by Reid, Penny
“You’re driving me fucking crazy,” he said.
My eyelashes fluttered due to his bluntly spoken proclamation and his use of the f-word—since he rarely cursed, at least in front of me—and I instinctively crossed my arms over my chest.
“Well, if you’re expecting me to apologize for doing absolutely nothing wrong, then you’ll be waiting for a very long time. I honestly have no idea why you’re so upset.”
“Doing nothing wrong?” His usual outward façade of indifference was completely shattered. I was having difficulty adjusting to all the emotions twisting his features. “You’re planning the end of our marriage.”
“I am doing nothing of the sort!”
“Do you not trust me? Is this what this is about? How long is it going to take? What do I have to do?” Quinn’s voice rose with every question until he was full-on shouting at me. “Just tell me what to do, Janie. What other tests are required?”
I sighed and my eyes stung because his words hurt. In fact, my chin wobbled and I couldn’t stop it. It made my words come out as watery and strained. “None of this is about testing you, Quinn.”
“That is complete bullshit! That’s what all of this is about.”
I stepped toward him, surprised that my voice also arrived as a shout. “Can’t you understand that I want to protect you? Even from my future self, I want you to be safe. I come from a long line of crazy women. We cheat on our husbands, abandon our families, use our sisters’ boyfriends as ashtrays and toilets. I started therapy before I was a teenager.”
He winced, his hands dropping from the closet frame, and I noted that his expression had softened, but I wasn’t finished.
“I’m a ticking time bomb of crazy—you just said so! I drive you crazy. Maybe it’ll never happen—maybe I won’t go nuts; I’d like to think I won’t. But I’d feel a lot better if I knew you were protected. You know I like labels. I like clarity and defined expectations, because without them I’m lost. It’s your money. I don’t want it. A prenup for you isn’t about me not believing in you. It’s about….”
“Shh, Janie, that’s enough.” Quinn’s voice was soft as he crossed to me in four steps and wrapped me in his arms—which were now bare along with his chest. He’d removed his shirt while in the closet.
I gripped his biceps and snuggled against the warmth of his skin, pressing my cheek to his chest so that I could feel his heartbeat.
“I don’t want a prenup,” he said, giving me a squeeze. “I don’t want it, and just thinking about it makes me….” I felt him swallow before he finished his thought. “It pisses me off.”
I nodded, pressed closer. “I trust you. You have to know that. None of this—the wedding and related tribulations—none of this is about not trusting you. It’s about us repeating vows with certainty and knowledge of what we’re promising. Love through suffering.”
I felt his chest rise and fall before he answered. “I know.”
“And the questions I have about the private clients aren’t about not trusting you; it’s just that I’d like to understand better what your past involvement means for your safety and for us moving forward.”
He nodded. “That makes sense.”
I was on a roll, so I moved my hands from his arms to the hard plane of his back. “Your safety is going to be my safety and our children’s safety—and speaking of children, I’d like at least two with an option for more.”
Quinn’s light laugh dispelled some of my lingering anxiousness. “Well, I want more than two. I was thinking four or six.”
I stiffened and lifted my head to catch his eyes, to gauge whether or not he was serious.
He was serious.
“Four or six?”
“I like even numbers. Growing up it was always Shelly and me against Des. This way our kids can pair off to torture each other in teams.”
“Hmm….” My mouth twisted to the side as I considered this. “Can I think about it?”
“Sure. But for now, I think your plan—two then reevaluate after we have them—makes a lot of sense. And I’d like to wait a few years before we start our family.”
“How many?”
“Three or four, but start before you turn thirty.”
“I can agree to those terms.”
His mouth hooked to the side, and his expression was now the polar opposite of the glacial inferno from just minutes prior. I marveled at how quickly the discussion had escalated, reached volcanic, then subsequently plummeted back to baseline.
“This was our first fight,” I said.
He nodded, his eyes searching my face. “It was.”
“I don’t like fighting with you.”
“I don’t like fighting with you either.”
“Good.” I kissed his chest. “We should try to figure out how to avoid fighting in the future.”
“It’s going to happen. We can’t avoid it completely.”
“I know. But if we can decrease the number of incidences, I think that would be ideal. It seems like the key is to assume the best of each other. To…not assume that the other has malicious intent.”
Quinn dipped his mouth to my neck, bit my jaw, and whispered, “I’ve also heard it helps to only fight while naked.”
“Then we would never fight,” I responded distractedly. “I would just stare at you and drool and you’d win.”
“You’d drool?”
“You know I drool. What do you think those stains are on my pillow? Drool during sleep can be indicative of poor digestion or eating too late, but it can also be saliva manufactured during sex dreams.”
He blinked at me. “Your drool is because of sex dreams? You have sex dreams?”
“Yes, of course…don’t you?”
“Yes!” He responded as though the mere question were a slight against his manhood or a question of his sanity.
