by Penny Reid
“You know, I had tonight all planned out: take you on the private tour, marvel at the Crown Jewels, candlelit dinner next to the Thames….”
“Quinn, you sound like a monologuing supervillain.”
He ignored my attempt at humor. “But you’ve presented me with….” Quinn’s eyes traveled down the length of my body to where his hand was still moving on my leg. “You’ve presented me with a very unique opportunity.” He said this last part almost to himself and sounded every inch the monologuing supervillain. His grin was brazenly sinister.
I knew this man and I knew that look. I fought against a shudder and a moan. The fogginess, the delicious murkiness of arousal had blanketed my usually sporadic thoughts with a suddenness of force. I felt at once calm and frenzied.
This is what he did to me.
“Quinn….” this time I whispered his name because I couldn’t manage anything else.
“What am I going to do to you?” He murmured softly—so softly that I almost didn’t hear his words—his touch growing bolder, inching higher. I gasped when he traced the line of my thigh-high stockings with his fingers. He laughed again, a dark, mischievous, ominous chuckle. His eyes moved back to mine and I saw true enjoyment, happiness there. He’d shed every ounce of his previous distraction, his air of practiced aloofness, and devoured me with his gaze.
We stared at each other for a long moment; my lips parted and my face flushed with pleasure and tense expectation. The villainous glint in his eyes gradually ebbed, leaving him with a dreamy expression as though he were lost in the sight of me.
I’d caught him staring at me this way a few times. Sometimes it was after we’d made love, and I’d write it off as the high of post-coital endorphin euphoria. But sometimes he’d wear it while I carried on unchecked about the difference between hemotoxins and neurotoxins, or why goats are superior to sheep, like he’d done earlier at Spitalfields Market.
It was during these times that his gaze felt most unsettling because I hadn’t done anything to earn such a worshipful expression.
The sight slightly sobered me and, despite how much I wanted him to continue teasing me with his hands, I knew we only had a few more minutes. It would be much better to re-create the scenario tonight in our hotel room instead of inside the Tower of London on an antique instrument of terror.
“Janie.” He said my name suddenly, and I noted his face had lost a bit of the dreamy quality; it’d been replaced with a measure of solemnity. “I have to ask you something.”
“Okay.” I breathed, tried to ignore the fact that his hand was still up my skirt, resting on the inside of my thigh. “But can you untie me first?”
Again, he gave me the slow headshake. “Not until you answer my question.”
“O-kay.” I gripped my hands into fists. My fingers were tingling with the first signs of poor circulation. “But you know…” I cleared my throat, hoping the action would also clear away some of my arousal fog. “I’ll tell you the truth, whatever you ask. You don’t have to put me on the rack.”
His mouth hooked to the side for the briefest of seconds before all trace of a smile disappeared. “It’s not that kind of question.”
I frowned, because his voice sounded almost sad. I searched his eyes for clues. I found none.
“Quinn.” I said his name a third time now, feeling a measure of concern. “Ask me anything.”
“I love you,” he said, surprising me. His eyes lost their focus as though he were talking to himself. “I remember the precise moment I realized I wasn’t going to be able to walk away from you, that you were it for me.”
I thought back over our relationship as I studied his face, trying to pinpoint the moment I realized I was in love with him. Before I could begin to collate my findings, he interrupted my thoughts.
“It was that Sunday I first showed you the apartment, before all the business with your sister and Seamus. We had that picnic, and I fell asleep. Later, when I woke up, my head was in your lap. I realized you hadn’t moved at all, maybe for an hour. You just let me sleep….”
“You’d earned it after the way I’d annihilated you in Frisbee.” My back was starting to cramp, and I shifted in a fruitless effort to find a more comfortable position.
He continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “You asked me what creatures I would create if I had magical sperm.” Quinn’s eyes lit with the recollection, and his smile was as sudden as it was breathtaking; he squeezed my thigh. “Then you offered yourself as my personal snake-haired Medusa, a magical sperm repository.”
Quinn’s gaze found and refocused on mine through the memory. I ignored the discomfort of my wrists and back in favor of returning his infectious smile. I’d never heard him speak this way before about us. Yes, over the course of our relationship, he’d reminisced about his family, told me funny stories. But never about us.
“I was serious, you know.” I chimed in earnestly, because I had been serious. “I wanted to know. You still haven’t told me.”
Quinn responded with equivalent earnestness. “I didn’t answer because I didn’t know what to say.”
I scrunched my nose, shook my head just barely as my movements were impinged by my position. “That’s when you fell in love with me?”
He nodded, shifted on his feet, and I noted that the hand not on my leg was in his pants pocket. In fact, I realized that it had been in his pants pocket since he’d secured me to the rack.
“But, we’d only known each other, like, three weeks, and we hadn’t even technically been on a date yet.”
“I knew.” His answer was quiet and certain. My heart leapt and, strangely, my eyes stung.
“Was it the Greek mythology reference or the sperm reference?” I pressed even as my attention moved between his hidden hand and his face as it loomed over me.
