Through His Eyes

by Nikki Ash

  “And you have to show it to me,” I add.

  “Fine.” She rolls her eyes as she twists the cap off the bottle and pours us each a shot.

  “My turn,” I tell her. “If you land on blue, you have to let the other person kiss you.”

  Her eyes widen even though she knew this was coming. “Where?”

  “Anywhere the kisser decides.”

  “Fine.” She huffs, giving in a lot easier than I expected. “And the red?”

  I lick my lips and smirk, looking her dead in the eyes. “You have to take off an article of clothing.” I doubt she’s going to agree to this rule, but I have to try. I have a backup rule in mind just in case.

  She chokes out a cough mixed with a shocked laugh, then grabs her shot glass, throwing back the liquid and slamming it down onto the table. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” I ask, just to be sure.

  “Yep.” She fills her shot glass back up. “I need to use the bathroom before we start.”

  While she’s gone, I check my phone for any texts or calls. My mom is in Ireland with my dad for an extended vacation until my cousin’s wedding, which is in December. With me being their only child, she usually calls or texts me on a daily basis. I’m looking down at my phone when I hear Quinn coming back down the stairs. When I glance up, something about her looks different, but I can’t put my finger on it. And that’s when I notice she’s wearing socks. Why is she wearing socks?

  And then it hits me. “You fucking cheater!” I bark out a laugh, and she cracks up. “How many articles of clothing did you put on? Ten shirts and twenty pairs of underwear?”

  “No!” She cackles, sitting back down. “My toes were cold.” She’s so fucking adorable, I can’t even be mad. She totally played me at my own game.

  “You go first,” I tell her. She picks up a card and it’s pink.

  “A truth,” she says, moving her gingerbread to pink.

  I consider starting off easy—asking her a simple question like what her favorite color is, but with my truths limited, and knowing how guarded Quinn is, I decide not to waste them. There’s one question I’ve been wondering since I met her…

  “Where’s Kinsley’s dad?”

  Quinn’s eyes widen slightly, and she frowns. “Starting off with a bang, huh?” She laughs softly.

  “Go big or go home,” I say to lighten the mood, and it works because the corners of her lips curl into a smile.

  “Richard Thompson, Kinsley’s father, is dead.” Fuck… I wasn’t expecting that. She grabs her freshly filled shot and gulps it down.

  “Shit, Q, I’m so sorry.” I bring my hand up to her arm and squeeze lightly. “I didn’t know,” I add, feeling like an ass. “How long has he been gone?”

  “Since before Kinsley was born. He never even knew I was pregnant,” she says with a shake of her head. “We were married for three years, together for a little over four. He was shot in the back by a druggie who wanted his wallet, when he refused to give it to him.” Jesus, I can’t even fathom how Quinn handled all that, especially while pregnant.

  Being as she doesn’t have to tell me anything more, I’m shocked when she continues. “He was getting into his car from dinner.”

  A thought hits me that has my stomach roiling. “Were you…were you with him?”

  She laughs, but it sounds off. Why the hell is she laughing? “Oh no,” she says with a sad smile. “One of his many mistresses was. I was at home trying to figure out how to tell the man who despised me I was finally pregnant with our child.”

  It takes me a second to string all of her words together. Her husband, the man who was supposed to love and protect and be there for her, was out fucking around on her while she was home alone and pregnant. If he weren’t already dead, I would kill him my fucking self. Then another part of what she said hits me.

  “What do you mean he despised you?”

  She exhales a deep breath. “I can’t believe I just said all that. I’ve never told anyone…not really. Only my family knows the basics. It must be the liquid courage,” she muses, taking another shot. This time I join her.

  “Quinn, if you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to,” I say, giving her an out.

  “I do,” she says slowly. “For some reason, you make it really easy to talk to. But not now… If it’s okay, I’d really like to play some more Candyland.” She smiles softly at me, and my heart speeds up. I’m so fucked when it comes to this woman.

  “Okay, it’s my turn.” I pick up a card, and it’s red, so I move to the first red square.