“Well, good. It’s normal, you know, to have sex dreams. It’s reported that they’re more common—that is, they occur with more frequency—in men than in women until the age of thirty-one. Then women out-pace men until thirty-eight. Then it’s about even.”
He stared at me for a long moment. I thought about telling him that women’s sex dreams were usually about foreplay and erotic situations, whereas men’s sex dreams typically involved penetration, but decided against it. Maybe I’d share that later.
At length, he sighed as if he was confused and frustrated. He kissed my neck and shoulder, nibbled my ear, then pulled away. Setting me away with obvious reluctance, he released another heavy sigh. “What were the other things?”
“Other things?”
“Yes. The other things, when I came in. Because I really want to spend several hours tonight giving you material for future sex dreams, and I don’t want you distracted or suddenly asking my opinion on ferns.”
I blinked at his bare chest dumbly for ten seconds; I was having difficulty seeing anything other than the hard ridges of his stomach framed by the V of his hips. This of course made me think about touching him, which made me think about him touching me, which made me think about having sex, which finally made me remember the other things. “Oh, yeah…the other things.”
He reached for the buckle of his belt, and I backed up two steps, crossing my arms in order to keep my hands to myself.
“So…?”
“Well, one of them was, uh….” I bit the inside of my lip, debated which topic to tackle. “About the private clients. I don’t feel like the conversation we started in London was resolved. I’d like to have a better understanding of that side of the business.”
Quinn pulled his belt from the loops of his pants and placed it on the dresser behind me, his expression thoughtful.
The he said, “I’m done with it—done with them. They’re not going to be a part of our lives moving forward.”
“So there is no chance they’ll impact us at all?”
He studied me, his jaw ticking, but his expression was a mask, revealing nothing of his thoughts. At last, he sai
d, “You already know. Everything else is details—who they are, logs of activity, bank account transactions. Knowing the details isn’t going to give you any additional information about the workings of that side of the business.”
“I’d like to know the details, and I’d like to make that decision for myself.”
He frowned. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
His frown intensified, and his eyes lost focus as he moved them to some point over my shoulder. “Let me…let me think about it.”
“Can I ask what that means?”
Quinn tilted his head to the side and seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “If you really want to see the details, I think what I’m going to do is pull a few files, show you some examples, and review the decisions made for each. I believe this approach will answer your questions without placing you in…in an uncomfortable position. I just ask one thing in return.”
“Okay, what is it?”
“I don’t want you having contact with these people. You can look through the files, but you aren’t to speak to any of them. And if you have any questions, you have to promise to ask me—not Carlos, not Steven, not Dan—only me.”
I quickly considered this request and decided it seemed more than fair. “Ok. I reserve the right to request more information later. For now, I can agree to those terms.”
His small smile was wry. “That’s the second time you’ve said that today.”
“We’re discussing terms, aren’t we? And I have three more issues to discuss.”
“Go ahead.” Quinn unbuttoned his pants then regained the two steps I’d retreated and lifted my sweater over my head.
Obligingly, I raised my arms. “I want to meet your parents.”
His hands reached for my shirt, but stalled for a beat when I spoke. His eyes didn’t lift to mine when he said, “I haven’t spoken to my parents in a long time.” I recognized that his voice was carefully emotionless; it made my heart hurt.
“That’s true. But you’re getting married now. We’ll be starting a family in a few years. They’ll have biological grandchildren, assuming neither of us has any fertility issues. I think about my upbringing, what I wish were different. I didn’t really have a mother; not really. And the stories you tell about your family, about growing up—your memories are good ones.”
Quinn seemed to be looking at me sideways, like he was bracing himself, as he admitted quietly, “I do have good memories. They were good parents.”
“See? Maybe a little part of this is that I’d like to have someone in my life in that role, especially if we’re going to have kids. I have my dad, but he’s…he’s never been present or very interested. I know it might not make sense, but having a mother seems like it would be nice. I think it would be a good idea to at least make an attempt, extend an olive branch, but not an actual olive branch. Maybe a jar of olives. In Greek mythology as well as early Christianity, the olive branch symbolizes peace and tribute.”
He seemed torn, undecided.
I placed my hands on his hips, my fingers dipping into the grey band of his black boxers. “I could always call them if you…if it’s too difficult or you don’t have time.”
He nodded once. It was a non-committal nod, and I recognized that I wasn’t going to get a definitive yes or no.
“What are the other two things?” He began unbuttoning my shirt.
“I…uh…it’s about your riding the motorcycle.”
His eyes flickered to mine then back to where his hands were working on my buttons. “What about it?”
“I realize that you like riding your bike, and I’m going to have to be ok with that. The only thing I ask is that you wear a helmet, all the time, no exceptions.”
“Makes sense. Fine. Deal.” He was down to the last three buttons.
The backs of his knuckles were brushing against the skin of my abdomen, sending lovely ripples to my chest, up my neck, to my fingertips, and down into my belly. My ability to concentrate was waning, as was my desire to bring up the last item on my list.
In fact, I was just talking myself into staying silent on the subject when Quinn said, “What’s the last thing?”