“It was you, Janie.” His voice was soft, maybe the closest he’d ever come to sweet-talking. “You and your Medusa hair and your honey colored eyes. It was your questions, your intelligence, and your insatiable curiosity. It was your goodness and sweetness, your honesty and trust.”
Peripherally I noted that he’d withdrawn his hand from his pocket and he held something within it, but his words held me mesmerized and—despite my curiosity—I couldn’t look away from his gaze. My back was now seizing, my hands were numb, but I didn’t care. I wanted to remember this moment.
“And, if I’m going to be completely honest…” Quinn gathered a deep breath, lightly caressed my inner thigh, his knuckles brushing against the bare skin above my stockings. “…it was the thought of using you, your body, as my own personal magical sperm repository for the rest of our lives.”
My eyes widened and I choked on air as his face cracked with a slow, sexy grin of epic proportions.
The villain.
“Quinn!” My face flamed and I moved my legs restlessly as much as I was able given my current state. All at once I was beyond ready to be released from my bondage.
“Janie Morris…” His voice was steady, measured—but I wasn’t listening.
“I didn’t say that…I mean….” I tried to move my hands and winced when pain shot down my arm. I was completely ridiculous, and I should have known better than to willingly allow Quinn to tie me to a rack. Even worse, I’d suggested it! Of course he was going to tease me or torture me at the first opportunity.
“…will you make me the happiest man in the world…”
Still struggling, and pointedly ignoring him, I glanced at my wrists as my continued chastisement burst forth. “I did say it, but I said it as a hypothetical. Now please untie me!”
“…and do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“You are…! I…wait…what?” My indignation morphed into stunned confusion. I glanced at the object in his hand—an open black velvet box with the red ruby ring I’d admired earlier winking back at me—and blackness colored my vision.
“Oh, my God.” My eyes widened on the ring then moved to his face.
I didn�
�t faint, but I seriously considered faking it.
I didn’t know what to freak out about first, so I ordered the issues in terms of most pressing and/or potentially illegal.
“Quinn, that’s the ring from downstairs!” I hissed in a loud whisper because I was afraid of the answer. “Did you steal that ring?”
CHAPTER 3
His expression morphed from serious to seriously incredulous. “What? No! No, I did not steal this ring!”
My forehead wrinkled and I frowned at him then whispering louder. “Well, what am I supposed to think? One minute I see an antique ring in the Jewel House, and the next minute you’re holding it while I’m tied to a rack.”
“Getting tied to the rack was your idea.”
My eyes flickered to his then back to the box. I wondered if I looked as panicked as I felt. “I know that, but I didn’t think that you’d use the opportunity to try to give me a stolen ring!”
“It’s not stolen! It’s your engagement ring.”
My breath left me with a sudden whoosh.
Engagement ring.
He’d knocked the wind from my lungs.
I wasn’t expecting this. In fact, this may have been the very last thing I’d been expecting—just after Quinn telling me he was a woman and that he had aspirations of reprising Barbra Streisand’s role in Hello Dolly on Broadway.
“Janie.”
I heard my name and refocused my panicked eyes on his.
This was too soon—way too soon. This was a mistake. Even if the ring wasn’t stolen, he was making a mistake and, when he realized the mistake, we would be over. There is only one way to become unengaged just like there is only one way to become unmarried.
“Untie me.”
“Not until you answer my question.”
“Quinn….”
“Janie, I know what you’re going to do as soon as I untie you. You’ll run out of here. I’d planned to get you drunk first so you wouldn’t be mobile, but tied up is better.”
“Why better?”
“Because we can talk about this, sober, and you can’t avoid me by feigning gastrointestinal distress.”
“My hands hurt.”
Concern cast a shadow across his features. His eyes flickered to where my wrists were tied then back to mine. Reluctantly, he offered, “I’ll untie you if you promise to talk this through.” His eyes zeroed in on mine to show me he meant business, and his face was as serious as I’d ever seen it. “You have to promise, no avoiding.”
I nodded, my voice strained as I agreed. “I promise—no avoiding. We’ll talk it through.”
Quinn glared at me for a moment as though assessing my honesty then removed his hand from my thigh. I felt the loss of it like a physical blow and wished I’d been paying more attention to how his hand felt on my body so I’d be able to recall it effortlessly, at will.
He plucked the ring from the velvet then stuffed the box back in his pocket. I had to crane my neck to follow his movements and didn’t miss the fact that he placed the ruby on my left-hand ring finger before he moved to untie me.
It was a very Quinn thing to do. The ring was now in my possession, and as they say—whoever they are; I would have to look that up—possession is nine-tenths of the law.
Releasing the knots took less time than securing them, and I rubbed my wrists when he moved to the ropes at my ankles, my hands coming to life. The hemp left marks, not cutting or real injury. The lines encircled my wrists like a brand. I glanced at my hands and caught a glimpse of the brilliant red gemstone that made my finger feel heavy and foreign. I stared at it and felt a surge of possessiveness.
I wanted it. I wanted that ring. It was the most exquisite piece of jewelry I’d ever seen, including the crown jewels I’d just ogled.
Independent of becoming engaged, the ring was stunning and beautiful and exactly what I would have chosen for myself if the entirety of the world’s designer jewelry were mine to peruse.