  Quinn laughs. “Your rule, and you’re the first to strip! Take it off, Lach, now!” She laughs harder, waggling her eyebrows playfully. I know it’s the alcohol helping her break out of her shell, but I’m loving this version of Quinn. I imagine that at one time, before her dickhead husband, she was like this all the time.

  Reaching back, I lift and pull my shirt off my body. When she yells, “Yeah, take it off,” I playfully throw it at her, and it smacks her in the face. She giggles loudly, and I want to bottle that shit up for later.

  “Wow.” Her eyes light up as she assesses my half-naked body. “You work out a lot, huh?” Her gaze drags down my chest and over my abs. I’ve never really cared what a female thought of my body. I work out because I enjoy it, and I want the art on my body to have a decent canvas. But right now, with the way she’s eyeing me, makes me damn glad I do work out.

  “A few times a week. I have a gym in my building.”

  She groans. “I have a gym membership, but I rarely go. I really need to change that.”

  “You’re perfect the way you are,” I tell her. She rolls her eyes as if what I’m saying is bullshit. We’re going to have to work on that. If I have to tell her every day she’s fucking perfect, until she finally believes me, I will.

  “What does that tattoo mean?” She leans over, and the tip of her fingernail hits the top of my ribcage. Goose bumps dot my flesh at her touch. When I glance down, I see the tattoo she’s pointing at is the one I had done after my grandfather passed away.

  “When my grandfather was alive, we would go fishing every weekend on the dock behind his house.” I point at the wooden dock with the fishing pole hanging off the edge. “We would sit and talk for hours. Rarely ever caught a fish, but they were some of my best memories with him.”

  “That’s really sweet. I don’t have any grandparents,” she admits sadly. “My dad’s family disowned him when they found out he was cheating on his wife, and my mom’s parents passed away when I was little.” Damn, so not only did her husband cheat, but so did her father. It’s no wonder she has a hard time opening up.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. Then to lighten the mood, I say, “You asked about my tattoo…” When she gives me a confused look, I add, “I didn’t pick up a purple card. Now I get to ask you about one.”

  “Gah! Fine!” She holds out her left arm, which is covered completely by her hoodie, and lifts up her sleeve, exposing a small tattoo on her wrist. “This was my very first tattoo. Jase tattooed it on me when I was sixteen.” At a closer glance, I see it’s a small anchor with a rope wrapped around it. “Jase, Jax, and I all have the same one.”

  “You guys are close, huh?”

  “Yeah, until they met their significant others, we were all each other had. They’re my best friends.”

  Quinn picks up a card. It’s yellow, so nothing happens except her moving. I pick up orange, so I move. Quinn goes again, picking up a blue card. The second she flips the color over, her teeth bite down on her bottom lip. She’s nervous. And suddenly I’m regretting my rule. Because while I want to kiss Quinn, I want her to want me to kiss her.

  “You know what? I was just kidding about that rule.” I force out a laugh to emphasize my point.

  When she looks at me, her brows are drawn together. “You don’t want to kiss me?” she asks softly, hurt evident in her tone. She continues to nibble on her bottom lip, and my heart drops into my stomach. Was it h
er husband who made her this insecure? She said he despised her, cheated on her with several woman. Is he the reason she’s so self-deprecating when she refers to herself? Why she thinks it’s crazy that I would want her?

  Standing, I step the two feet to where she’s sitting, then crouch down so I’m eye level with her. She looks down at me as I cup her soft cheek with my callused hand and bring her face down to mine. My lips first land on the corner of her mouth, and I can feel it, she’s not breathing. She’s waiting anxiously to see what’s going to happen. I wonder if I’m the first guy to kiss her since her husband.

  “Breathe,” I whisper against her lips, just before I claim her mouth. Our lips crash against each other, then part. Our tongues stroking and teasing. Our mouths moving in perfect rhythm. I can taste the sweet vodka on her tongue. I suck on it, needing more.

  More of her taste.

  More of her touch.

  More of her body.

  Just. Fucking. More.

  Oh, sweet, Quinn. I’m going to make you mine.

