by Amelia Wilde
“We’ll see you around the club. Maybe not quite so often, though!” he tells me, and then I’m looking at their backs as they make their way to a round table next to the picture window at the back of the room.
My heart twists with jealousy.
Then at least one thing seems crystal clear: I could have what they have, and I could have it with Quinn.
I only need to figure out how.
23
Quinn
Christian is trying to make up his mind about something.
Maybe it’s me.
After the Bowery appearance, Christian starts texting me—and not quick and dirty notes to plan our next rendezvous. In fact, he doesn’t ask me to come to his apartment, not on Saturday, not even on Sunday.
At first, when the messages start coming in, I’m not sure what the hell is going on at all.
Tell me about you. How many siblings do you have?
None!
Only child?
Only child.
Must have been lonely.
When you’re an only, your birthday budget is huge :)
You want a big birthday budget? ;)
I want a lot of things…I’m greedy.
The tone always turns flirty, with a strong undercurrent of desire, but he makes no indication that he wants me to come over. Sunday night goes by, and Monday, and Tuesday. Carolyn tells me he’s at the Swan most nights, but she can’t tell if he’s taking a date with him or not. The woman I met that first time, Melody, is in some photos with him in the tabloids, but they’re never touching—Christian walks ahead of her like he doesn’t even see her.
Well, he’s a grown man. He can do whatever he wants, as much as it stings.
Meanwhile, the messages keep coming.
Where are your parents from?
Michigan
Is that where you grew up?
Yeah, right in the middle.
What’s it like there?
It’s a few bigger cities surrounded by farmland. Everyone vacations up north
Should I go?
With me or alone?
Haha
It’s not that he’s disappeared. In fact, he does the opposite. He leans into my PR plan so aggressively that he even starts coming up with events to attend without me.
It makes me a little nervous that I don’t have control over all of his appearances, but what can I do about it? Nothing. His free time belongs to him.
I wish more of it belonged to me. Then again…
I see him about every other day for our scheduled planning meetings. He sits across the desk from me, his eyes loitering over the curves of my body beneath the suit, the same smoldering half-smile on his face, but he doesn’t lean over to whisper something filthy in my ear to make me wet right to the core. Then, on the way out, he’ll catch me at the door, press me up against the wall, and kiss me like it’s going to save him from drowning.
It’s like we’ve gone back to the 1950s, but with cell phones. Suddenly, sex at his apartment is off the table completely—at least, he never mentions it. Suddenly, we’re stealing kisses in the back of the Town Car, but when we reach our destination, he’s distracted, disengaged.
I so badly want to ask him what’s going on, but I can’t. I can handle it if he’s not into me anymore—if all of that was a fling, a fun distraction from real life—but I don’t want to hear it. Not yet.
I decide to give myself until the house sells. When I’m finally free of it, I’ll ask Christian what’s going on.
If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you live?
Somewhere with great Wi-Fi
That’s it?!?
That’s my big requirement. I can do cities or small towns
The real question is…what are you going to do there?
There’s a lot I’d like to do
I know
After the second media appearance, I’m jittery and distracted. I spent the entire time analyzing Christian’s every glance at me. I get into the car and immediately his hands are on my face, pulling me toward him, devouring my mouth, savoring the flavor of our kiss.
It’s so good, so right, that I don’t think to call a halt to it and demand to know what the texting is about, demand to know why he hasn’t taken me back to his place, demand to know where he stands on all of this. On us.
I don’t understand this game we’re playing.
Has he already moved on?
Was one time enough with me?
The doubt takes root and begins to flourish even as the messages keep coming, even while we have daylong conversations listing off the smallest details of our lives.
Though the contractors finish the repairs in the basement, it takes another week and a half to have it painted. There’s a problem with the roof, and Sherrie thinks it’s becoming a deal breaker for interested parties. If I could do some minor repairs in that area as well…
It frustrates me, but not as much as this bizarrely deep line of questioning from Christian. The fact that he wants to know so much about me is something I can’t figure out. I like that he wants to know these things. I like that he sees me as a person and not a fuck toy. But why the sudden change in gears? Why via text?
After three weeks, my house hasn’t sold, but I’m done.
I don’t understand what he’s doing, and when I’ve tried to guide the conversation there, he avoids it.
It’s almost midnight on a Wednesday when I finally tell him that I can’t do it anymore.
I send the text with shaking fingers and a pounding heart.
I want the heat between us.
I want the sex.
I want the domination.
I don’t want endless text messages.
I can’t keep having this conversation
Immediately, a bubble pops up on my screen. He’s writing back.
My stomach turns over.
I can’t either. Open the front door
I stand up from the couch, throwing the blanket that rested over my legs over the arm of the chair, and pad across the silent apartment to the front door. Carolyn went to bed early, exhausted from putting in too many hours today at her boutique. She needs to hire some more help, if you ask me. She can afford it. There’s no reason to burn herself out.