And it was mine.
Very clever of him to give me something my heart didn’t know it wanted in exchange for a promise. I would have a hard time taking it off. Then again, very clever was typical Quinn.
When he finished, keeping one hand on me the entire time, he reached for my arm and pulled me upright. Blood rushed from my head and he allowed a few short seconds before tugging me to my feet. Unsurprisingly, my legs were unsteady.
I was still looking at the ring on my finger, my breaths deep and ragged as I struggled with a war of emotions and desires.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
One of his hands was gripping my waist and he slipped the other between mine, his fingers curling around my palm so that he was cradling my left hand.
I pressed my lips together then lifted my eyes to his. His face was carefully blank, but watchful.
I felt so many things, looking at him, standing so close. I felt fearful in a way that I thought I’d left behind.
But, though I was a cornucopia of feelings, I wasn’t able to actually manage a complete thought.
“Quinn….” I swallowed. My chest ached. “I wasn’t expecting…I wasn’t expecting this.”
“I know.”
“We haven’t even talked about it, discussed it as a possibility.”
“No time like the present.” His hand slipped from my waist to my lower back, pressed me against him, my left hand beneath his jacket, over his heart.
“We’ve only been together five months.”
“I know.” He sighed like it was irrelevant.
“Do you honestly think that’s enough time to make an accurate and valid judgment about the viability of a person as your wife?”
“With you, yes, it’s more than enough. Too much.”
“That’s completely illogical. In five months, we’ve barely scratched the surface. We can’t possibly know enough about each other in order to make a decision like this. This is the tattoo of life decisions.”
“Tattoo of life decisions?”
“Yes. Tattoo. Marriage is the forever and permanent branding of one person to another. Sure, you can get it removed—but it’s expensive, it’s a process, and you’re never the same after. You’re scarred. It’s always a part of you, visible or not. You get a tattoo with the intention of a life-long commitment. You have to defend its existence and take ownership of it in front of others for the rest of your life regardless of how it sags or droops or changes shape and color—because it will! It will change and fade, and not in an aesthetically pleasing way.”
The side of his mouth lifted as I spoke and his eyes danced between mine. “Let’s get matching tattoos.”
I yanked my hand from his and pushed against his chest. He didn’t budge.
“No.” I shook my head. “This isn’t the kind of decision you make after knowing someone for five months—five amazing, lovely, wonderful, perfect, beyond sexually gratifying months. This is the kind of decision you make after two point four years—at the least. When the spark has faded, when you’ve been through at least two flu seasons, several holidays—with relatives—and holiday travel, seven to ten misunderstandings, and maybe one surgery.”
“What does the flu have to do with this?”
“Are you a grumpy sick person? Do you prefer me to hover or give you space? I don’t know! We haven’t done that.”
“Janie….”
“There have been no hard times, Quinn! We’ve proven very little other than we’re compatible in times of feast, but we know nothing about times of famine.”
“Janie….”
“I won’t be able to repeat the words in sickness and in health because I honestly have no idea.”
Quinn opened his mouth to respond but we were interrupted by the practiced sound of throat clearing.
“Mr. Sullivan, if you and Janie are ready….” Our tour guide’s voice sounded from over my shoulder. I closed my eyes for a long moment, my hands fisting in the lapels of his jacket.
Three seconds ticked by before he
responded. “Of course.”
He covered my fists, encouraging me to release him, but kept hold of one of my hands, turning me toward the door and pulling me after him. I glanced at the floor then up to his profile, hoping to find some indication of his thoughts, but was disappointed.
As ever, he was cucumber cool and appeared entirely unruffled.
Not like someone who has just been refused or accepted a proposal of marriage; more like someone who glides through life in charge of everyone and taking his superiority for granted.
As soon as we were through the door, his hand moved to the base of my spine, a possessive touch, and steered me down the stone hall after our guide. She glanced over her shoulder, her smile small and sincere, and pointed out items of interest.
This time I wasn’t listening. I was too preoccupied with all that was unsettled, how I would convince Quinn that this was lunacy, yet still not jeopardize our chances to be together for as long as possible.
If I really gave the matter some thought, I supposed—if we could get past his proposal without too much damage inflicted—we likely had another four years before he irrevocably tired of me and my eccentricities.
I was okay with that. I felt like four years was about my expiration date. Four flu seasons, holiday cycles, and yearly vacations. Really, there were only four destinations worth a vacation: beach, glacier, desert, and mountains. Bonus if we could pair them with a visit to the wine country or a world heritage site.
The first two years would likely be stellar. The last two would become increasingly strained until, finally, he grew cold and aloof all the time. He would make excuses to work late, avoid discussing future plans until—finally—I would suggest we split.
It would be the look of relief that I was most dreading—that moment when he would nod his agreement. It would be the first real emotion he would show during the last months of our future three-year and seven-month relationship, and it would be the last.
After that, I would move out, spend more time at the library, and invest in a truly excellent vibrator. He would resume his Wendall/Slamp lifestyle. Maybe we could part as friends. Maybe he’d put up with quarterly lunches or at least an annual check-in dinner.