  Quinn moans into my mouth, and her hands find their way to my chest. I think she’s going to push me away, but instead, I’m shocked when her nails dig lightly into my chest. Not wanting to take it too far, and knowing I very well will if we keep going, I pull back gently. Needing her to know how much I want her, though, I go back in for one last chaste kiss.

  When I sit back down, I give Quinn a look I hope conveys how much I want her. Her cheeks and neck are flushed, and her breathing is labored. She’s turned the hell on. And the thought has me wanting to thump my fist against my chest like a fucking caveman. I did that to her.

  “Your turn,” she squeaks out.

  I pick up a card. It’s an image of gumdrops or some shit, so I down the sweet as hell shot. When I set it back down, Quinn fills it back up. She goes next, and it’s red. She laughs, then slowly unzips her hoodie. When a white shirt appears, I laugh along with her.

  “You’re killing me.” I groan. “I’m sitting here, shirtless, meanwhile you have God knows how many layers on you.”

  “Trust me. Seeing what’s under here”—she waves a hand over her front—“would kill you.”

  I can’t help rolling my eyes, and she giggles. “Are Kinsley and I rubbing off on you? I think you roll your eyes as much as we do.”

  “Why do you always put yourself down?” I ask, even though it’s not her turn to answer a truth.

  She looks stunned at my question, but doesn’t deny it. “I-I don’t know,” she says with a frown.

  “Yes, you do. You said your husband despised you. Did he call you names, Quinn?”

  She considers my question for a moment before she nods once. “Yes,” she answers softly.

  “Did he think you were fat?” Another nod. This guy is so fucking lucky he’s already buried six feet underground.

  I stand abruptly, and the chair knocks back slightly, making a loud scraping sound against the wood floor. Quinn’s eyes widen curiously, and if I’m not wrong, maybe a little in fear, which only makes me that much more pissed. Fear of a man doesn’t happen on its own. A violent man causes a woman to fear.

  Lifting Quinn into my arms, I carry her over to the couch. Her legs tighten around my waist, and I do everything in my power to ignore the warmth I feel between her legs.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, breathlessly.

  “Showing you something.” I need her to see what I see. I need to wipe away every negative and nasty thought her disgusting fucking prick of a husband put into her head. Fuck him for thinking it’s okay to make a woman feel like she isn’t beautiful, isn’t worthy of affection and attention. That because her hips are wide and her ass is plump, she’s any less perfect than anyone else.

  Setting her gently onto the couch, I kneel between her open thighs and press my mouth to hers, needing to feel her soft lips against mine once again. Her lips part slightly, and I dart my tongue out and into her mouth, tasting the sweetness mixed with Quinn.

  “Your lips are perfect,” I murmur. Even with my mouth so close to hers, I keep my eyes open, and she does as well. I need her to not only hear my words, but see the truth in them. “They’re soft and full, and if I could, I would spend hours kissing them.”

  She averts her gaze, embarrassed. “Don’t do that,” I say. “Look at me, please.” When she does, I smile. With one hand holding myself over her, I use the other one to trail a finger down her neck to her throbbing pulse point. My lips move from her mouth to that spot. I place a soft kiss to her flesh, my lips lingering for a second as I suckle gently on her skin.

  “I love the feel of your skin.” I run my nose along her flesh, breathing in her sweet scent.

  “I’m pale and translucent.”

  “It’s flawless and shows every emotion,” I argue, reluctantly lifting my head, when what I really want to do is bury my face into the crook of her neck. “Take your shirt off for me?” I request. I don’t doubt that right now, with her thighs clenching around mine, she wouldn’t let me take her clothes off, but I need her to do it. It has to be her. Her decision. Her facing her own fears of letting a man see her body.

  Her mouth twists into a nervous frown, but then she nods and lifts her shirt off, leaving her in only a black cotton bra and sweatpants—and those socks she put on for the game. I trail kisses down her neck and over to her collarbone. There’s a small quote: this too shall pass. When I lick my way slowly across the words, she inhales sharply.

