by Tawny Weber
Fantasies, she scoffed to herself. Stupid fairy tales little kids believed in. What she used to believe in. What she used to crave. A white knight swooping in to save her.
To love her.
She’d grown up.
“What do you want, Quinn?” he asked, his husky tone reverberating in her chest. In her core. “Tell me and it’s yours.”
See? He made her believe him. As if all she had to do was ask and he’d snag the very stars from the sky, give her the world.
Oh, he was a dangerous, dangerous man.
“I want to appease my curiosity,” she said, edging closer so that her thighs brushed his. He stiffened and while his expression didn’t change, she heard the small catch of his breath. Rode the thrill that gave her and slid her hands up his wide, solid chest, before linking them behind his neck. She held his gaze. “Don’t you?”
His hands circled her wrists but he didn’t tug her away. “You don’t owe me anything.”
She couldn’t help it. She smiled. “You’re right. I don’t owe you anything. This isn’t payback for the escort home.”
“Then what is it?”
Good question.
One she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to. His fault again for making that silent strength of his so appealing. For wanting to protect her.
For making her want things, want him, with a force that stole her breath.
“It’s either the worst idea I’ve had in a long time,” she told him, giving him as much as honesty as she could, “or the best.”
“It’s not the worst.”
She raised an eyebrow. “No? Then what are we waiting for?”
What was he waiting for? She’d made the first move—and the second and third. She’d be damned if she’d make the final one.
If she did, she’d always wonder, always worry that maybe, just maybe, despite the heat in his eyes, the way he looked at her, she was in this alone.
And that was unacceptable.
Because she was afraid it might just break her heart.
She could practically see his brain working. Analyzing. Going through a list of pros and cons. She had no idea why she found it so attractive while she waited with the proverbial baited breath.
This was all part of the game men and women played—push and pull then push again—and while she’d sat the bench for a long time, had taken herself out of the rotation, she knew what to do when she stepped up to the plate.
She pressed against him—thighs, pelvis, belly and chest. Desire flared in his eyes, his fingers tightened on her wrists, but he didn’t pull her closer.
Didn’t give her what she yearned for.
He had control, she’d give him that, and she suddenly, viciously, wanted to test that control.
Wanted to be the woman to make him lose it.
“What do you want, Xander?” she whispered, repeating his earlier question to her. “Tell me and it’s yours.”
He groaned and slid his hands down her arms to her elbows. Pulled her even closer by slow degrees. Her breasts grew heavy; her nipples tightened. And just when she was on the precipice of giving up, of giving into the pressure building inside her and making the move that would finally, finally bring their mouths together, he lowered his head and kissed her.
It was a soft kiss, barely the brush of his lips against hers. Then another soft kiss before he settled his mouth on hers, the move slow and easy and so gentle it made her heart trip. A far cry from what she wanted. She needed the heat and flash of desire, craved the sharp burn of lust, not this tender, almost sweet seduction that slowed her senses, drugged her mind.
That made her risk forgetting all her hard-earned lessons about protecting her heart.
No, no, she wouldn’t forget. Wouldn’t give him the upper hand just because he kissed like a freaking dream and felt like a fantasy come to life. This wasn’t about sweetness or gentleness. This attraction between them might not be purely physical, but she sure as hell planned on pretending it was.
If only for her own peace of mind.
Stabbing her fingers into his short hair, she angled her head to deepen the kiss and touched the tip of her tongue against the seam of his lips. A shudder ran through him, and a moan rose in his throat, echoed in hers as he took over the kiss, sliding his tongue into her mouth, his hands gripping her hips.
Better, much, much better.
He kissed her with a hunger that only increased her own, his fingers curved over her ass, his thumbs against her hip bones. She scraped her fingernails lightly against his scalp, and with a low growl, he lifted her off her feet, took the two steps needed to reach her front door and pressed her against it.
Desire dug in deep, had her rolling her hips against his arousal, and he went off like a rocket, his kiss turning feral, his hands skimming her curves, sliding up her sides, his fingers brushing against the slopes of her breasts.
This was what she needed. The feel of him, strong and solid against her, his mouth on hers, rough and wild. But it wasn’t enough. Wasn’t nearly enough to ease the ache between her legs. She needed him there, hot and hard and filling her. Wanted his mouth on her breasts, tugging and sucking the straining peaks. Wanted to wrap her legs around him and let him take her here and now, against her front door with the starlit sky overhead, the quiet and dark surrounding them.
She ached to be reckless and impulsive and listen to her body and to hell with the consequences. But she’d already made too many mistakes. Had gotten herself into too many messes. She’d come too far to be careless now.
She pushed lightly against his shoulders and he immediately let go. They stared at each other, their chests rising and falling with their rapid breaths. His mouth was a grim line, his shirt wrinkled at the shoulders from where she’d clutched him, trying to get even closer, his hair mussed on the sides, the short strands sticking out.
