“Oh. Sorry.”
He didn’t say anything else, such as trying to give some kind of explanation for why he was in her dressing room. Finally, she sighed and set the brush down. Turning around on her stool, she faced him with what she hoped was at least pretend composure.
“Why are you here?” Francesca did not even try to mask her irritation. “Haven’t you done enough this evening?”
“Done enough?” He raised his eyebrows. “What did I do? Other than I did not follow your direct order to leave because I thought that you should talk to Ava and the Peabody woman first. That turned out well enough, didn’t it?”
She hated it when someone was right and she came out looking like a total imbecile in an argument. “It turned out fine,” she allowed. “But I don’t appreciate being squired about as though I were a child.”
“What’s this really about?” He scratched his forehead and seemed to be making a valiant effort to hang onto his temper. She actually had to give him a bit of credit in that department. She was really being unreasonable.
That thought alone seemed to deflate whatever anger she still held. With a huge sigh, she put her face in her hands and made a noise of frustration. “Will you just go?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want to make sure that you’re all right.”
She shoved away from her dressing table and stood up. “I’m fine!”
“Are you?” He took a few steps toward her. “Because you’re not acting like that’s true at all!”
“Really?” She licked her lips nervously. “So, what’s my problem, then? Since you’re so smart.”
He didn’t speak. At least not with words. Quentin closed the distance between them and pulled her close. He wrapped his arms around her body and slammed his mouth down on top of hers.
It was as if every single bit of tension in her body drained out in that moment. She clung to him as though she could not stand. Her knees were watery, and her heart was thundering in her chest. She moved her mouth against his and kissed him back with every single fiber of her body. This was what she needed, even though she did not fully understand why.
Quentin scooped her up into his arms without ever breaking the kiss. He carried her from the dressing room to her bedroom as though she weighed next to nothing at all. He set her gently on the bed. The way he looked at Francesca made her shiver. Then he picked apart the tie holding her wrap together. The flimsy fabric spread out around her body. He placed his palm over her ribs. The heat of his hand was arousing. She wanted so badly to feel his hands on every part of her body.
He stopped suddenly and stood up. Francesca almost cried out in protest until she realized that he was pulling his shirt over his head and removing his pants and underwear. She heard his shoes hit the floor. Moments later, he rejoined her on the bed. The warmth of his naked body beside hers was intoxicating.
She could not resist the urge to touch him. She placed her hands on his abdomen and felt every single ripple and groove of his belly muscles. Tracing the lines as they crisscrossed his stomach and arrowed down toward his groin, she had the thought that she now knew why artists were so fond of sculpting the male form. It was exquisitely beautiful.
There was a flimsy ribbon holding the neck of her nightgown closed. Quentin unthreaded it with agonizing slowness. Her breasts heaved up and down with each breath as she eagerly anticipated the moment when he would touch her bare skin.
Finally, she saw him gaze down at her with obvious appreciation just before he lowered his mouth to her chest. His tongue stroked her skin. Then he curled that same tongue around her nipple, and Francesca thought she might die of pleasure. She cupped his head and scored his scalp with her nails as she pulled him closer. She was panting and writhing beneath him as he sucked and licked at both of her breasts in turn.
NEVER HAD ANY woman reacted in the way that Francesca did. Her honesty both surprised and pleased him. Plus, she tasted like heaven. Quentin never wanted to stop tasting her. He got to his knees and began kissing her belly and breasts. He moved his mouth up and down her front. He pushed the nightgown out of his way, and soon enough, she was squirming to get her arms free of that and the flimsy wrap. The fabric had only served to tease him with the perfection of her form anyway. Looking at the real thing in the flesh was far better.
Quentin put his hands on her hips and kissed her belly just below her navel. The flat surface was taut. He could feel every single tremor. Her legs were moving restlessly against the bed, and he was tempted to spread them wide and taste her at the source.
His cock throbbed, and Quentin knew that tasting her sweetness would have to wait. He wanted to be inside her too badly for that. Even whetting his appetite earlier hadn’t been enough to stave off his appetite for Francesca. He had a feeling that he would never get enough of this woman.
Gently spreading her thighs, he stroked the sensitive skin on the insides of her legs with the palms of his hands. Each time he moved his hands toward the apex of her body, he would tease her by just barely brushing the short crisp hairs shielding her mound. The tiny noises of want that she made were like music to his ears.
“Please!” she moaned. “I need you so badly, Quentin. No more waiting!”
How could he argue with that? He spread her legs and lowered his body to rub enticingly against hers. Her skin was like silk. The tip of his throbbing erection brushed her opening. She was slick and hot. The dampness of her cream coated his shaft in her juices. He pressed forward some more. Finally, the tip of his cock penetrated her tight sheath.
Quentin’s arms were shaking as they struggled to hold his weight and keep him from crushing her. He locked his elbows and pressed inside Francesca’s body until he was fully embedded in her sweetness. He paused to regain control, but that was the moment she picked up her legs and wrapped them around his waist.