I’m so tightly wound that my throat feels restricted.
I unlock the door and pull it open.
Christian stands in the hall, his hair damp from walking from his car to our building in the rain.
“Come in.” I incline my head, ushering him into the entryway. Then I close and lock the door behind him. “Let’s go to my room. Carolyn is sleeping.”
He nods, and follows me through the apartment and down the hallway to my bedroom. I shut the door softly behind us, then round on him.
“What the hell?” I say, my voice sounding more tired than pissed off. “What happened? One day we’re having sex that literally blows my mind, and the next you won’t even talk about it?”
He takes a deep breath. “I had to figure some things out.”
“Figure what out? What is it that we’re even doing here?”
“I wanted to know more about you.”
“And you couldn’t take me on a date and ask me then?”
“Listen.” He steps forward and takes my hand in his. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
The tension stretches thin between us and my stomach plummets into my shoes. What is he about to admit to me? That he’s married? That he’s found a girlfriend?
“I want to be with you.”
I let out a laugh in spite of myself. “What?”
“I want to be with you, Quinn.”
“I wanted to be with you for the past three weeks. What about then?” I’m half giddy, half hurt.
“I don’t ever date women like you.”
“I gather that.”
“I never take women out on more than three dates.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s oddly specific. And bizarre
.”
“I know it is.”
“So you didn’t want to…waste the dates with me? That’s why we’ve been sending messages by carrier pigeon?”
“That’s what happened.”
It hits me then: the look in his eyes, the way he’s standing, shoulders curved toward me, the nervousness on his face. He’s admitting to me the ridiculous reason why we haven’t been spending every night together for the past three weeks.
He’s vulnerable.
It sounds absurd, it sounds idiotic, but he’s putting his real reputation as a confident playboy on the line to explain himself to me. My heart bursts.
He would never show this side of himself to someone he didn’t trust.
I knew it. I knew it was more than sex.
Suddenly I’m grinning like an idiot, and all the weirdness of the past three weeks is forgiven.
“Are you done?” I say, unable to remove the smile from my face.
“Done with what?” he starts to smile, but doesn’t seem to want to risk giving himself away unless I’m done being angry.
“Done with your stupid rules?”
“Yes,” he nods, and I see it in his eyes—he’s telling me the truth. He had to work things out. This was his way of giving us the chance to get to know each other, without the incredible distraction of wanting to fuck each other’s brains out. I couldn’t see it until right now.
“Thank God that’s over,” I cry, and then I’m clinging to him in his arms, our bodies pressed together, and his mouth is on mine, hot and needy and dominating, and everything is right with the world.
24
Christian
She’s forgiven me.
Thank God.
Something inside me breaks loose. It’s freedom. It’s seeing the light as you emerge from a dark room; it’s like a ship gliding into its place at the dock, finally secure again after being tossed around on the ocean.
I couldn’t bring her back to that place.
I couldn’t do it.
As much as it terrifies me, the things she says, the memories she brushes up against when she speaks to me, I can’t fake it like that. Not with her. Not any longer. That’s off the table.
The more I learn about her, the more I see how strong she is. How fierce. How even in the face of uncertainty, she didn’t lose her cool.
Not that I mind when she does, especially in bed.
I wish it hadn’t taken so long for me to struggle with my choices.
After I saw Jax and Cate at the Swan, I knew that something had to change. I knew I was going to set aside my rules of engagement, set aside the fake penthouse, set aside all of it, and be with her.
She’s probably right. I should have taken her on a date and asked her all the same questions, and I will. I absolutely will do that. But I had to pull back a little in order to come to terms with the magnitude of what’s happening.
The magnitude of what I feel for her.
She’s hot for me, ravenous for me, all over me. She claws at my clothes, tearing a couple of buttons loose in the process, and I can’t wait another moment to see her body again. I pull her shirt roughly over her head and yank at the clasp of her bra, exposing her perfect breasts. She stifles a gasp with her hand when I lean down and take one of her nipples in my mouth, swirling my tongue around it, and then my hand is back on her neck, pulling her into me so I can taste her, show her that she’s mine.
She’s mine.
No matter what happens—no matter what kind of disaster this ends in—I’m not going to give up another second with her.
Still kissing her fiercely, I back her up and lift her onto the bed. She spreads herself wide for me and I can’t help but grin for a moment before I start trailing wet kisses down over her breasts, down over her stomach, and then continue lower.
“Is this for me?” I say, putting a hand on either side of her hips.
Her eyes are black with desire, and I see something in them that I only see when we’re together like this. When I drop my voice to use a certain tone with her. She’s stripped down to another level, needing me, wanting me, wrestling with her own need to be in control.
“Yes,” she whispers, and spreads her legs another inch apart, begging me without words to take her. To consume her. To claim her again and again.
It takes no words to give her what she wants.
I lean down and inhale her scent, then drag my tongue firmly over her soaking folds, lapping up the juices there.