I licked my lips, my thumbs rubbing circles over the skin on either side of his belly button, my nails hooked into the side of his hips. He felt hot and smooth beneath my hands, and I didn’t want to stop, didn’t want him to stop.
“Janie?”
I had difficulty thinking back to a time when touching him wasn’t possible. The thought of willingly giving that up, giving up his body and the intimacy we’d established, felt like cutting off a limb.
“Nothing.” I shook my head. “It was nothing.”
He was looking at me now, his gaze questioning, his fingers pushing the edges of my shirt to the side and revealing my torso. I was wearing a red lace bra that we’d purchased during our London lingerie-shopping day. His eyes dipped, snagged on the bra, met mine again, and then he removed his hands.
“What was the last thing?”
“Don’t make me say it,” I blurted, shaking my head harder.
He watched me for a long moment, and I could tell he was trying to think back to my original tirade, when he’d pulled me on his lap at the kitchen table.
At length, he tilted his head to the side and his eyes narrowed. “We talked about the prenup, kids, meeting the parents, the private clients, and wearing the helmet while riding.”
“Yep. That’s it.”
“No. There was something else.”
“Quinn….” I removed my hands from his pants to unzip my skirt while I lifted on my tiptoes and placed a kiss on his mouth. “It was nothing, really—nothing worth discussing.”
I witnessed the precise moment he remembered my earlier words, surprise flickering behind his gaze as his eyes refocused on my face.
“You want to wait?” He said the words slowly, like he was inspecting them. “You want to wait until our wedding night?”
“No….”
I kissed him again. My zipper was stuck.
He wasn’t touching me, but he allowed the kisses. “You said something about not having intercourse until the wedding night.”
“I meant discourse, like conversation and debates about the parliamentary system of government.”
He laughed, more of a laugh-huff, and his eyes danced over my features. His mouth smiled the big grin, the one that sent my stomach to my toes.
I decided his new nickname should be Sir McSwoonypants.
Disgusted with my stubborn zipper, I gave up and whipped off my shirt, wrapped my arms around his neck, and pressed my body against his.
Quinn kissed me once, really just a chaste press of our lips together, then untangled my arms from his shoulders. “Now, wait a minute. Not so fast—this idea has merit.”
“What idea?”
“Waiting until the wedding night.”
I stared at him for a beat then said, “Fine. We won’t engage in discourse about the parliamentary system of government.”
He laughed again, but subtly shook his head. “No. Maybe we should wait ’til our wedding night.”
I’m sure I looked like I lost control of my facial muscles, because I could feel my eyebrows do this weird, wiggly thing on my forehead. Also, my mouth opened and closed, my nose wrinkled, and I’m pretty sure I hissed at him. I might have also said, Booooo!
This only made him laugh harder.
When he had finally reined in his laughter but was still holding his stomach, he took two steps back, leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms over his chest.
Shirtless, pants unzipped, boxers pulled low—he was chocolate cake with chocolate sauce and chocolate ganache, with chocolate mousse and chocolate cookie crust…so delicious.
“How about this?” He paused, an evil glint in his eye, his smile persisting. “How about we make a bet. If you can hold out the entire time, we’ll do the big wedding with all the extra stuff at the end. But….
”
Quinn sauntered forward—yes! Sauntered!—and invaded my space, his lips hovering just over mine, his fingers drawing a line from my shoulder to my breast and down my stomach.
“But, if you give in at any point over the next few months, we’ll cancel the wedding and elope within twenty-four hours.”
I warred against my body’s very loud and insistent inclination to surrender, right now, this minute. Because, honestly, I didn’t think I would be able to last.
I stalled by clearing my throat and asking unnecessary questions. “So, you mean that you’ll be trying to seduce me for the next few months? And if I give in then we get married within twenty-four hours?”
“More or less.”
“What do you mean, more or less?”
“I mean that I have no plans to seduce you, but otherwise you’ve got it right.”
“Really?” I eyeballed him. “No seduction plans?”
“That’s right.”
“Then…what’s off limits? I mean, what can we do?”
“Just kiss.”
I’m pretty sure my eyes looked like they were going to pop out of my head, and I know the volume of my voice was inappropriately loud when I said, “JUST KISS?”
If possible, the glint in his gaze turned even more sinister. “That’s right.”
“No touching at all? Like, what you’re doing now?”
Something passed over his features—maybe apprehension, more likely reassessment of the terms—and he conceded. “Kissing and touching are fine. But no….”
“Penetration?” The word emerged as a squeak.
He nodded, watching me closely, and added, “Or oxytocin-releasing genital arousal.”
I studied his features, rolling my lips between my teeth and contemplating the offer. A thought occurred to me. “But this means that you’ll help with the wedding—cheerfully—no complaining or being disinterested about the color of ferns. You’ll voice your opinion.”
He didn’t respond immediately and his gaze hardened, grew distant. Finally, he said, “Okay. Fine. Do we have a deal?”
