplace. “Do that.”
“What’s in the box?” Pete asked.
Quinn set the box on the table and withdrew a few baking ingredients and other groceries. “Some essentials. I was pretty sure you had plans to go out, but I wanted to break in the kitchen a little bit.”
“I could use a home-cooked meal,” Pete said.
I shot him a glare. I knew he was teasing me by pretending he couldn’t take the hint that Quinn and I wanted time alone, but that didn’t make it less irritating to me.
“But unfortunately,” he said, standing, “I’m on my way out. I got a hot date with some tax returns tonight.”
“Tax returns? You run a farm,” I said.
“You want me gone or not?” Pete argued, grinning.
“We don’t want you gone,” Quinn chided. “Do we, Sawyer?”
I offered a comical shrug, and Quinn swatted me with a dishrag. Pete went out the front door, and I walked into the kitchen to see where I might be helpful to Quinn if she planned on making dinner.
“I would have gone out and bought groceries,” I said.
“You most certainly would not have,” she pointed out. “Pass me the salt shaker.”
I obeyed. “Thank you for coming by. I’ve missed you lately.” Something about her was familiar. We’d only been with one another for a few weeks, maybe a little over a month at most, but it felt familiar to sit here with her. I didn’t know that I wanted her to leave.
“I’ve missed you too, lately,” Quinn returned. She fired up the stovetop and hummed to herself while she set out some meat, tortillas, bell peppers, and onions. “I’m making fajitas. Is that alright?”
I liked how she came into my house and informed me what was for dinner. I couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
She grinned. “I can’t help but feel bad. You’re out of homecooked meals unless you learn to do it yourself.”
“I can learn!”
“Not according to your mom!” she said. I shook my head, betrayed again by my own mother in these matters. What all did they talk about?
“Speaking of your parents,” she said, placing some of the meat on the skillet. “How have things been with your dad? Any updates?”
“Not really.” I hadn’t seen much of him. He hadn’t said goodbye when I moved out. I didn’t know what to make of the last small fight we’d had, and I didn’t want to get into it with him again. It was hard at this point to tell who was avoiding who.
“Really? Not even when you moved out?”
“Not really,” I repeated. “Nothing I do seems to help.” And that was a bit misleading. I didn’t do much to help, after all, but then there wasn’t much that I could do. I wasn’t telling him to fuck off; I wasn’t actively pushing him away. I wanted him to want to talk to me, and in my mind, there wasn’t anything wrong with being upset that he wasn’t.
“Really?” Quinn raised an eyebrow like she was on to me. I couldn’t hide much of anything from her.
“There’s just no point,” I said. I shrugged and shook my head. “There’s no point, Quinn. I can bust my ass and worry about it for the rest of my life, or I can move on. I think I’m ready to move on.”
She moved some of the meat to the side and started warming tortillas.
“If you say so,” she said, seemingly unconvinced.
I helped her set the table, and we assembled the fajitas at the stove and took them to the table.
“I wish I had some more interesting drinks to offer you,” I said, glancing into the empty abyss of my fridge. “All I have is water.”
“Water is fine,” she said. “I need to drive home tonight anyway.”
I hadn’t planned on getting her drunk by any means, but I appreciated her compliance.
She didn’t say anything for a moment, and then she finally spoke her opinion on the issue, setting her fajita down in indignation.
“I think you ought to talk to him,” she said. “Like, really sit down and talk to him. Air it out. Talk it out. Something like that.”
I raised an eyebrow at her and took a sip of water. “I don’t think so,” I said. “It can’t go well. So it can only go badly.”
“That’s no way to think of it. You don’t know that.”
“Well, you don’t know my father,” I said. “He’s not going to want to talk to me. Why pry into it and make a scene and cause a fuss when I could, hear me out, just walk away from it? Live out here and mind my business forever?”
“Because he’s your father and you care about him,” she said. She looked almost triumphant when I didn’t have anything to say to her immediately after.
“We used to get along,” I admitted.
“So try to get along again. It’ll feel better not to have that hanging over your head. You’ve put so much shit behind you and healed from it—why let this bog you down?”
I sighed. “Because I’m sick of putting shit behind me and going through the healing process. I’d rather just let sleeping dogs lie. I still get along with Mom, and Dad’s not hostile. It’s b
est to forget about it.” I was starting to feel a little irritated.
As though she could sense my irritation, Quinn relented. “If you say so,” she said, echoing her earlier sentiment. “I don’t know your family.” And that in itself held a bit of a patronizing tone; she didn’t know my family, but we both knew that she was an expert in people and how people’s minds worked. She basically knew my family just by knowing me.
Either way, we were willing to let it go for the sake of the evening.
“So, are you still going to work at Pete’s?” she asked.
I nodded. “For now. I’m thinking about getting a different job. Not that Pete’s a bad employer, but I don’t know how long he’s going to have money to pay me with, and I need money now to make payments on the house.”
“That’s fair. Do you think you’ll tell him?”
“Nope. I think I’ll still work for him when I can and work another job around that.” Pete was my friend, and I frankly preferred working out there to anything that I might do anywhere else.
“He’s a good friend,” she said. “Didn’t he introduce me to you?”
“Sort of. He pointed, got you to walk over, and then ditched me when I needed a wingman,” I said. “So he kind of screwed me.”
“You didn’t need a wingman,” she said. “You were just fine the way you were. Besides, it gets old, having the same schpiel from two guys over and over again. It’s better to make judgments for yourself.”
“Maybe.” I smiled. “And I can’t say that things didn’t turn out well.”
“They turned out a little weird,” she admitted. “I mean, really weird.”
“Yeah, but who cares?” I shrugged and leaned back in my chair a little. “If we’re happy. If you’re here. Who cares?”
She smiled at me, and I wanted to memorialize that moment, Quinn at my dinner table, eating a meal we’d made and sharing our time. I wanted things to be like this forever.
“Who cares?” she agreed, and her face split into a smile.
Chapter Twenty-Six