The action sent him thrusting deeper into her body. The sensation shattered what was left of his self-control. Quentin growled like a beast in full rut. Shifting his weight to one arm, he used the other hand to grab her butt cheek. He lifted her and began pounding into her body. The sounds and scents of sex filled the room. There was nothing for him but the feel of her body surrounding his. Her softness was superb, and the way she yielded to his cock was incredible.
Orgasm began to burn at the base of his spine. He felt the liquid fire of release flooding his veins. Sweat beaded on his skin, and he shut his eyes to try and stave off the impending climax. He wanted so badly to feel her come with him. He needed to know that she was satisfied. And then he felt her body soften around his. Her pussy grew tighter, and all at once, Francesca melted around him.
She cried out as her orgasm hit, and Quentin was done. He could not hold back. He grabbed her butt with both hands and held her tight as he strained against her cleft. The primal urge to mark her was strong. He poured his semen into her body until there was nothing left for him to give. He convulsed as the last few drops left his cock. Then it was as if he lost all muscle control.
Quentin rolled to the side to avoid crushing Francesca. He lay on his back, panting and trying to make the room stop spinning. Finally, he shut his eyes and just tried to focus on time and place. The feel of the sheets beneath his body. The scent of the woman at his side. The sounds of her breathing mingled with his. These were all real things that he could focus on.
Francesca heaved a giant sigh. “Wow. Just…wow.”
“Any man loves hearing a woman say that after sex,” Quentin commented with amusement. “Go ahead, sweetheart, keep ‘em coming.”
“Ha ha.” She rolled to her side and put her hand on his chest. “You’re just begging for compliments, is that it?”
“Sure.”
She put a finger to her lips. “All right. How about if I say you have the biggest cock of any man I’ve ever seen. Then I can say you were the best lay I’ve ever had.”
“That works.” He cocked his head to one side, his brain clearing
enough for him to use at least some logic. “As long as it’s true.”
“It is,” she assured him. “Although, I have to tell you that I married quite young and have never been with anyone but my husband—or late husband as the case may be.”
“Never?” Quentin could not hide his shock.
She chuckled. “No. Never. I wouldn’t lie about something like that, you know.”
“I know that.” He felt like an ass for reacting the way that he had. “I was just very surprised. You’re probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I cannot imagine how many men have probably tried to get you into bed over the years.”
“You have the strangest way of putting a compliment into a statement that would seem almost rude under any other circumstances. You know that?”
Quentin considered that. “I’m a pretty basic guy, Francesca.” He pounded his chest. “In here, I’m just a marine and always will be.”
She sighed and snuggled up close to his side. “I like simple. There aren’t enough simple things in my life.”
“Then, I hope I can keep it uncomplicated for you.” He threaded his fingers through her hair and hoped that he could do just that. So far, life did not seem inclined to allow such a thing, but he would never stop trying.
Chapter Ten
“I thought you were going to find this Fabian guy and talk to him,” Quentin growled at Francesca.
She sighed. Men were so obtuse sometimes. It was only eight in the morning. She had every intention of calling the lawyer and starting whatever legal proceedings she had to go through in order to get Stedman Hyde-Pierson off her back. But in the meantime, she had a regular appointment to attend.
“Would you just drive where I ask you to and stop nitpicking me?” Francesca asked Quentin. “You never used to talk at all, and now it’s like you won’t shut up. Can you just trust me to run my own affairs? Or do you think that you need to boss me around too?”
She could tell that her words stung. Quentin lapsed back into silence. He pulled up at the curb of the large brownstone that had been converted to pricey Beacon Hill offices. The Charles Street location was prime real estate territory, but Francesca’s therapist was in pretty high demand amongst Boston’s first circles.
“I’ll just be an hour,” Francesca told Quentin. “Go drive around or something. But please don’t come upstairs and eavesdrop. Every woman needs a little bit of privacy. All right?”
“What are you doing up there?” Quentin craned his neck back to try and see the top of the building.
Francesca realized that she hadn’t exactly told Quentin where they were going. She had just told him they were going. Maybe that accounted for the misunderstanding. Great. Now she was the one being forgetful and unreasonable.
She sighed. “It’s my therapist’s office. All right?”
“Oh. Sorry.” He sounded reasonably contrite.
“Like I said,” she assured him. “I’ll just be an hour. You can come right back after that.”
She got out of the car and strolled into the building feeling more than a little satisfied with how things were going at the moment. For the first time in a long while, she felt mentally stable—truly put together. It was sort of daunting to think about, but much of that had to do with Quentin’s presence in her life. That should have frightened her. What would happen once Quentin was gone? Would she still be able to handle Stedman’s overbearing presence in her life? Unless he died somehow, he wasn’t likely to be a pest that just went away.
Francesca got into the elevator and headed up to the third floor. She was glad she had come to this appointment this morning. She had waffled a little after the amazing night spent with Quentin. It was something that she definitely felt that she should share with her therapist, but she wasn’t exactly sure how to open that topic.