  “I don’t like this quote,” I tell her honestly. It means something bad happened. I can imagine her sitting in the tattoo chair, getting it inked onto her body to remind herself that one day things will get better. “Did you get this after your husband died or while you were married to him?”

  She swallows thickly and her eyes gloss over. “While,” she says, and I nod once in understanding.

  “Your collarbone is so fucking sexy,” I tell her, leaning down to give it a kiss. “So delicate.” I trail my fingers across her chest, to the other side that doesn’t have any ink on it. “One day you’re going to let me ink you right here, and it’s going to be something good. Something that makes you smile.”

  Quinn bites down on her bottom lip and sniffles once. “Don’t cry,” I tell her softly. Her eyes flutter shut, so I lift up and give each of her lids a soft kiss.

  “I really love your eyes,” I tell her when she opens them back up.

  “They’re just black,” she says dismissively with a small laugh.

  “No.” I shake my head in disagreement. “They remind me of the night sky…dark and mysterious…the possibilities are endless. They’re just waiting for the bright stars to shine and reflect in them.”

  “Lachlan…” Quinn whimpers, but I ignore her. She needs to hear my truths.

  Moving downward, I place an open-mouthed kiss to each of the swells of her perfect breasts. “I really, really like your tits,” I tell her with a wolfish grin. She laughs, shaking her head.

  I slide my body down the couch until my face is parallel with her stomach. Her hands fly downward to cover her flesh, so I take her hands in mine and pin them to her sides.

  “Lachlan, I don’t want to do this anymore,” she pleads, tears suddenly racing down the sides of her face. My heart constricts at the thought of her being so insecure and self-conscious, the idea of me looking at her naked body brings her to fucking tears.

  Lifting back up onto my knees, I kiss where the tears are landing. “Because you’re uncomfortable with me seeing you, or because you think you’re fat?”

  “I’m uncomfortable with you seeing me because I’m fat,” she admits.

  Cupping her face in my hand, I kiss her softly before I pull back and say, “I’m not going to push you tonight because I think just you taking your shirt off and letting me see you like this was a lot for you, but this isn’t over, Q. I don’t think you’re fat. I think your fucking gorgeous, and one day, you’re going to be comfortable enough to let me see all of you. And when that day comes, I�
��m going to worship every single inch of your body until you’re screaming my name. Got it?”

  With a sniffle, she nods, but I need to hear the words.

  “Say the words, baby.”

  “Got it.”

  Ten

  Quinn

  When Lachlan climbs off of me, I stay lying on the couch, watching as he bends and grabs my shirt. His words are on replay in my head. The way he described my eyes and lips and breasts. Nobody has ever described me in that way. And when I freaked out over him seeing my stomach, he responded with such patience. I looked closely to see if he was mad or frustrated, but all I could find was compassion and want and understanding.

  Sitting up, I reach out to take the shirt from him, but instead, he takes my hand in his and pulls me into a standing position, then puts the shirt on me himself. Once I’m back to being covered, I grab the bottle of vodka and pour myself a much-needed shot.

  “Bring the bottle and glasses over here,” Lachlan says, so I do. Once I set them down on the end table, he picks me up and sits back down on the couch, situating me across his lap, bridal style, with my legs stretched out in front of me. I lay my head back against the arm of the couch and he leans over and kisses me, starting with my neck, then moving to my cheek, the corner of my mouth, and finally my lips, his beard scratching my chin briefly before he pulls back.

  “No more Candyland?” I ask.

  Lachlan’s eyes shine with laughter, but he shakes his head. “No,” he murmurs. “I think we’re past needing a card to tell us what to do.” He tucks a wayward hair behind my ear. “It’s your turn. Pick a color.”

  “No way. I just went. You pick a color.”

  “Fine. Pink. Ask me anything.”

  “Hmm…” I think about what I want to know about Lachlan. “When was the last time you were in a relationship, and how long did it last?”

  His smile dampens, and his hands encircle my waist. I can feel his fingers clasp together, holding me to him. “That’s two questions,” he says, kissing the tip of my nose. “Her name is Shea. We dated for about three years on and off, finally ended things about six months ago.”