The taste of him clung to her lips and she licked them, trying to capture it, to hold on to it. His gaze narrowed and he lifted his hand, only to curl his fingers into his palm before tucking both hands behind his back. As if he didn’t trust himself not to reach for her. Not to touch her.
She shut her eyes. Exhaled an unsteady breath. Her resolve, already shaky at best, weakened and she knew, if he asked her to, she’d invite him in.
If she did, they could spend the next few hours exploring each other’s bodies. Satiating the hunger between them. But what if it didn’t? What if, instead of slacking their desire, it only increased it?
What if it made her crave him even more?
She opened her eyes. It was a risk she was willing to take. But only if he initiated it. Only if he asked.
Only if he made the choice she was too afraid to make.
A muscle jumped in his jaw, as if he was grinding his teeth and he swore, viciously, under his breath.
And took a step back.
“I’ll wait until you get inside,” he said with a nod toward her door, his voice low and gravely. “Don’t forget to lock up.”
She took it as a sign, a clear one. She’d been granted a reprieve. Fumbling with the key in the lock before remembering she’d already unlocked it, she pushed the door open, dashed inside and slammed it shut. Locked it.
Before she changed her mind.
* * *
HE WAS AN IDIOT.
No two ways about it, Xander thought the next morning as he and Zane circled each other in their mother’s backyard. He was a grade-A, class-one goddamn idiot. He could have had her. He could have spent the night with Quinn Oswald. Could have fulfilled one or two of those fantasies he’d harbored of her during his teen years.
Not to mention a few he still had swirling around his brain.
He could add taking her against the front door of her apartment to that growing list.
And damned
if she wouldn’t have let him.
She’d wanted him. He’d seen it in her eyes. He knew the signs and she’d given him every last one. The way she’d kissed him, how she’d touched him. How she’d shifted her hips against him.
But she hadn’t been sure. Not 100 percent.
He’d had no choice but to walk away.
Because when he got Quinn into bed—or against a door or on the floor or, hell, in the back of his pickup—he wanted her to be certain. No doubts. No recriminations. No claiming it was a trick of the night or the rush of desire.
He wanted her to choose him.
Until then, he was beating himself up over a lost opportunity.
The punch caught him on the left temple. His head snapped back. His ears rung.
He glared at Zane. Shook his head to clear it. Zane always did have a hell of a right hook.
No use beating himself up when his brother was doing a good job of it for him.
“Kicking your ass isn’t nearly as much fun when you’re only giving fifty percent,” Zane said, dancing out of Xander’s reach, taped hands up, weight on the balls of his feet. “Maybe I should go down to the gym. See if there’s anyone there who can give me a challenge.”
He knew better than to let Zane’s trash talk bug him, but he was too wound up from that kiss with Quinn. And, as much as he hated to admit it, too worried about Zane trying to win the challenge.
Xander rolled his shoulders back. Tipped his head side to side and muttered, “Fifty percent my ass.”
And he proved it by feigning a grab with his right hand only to crouch low and sweep Zane’s legs out from under him.
His brother rolled with it and came up grinning. “Better.”
Zane went low, wrapping his arms around Xander’s waist, trying to take him down. Something Xander had learned early not to let happen.
Once Zane had you down, you were done.
They’d fought each other their entire lives it seemed, wrestling and boxing and a few times pissed-off grudge matches. They knew each other’s strengths as well as weaknesses and, all too often, they ended up in a draw.
But it wasn’t for lack of trying on either of their parts.
Xander brought his elbow down hard on Zane’s back. Zane grunted and sent two sharp jabs to his side, just under his ribs. Xander took the blows, breathed through the pain then twisted out of Zane’s hold. Danced back a few steps. They eyed each other.
Xander narrowed his gaze. Zane looked happy. Too happy.
Shit.
“You took off early last night,” he said, avoiding Zane’s reach.
“Places to go,” Zane said, bobbing and weaving. He winked. “Women to do.”
Xander stiffened. He knew Zane didn’t mean Quinn. He hadn’t even been with her last night, had left the bar well before closing.
Xander had been the one to walk her home. To kiss her.
He’d been the one who’d blown his opportunity.
“Any particular woman in mind?” he couldn’t help but ask.
Zane hesitated—so unusual for him that Xander pounced, shooting out a right hook. Payback was a bitch. Then he gave Zane’s red left cheek a love tap, just to add insult to injury.
Literally.
“Whoever it is,” Xander said, forcing his tone to stay mild, “she’s got you all twisted.”
And if Zane said it was Quinn, Xander might have to kick his ass for real.
“No woman twists me up, brother. You know my motto. No ties. No lies. Though I don’t mind if one wants to tie me up. My safe word is pumpernickel.”
“Nope,” Xander said. “Don’t need to know that. Though if you did have a woman in mind,” he continued, keeping his voice casual, his expression clear, “we can call off the challenge.”
Something flashed in Zane’s eyes and Xander narrowed his gaze. Holy shit. Was Zane really hung up on someone?
But then Zane shook his head, amped up his grin to smirk. “You bowing out? Because you know the rules. Even if one of us declines to accept a challenge—or quits midway—the other still has to follow through.”