Hey, so I’ve been screwing my bodyguard, and I really feel like it has improved my outlook.
She was still giggling over that very undignified opener when she pushed her way into the small, well-appointed reception room. Her good humor lasted until she realized that Stedman Hyde-Pierson was sitting on a wingback chair in the corner, reading the morning paper.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” Francesca demanded. She did not care if she was rude or uncouth or what she was. The fact that this man was in her therapist’s office was unacceptable.
“I’ve got a court order,” he reminded her. “That means I need to have full access to your mental health records.”
Francesca snorted. “You’re daft if you think that’s what that means. Your court order demanded that I submit myself for a mental health evaluation and subsequent diagnosis by a mental health professional of the court’s choosing. It said nothing about allowing you personally to have access to my records. That’s protected information!”
The interior door opened, and Francesca’s therapist—Josie Waller, poked her head out into the reception room. “Francesca could you come in here, please?”
Stedman gained his feet as if he actually intended to accompany her into her session. Josie put up her hand and shook her head. Stedman narrowed his gaze. “The court says I have a right.”
“First of all, I find this entire thing suspect and heinously improper,” Josie retorted. “To say nothing of the complete violation of my client’s privacy without due process or any sort of ethical treatment for her person or her private information.”
“You will submit your files by the end of the day or you will find yourself out of a job,” Stedman growled threateningly at Josie.
“See, that’s the thing,” Josie snarled. “That’s not how it works, Stedman. You cannot just barge in here and expect to be accommodated. There is a process for these things.” Josie was waving Francesca into her office. “And until you go through the process, you’re not to be here. I’ve already called the Boston Police. They will be here presently to keep you away from my office while Francesca is here. Do not make this worse for yourself by trying to press your personal agenda under the guise of what’s best for my client. She is my client. I’ll decide what’s best for her right now.”
Francesca ducked into the office, and Josie slammed the door and locked it in Stedman’s face. The poor harried-looking therapist put her back against the thick wood and sighed. Then she seemed to take a minute to get herself together. She gazed at Francesca and put her finger to her lips.
Moments later, Josie had turned on the white noise machine and put the volume on high. The fan noise filled the room and made it almost impossible for Francesca to hear herself think. At least it kept Stedman from listening in since it was almost a certainty that he was outside with his ear pressed to the door.
“Now,” Josie whispered. She moved to stand very close to Francesca. “What in the world is going on?”
That was a rather difficult question to answer under the circumstances. Where could Francesca begin in order to give poor Josie a bird’s eye view of this strange dog and pony show?
*
Quentin felt incredibly uneasy about leaving Francesca at the therapist’s office. She seemed perfectly comfortable in the surroundings, and it was instantly obvious that this was the same appointment she had been keeping quite regularly for a decent length of time. For some reason, it just didn’t feel right, and he could not put his finger on what was bugging him.
He circled the block in Francesca’s black luxury car and came back around to the front of the therapist’s office. Things appeared to be quiet. It wasn’t good enough for him. Spotting an empty parking space on the curb across the street, he flipped a U-turn. Car horns blared as the other Boston drivers expressed their irritation for his sudden maneuver. He ignored their disgruntled looks and obscene gestures as he skillfully parallel parked the car and shut off the engine.
Quentin exited the vehicle. He waited for an opening in traffic before bolting across the street. He found himself moving faster and faster, his actions propelled by some instinct he could not name. There was some
thing wrong upstairs. He could feel it. The uneasy sensation in his gut was not unlike the same feeling that had told him numerous times without fail that there was an IED in the basket on the corner of a street in Afghanistan.
He entered the building and shunned the elevator. Skimming the directory hanging on the wall, he found the only office labeled THERAPIST and headed on up. Within three seconds of pushing his way into the reception room, he knew exactly why his instincts had been screaming at him.
“You!” Stedman Hyde-Pierson leaped to his feet.
The man had apparently been perched on the edge of a chair while he pressed his ear to the door and attempted to listen to whatever was happening within the office proper. Presumably, this meant he was trying to eavesdrop on Francesca’s therapy session.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Quentin fumed. He had never been so angry before in his life. “You’re worming your way into people’s therapy sessions now? What the fuck? Do you want other people listening to what you tell your therapist?” Quentin cleared his throat and struck a high falsetto pitch. “Oh my God! I’m so awesome, and nobody realizes it, Doctor! They just don’t appreciate me, the fact that I know what’s best for everyone. If people would just do what I say, life would be so much better! I promise. I’m the best at everything, and nobody appreciates me. Wah, wah, wah!”
Stedman’s face slowly turned from red to a color approaching puce. His eyes flashed fire, and his clean-cut appearance began to look disheveled as he grabbed at his own hair and ran his fingers roughly through the carefully manicured strands.
“How dare you?” Stedman snarled. “You piece of trash! You’re nothing but trash from some backwater Southern town. Nobody wanted you! That’s why you joined the military, and even when you got out because you were hurt overseas, the town didn’t want you back!”
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