She tastes amazing.
Quinn’s body arches underneath me, her hips tilting up to press more of her against my face as I lick and suck and press my tongue into her wetness.
She presses her knuckles into her mouth to stifle her moans. It’s difficult to remember, down here between her legs, that she has a roommate to be considerate of. Carolyn’s been my friend for years, but right now I don’t care if she hears us.
Quinn’s desire rises to a fever pitch, her hips jerking as she comes into my mouth in another burst of sweetness.
Then I’m pulling her toward me, putting her on her feet, her legs still quivering, and I bend her over her bed, pressing her breasts into the soft covers.
“You’re mine,” I growl, and underneath my hands she moves, minuscule motion that signals to me that she agrees, she wants this, she loves this. Whatever way I choose to dominate her, she’s prepared to take it.
I need to be in her.
Now.
I line myself up with her soaked slit and catch both of her wrists, pinning them at the small of her back. At the pressure of my hands on her wrists she lets out a deep moan, and in the sound is all her longing and need and a desperate request to fuck her, fuck her right now.
In one thrust, I’m buried deep in her wetness. There’s not an ounce of resistance—she’s so open for me that the only friction comes from the size of me pressing against her walls.
“Yes,” she pants, the word a drawn-out hiss as I get into a rhythm, claiming her, for now, forever.
It’s much later when the light of her phone screen wakes me up.
Quinn stands over near her vanity table, her hand cupped over the screen, squinting at it. I take a moment to look at her outline in the harsh white light emanating from the phone, at the tendrils of hair escaping from her bun, at the curve where her hip transitions into her waist.
Her shoulders slump and my heart twists to see it. Instantly I’m pushing the covers off, going to her side.
She leans into my touch, her head resting against my chest next to my tattoo.
“What’s going on?” I ask her softly.
“My house in Colorado,” she says, and then swallows hard. “It burned to the ground.”
“Shit.” Tears fill her eyes, but she’s smiling now. “Quinn?”
“I’m free of it. I’m finally free of that place.”
A smile spreads across my own face to see her relief. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m great. I’ve never been better.”
I lead her back to bed, pull her down into its softness with me, wrap her in my arms. She settles in, every muscle relaxing, safe and sound.
Several minutes later, as I’m starting to drift off, she says something I can’t hear.
“What?” I whisper, not wanting to shatter the peace of the moment.
“I love you.”
My heart nearly flies out of my chest. It’s never felt more right to hear those words. We’ll talk about all of this, figure out our next steps, decide for ourselves if it’s too early, but for right now…
I smooth my hand over her hair and squeeze her one more time. “I love you, too, Quinn.”
25
Quinn
My heart hasn’t felt this light and free in months, maybe years. Now that there’s nothing holding me back in Colorado, it’s like a massive weight has been lifted.
The house is a total loss, and so Thursday is eaten up with strategic planning for Christian’s next wave of public appearances and pho
ne call after phone call from my insurance company. It seems like they’re calling every hour on the hour to confirm various details with me—how much furniture was left in the house, the accuracy of my home inventory list, how much I have left to pay on the mortgage.
“Ms. Campbell?”
I answer the phone for the twentieth time. It’s never joyful to deal with an insurance company, but I’m over the moon—and not because of the house.
“Yes?”
“This is Michael Deacon, calling from Mountainside.”
“Hi, Michael.”
“I wanted to call and give you an update on your claim.”
“It’s—” Wait. He hasn’t asked me for another list, another confirmation. “Really?”
“Yes. Could you confirm some identifying details for me for security purposes?”
“Of course.” I rattle off my mother’s maiden name, my birthdate, and my social security number for hopefully the last time today.
“Thank you, Ms. Campbell. I’m calling to inform you that the preliminary decision on your claim is that the mortgage company will be reimbursed according to…”
I’m so swept away by what happened last night, and so worn down by the constant phone calls, that Michael’s voice becomes a blur. I snap back into awareness as he says:
“…of course, this is pending a final walkthrough of the site by one of our inspectors. Someone has already been out to visit the property today, but you should see resolution in the next thirty to sixty days.”
Perfect. All of this means they’ll be sending paperwork, and then I can read the fine print on my own time, when my head isn’t swimming with love and lust.
“Thanks for the update, Michael. Is there anything else you need from me?”
“Nope. Thanks for choosing Mountainside for your home insurance needs.”
“No problem. Goodbye.”
I hang up the call and slide my phone back into my purse, and then I lean back against my seat, relief flooding my body.
From what I understand, most of the payout will go to my mortgage holder, with a small amount left over for me. I wouldn’t care if I got nothing—the sweet unburdening I feel from not having to deal with this house and all its attendant problems anymore is nearly overwhelming. I can always wait to sell the property. Or have Sherrie list it for such an absurdly cheap price that developers won’t be able to resist. They never stay away forever, even after a wildfire.