Christ, who’d made those rules? A bunch of eight-year-olds?
He snorted softly. Yeah. That was pretty much exactly how old they’d been.
Xander dodged left as they continued to circle one another. “What if we don’t?”
“What?”
“What if we don’t follow through?” Xander asked with a shrug. “What are they doing to do?”
“Doesn’t matter. Our pride’s on the line. Pride,” he continued, “and my win streak.”
Xander straightened. “Bullshit. You lost the last—”
Too late he realized it had been part of a distraction technique because Zane leaped and about knocked Xander on his ass. He caught his balance.
It was on.
They grappled for a good ten minutes, the morning sun beating down on them, their grunts and the sound of landed punches filling the air. Just when Xander thought he had an opening to finish his brother, Zane twisted and turned and slid behind Xander, putting him in a chokehold.
Zane always had been a slippery, sneaky bastard.
“Give?” Zane asked, applying enough pressure to Xander’s windpipe to make things interesting.
And for Xander to have absolutely no remorse for slamming his foot down on Zane’s instep and then ramming his elbow into his stomach.
Letting go of Xander, Zane bent over. “Mother—”
“Don’t even think about it.”
They both looked up at the stern female warning to find Kerri, their very pregnant older sister, staring at them from the covered patio, one hand on her hip, the other holding a plate piled high with French toast.
“Hey, sis,” Zane said to Kerri, but it came out breathless.
Good. Xander was still trying to catch his own breath.
“You two are like a couple of animals,” Kerri said, jabbing a forkful of syrup-drenched French toast their way before shoveling it into her mouth. “You know that, right?” she asked around her mouthful. “What kind of example are you setting for the boys?”
She gestured to the edge of the patio where her sons, four-year-old Joel and two-year-old Teddy watched wide-eyed.
“A bad one,” Zane said immediately, but then he sent a thoughtful glance at their nephews. “Though they look like they’d be pretty good sparring partners. What do you think?” he asked Xander as he headed toward the boys. “The bigger one looks pretty tough.”
Following his brother’s train of thought, Xander edged to the side. “I think I could take the little one.”
The boys, having figured out what was about to happen, started squealing with glee. Joel took off but Zane caught him easily, flipped him upside down and tickled him. “Yeah. This one’s scrappy. I might need some help.”
“I’ve got my hands full,” Xander said, dodging left slowly enough that a giggling Teddy could evade, only to swipe the kid up when he tried to dash to the side. “This one’s slippery,” he said, pretending to drop Teddy. “Whoops.”
“Idiots,” Kerri muttered and scooped up another forkful.
“Should you be eating that?” Xander asked.
Kerri froze, the fork still in her mouth. Even the boys went silent.
Zane whistled softly and stepped back, away from Xander, as if putting as much distance between them as possible. “I think you look gorgeous,” Zane said. “You’re glowing.”
Xander shot him a glare as Teddy held his hands and climbed up his legs like a spider monkey. “What?” Xander asked Zane then turned back to Kerri. “What? You’re the one who was bawling about gaining too much weight with this pregnancy the last time I called you.”
She advanced toward him slowly. “I will kill you,” she p
romised, and he was pretty sure he saw fire shooting from her eyes.
Even at what looked to be fifteen months pregnant, she still managed to scare the shit out of him.
“She means it,” Joel said. Still hanging upside down, he twisted and turned like a landed trout. “Daddy says she’s got too many hormones.”
Teddy, now on Xander’s hip, nodded. Looked into Xander’s eyes. “Run.”
Never let it be said he wasn’t smart enough to know the importance of a well-timed retreat.
Especially when it was a battle he had no chance of winning.
So with his nephew clinging to him and his brother on his heels, Xander did the only thing a man in his position could do.
He ran like hell.
5
SOMEONE KNOCKED ON the door.
Sitting at her kitchen table, a textbook open to her left, a notebook to her right and her laptop dead center, Quinn lifted her head and frowned.
She’d been back in Little Creek for just over a year and could count on one hand the number of visitors she’d had during that time.
And that included the mailman and the lady who’d fixed the toilet a few months back.
Now, in the span of—she checked her phone—an hour and a half, she was on her second unexpected guest of the day.
Guess she was enjoying a resurgence of her old high school popularity.
Hooray.
Whoever it was knocked again, and she stood with a sigh then crossed her tiny kitchen into the equally small living room and opened the door.
Well, well, well. What did she have here?
Okay, she knew what she had. She had Xander Bennett, all clean-cut yumminess in faded jeans, a black T-shirt and aviator sunglasses, standing on her stoop.
God, he was pretty.
Then again, looks weren’t everything.
A fact she understood better than most.
“Hello, Quinn,” he said, using her name as if he knew damn well hearing him say it made her insides go all soft and squishy.
As if he knew, exactly, what she’d done after he’d left her a quivering mass of unfulfilled desire last night. How she’d thought of him as she’d lain in bed. How she’d wished he was with her.