Crazy Eights (Stacked Deck Book 8)

by Emilia Finn

“Who got you?” She runs her fingertips along the welts on my back. “The pool cues did this? Seriously?”

  I manage a barely-there shrug, and a muffled ‘dunno’. I’m tired, bone-deep weary, so being shirtless and having Quinn sit on me doesn’t even rate a stiff dick.

  Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

  “Some asshole kept swinging while I was dealing with someone else.”

  “And you didn’t even stop to think ‘ouch’?”

  “I was busy.” I press my face to the covers and close my eyes. I’m three seconds from sleeping. “Dude grabbed you, I stopped feeling, and started doing. Not a big deal.”

  “It’s a big deal to me. Hold on.”

  She climbs off me, and moves to the boiling pot on the stove. Snagging a shirt from her bags, then pouring a little of the water into a mug from the cupboard, she brings them back to the bed and climbs onto me.

  This time, my body focuses on her strong thighs, her firm ass, the ends of her hair tickling my back when she leans forward, and her fingertips brushing over what hurt just minutes ago.

  But that’s all shattered when she presses a boiling hot rag to my back.

  “Agh! Fuck!”

  “I’m sorry,” she giggle-cries. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to help you.”

  “You figure adding burns to my skin will help?”

  “I have to disinfect this mess,” she gives a watery chuckle. “If you could see what I see, you’d agree. Dammit, Jamie. Would you have gone to sleep like this and let them fester?”

  “Nothing is festering,” I grunt out when she re-soaks her fabric. “They’re bruises, not cuts. They’re not gonna get infected.”

  “That’s what you think,” she grumbles. “Those pool cues broke your skin, dummy. You’re bleeding here,” she presses down and draws another hiss from between my lips. “And here.”

  “Stop it! Fuck.”

  “Lay still and let me clean it up.”

  She works gently, quietly, methodically.

  “This ink is new,” she murmurs after a quiet minute or two. “You didn’t have any when you were eighteen.”

  “Mm. Now I have lots. It was cheaper than therapy, and now I have pretty pictures to show for it.”

  “Super unhealthy coping mechanism,” she snickers.

  She works with slow strokes while electricity builds between us. She leans close enough that her hot breath soothes the spots she just cleaned. Her supporting arm rests beside my ribs, her wrist brushes against my skin. Warmth radiates from between her legs, and each time she moves and inadvertently grinds against me, my cock grows thicker, needier.

  “You tattooed me onto your body,” she whispers. “I see myself here, and here, and here.” She presses a gentle finger to each spot. “So many times. And on your chest too.”

  “Maybe that’s a different dancer. A different chick whose name starts with Q.”

  “Maybe.” Her laugh comes out shaky and weak. “There are song lyrics here. Initials.”

  “Her name starts with C, so that’s definitely not you.”

  “It’s all so woven and random,” she whispers. “So many memories packed into a week.”

  I turn my head so I rest on my cheek, and meet her eyes when she leans around me. “My tattoo artist, Ian, is kind of a family friend. He’s been inking my dad and uncles since they were our age. Basically, Ian is solid, and I knew he wouldn’t fuck anything up. So when I started all this, I told him to draw whatever he wanted.”

  “Really?” Quinn’s eyes widen. “He did all this without your input? But that’s—”

  “Bry, my cousin, he’s somewhat addicted to ink too, so every time I got more, he’d get more. We’d lay out on those tables side by side, and we’d chat. Sometimes about stupid shit, sometimes about the things we did as kids—”

  “And sometimes about me?”

  I close my eyes and give her the smallest nod. “Often, we talked about you. Or, well, my feelings about you. My need for closure, my need to not forget the time we had. He’d ask me to describe something, anything—”

  “Like what?”

  “Like…” I consider. “Well, back when this all began, he was just a dude fucking around with girls. He didn’t have anyone serious in his life, so he’d ask me what it was like to love. How does a guy know? How can he be sure? So I’d relate it back to you, and tell him how I knew. Hours and hours on the table would fly by, and all along—”

  “Ian was listening.”

  “Mm.” I smile and relax a little into the bed. “Exactly. He was listening, and I guess I was able to paint a picture in his mind. So that’s what he drew.”

  “Is he in love now?” she asks with a smile in her voice. “Bryan?”

  “Yeah. He found the right one. And he knew. He was sure far sooner than she was.”

  “That’s really romantic,” Quinn sighs. “And because of you telling your cousin about me, your tattoo artist, a guy I’ve never met, was able to draw all this?” She sits up higher, and looks down at my back in wonder. “He’s really talented.”

  “I prefer to think that my storytelling skills are awesome.”

  She snorts and goes back to work. “That too. It was a team effort, for sure.”

  “Do you have any ink?” I reach back, unable to stop the movement, and rest my fingertips against the side of her thigh. I need the contact. I need to feel her skin on mine. “Anything hidden?”

  “Ink costs money,” she says with a lilt of regret in her voice. “And that’s not something I can steal. So nope. No ink, and apart from my ears, no piercings or anything else sneaky. You?”

  “Piercings? Nah. Not my idea of therapy.”

  “Shame,” she mock-pouts. “I heard dick piercings are all the shit for chicks who wanna come hard.”

  I know she’s teasing. I know she’s looking for a reaction. It’s who she is, after all. But still, my cock grows beneath me until it reaches a point of pain.

  “Are you done?” I try to peek over my shoulder. “I wanna get up.”

  “Not done yet.” She dips her rag back into the cup, then comes back and works it over my shoulder blades. “I want to tell you something, but I’d feel better if you were looking away while I do.”

  “God forbid you ever feel insecure or out of your comfort zone.”

  She snickers. “You caught me. I guess, for some people, talking is therapy. Just like ink is for you. But that’s not me. Talking makes me uncomfortable, because when you’re living a life where your name isn’t even your name, well, it’s logical that the more you talk, the more you have to keep track of. It’s easier for me to tell you I went to a wizarding school than it is to name an actual school, because maybe I’ll tell the next person a different one, and then bam, I have to start taking notes on all my lies.”

  “Or,” I counter and close my eyes. “You could just tell me the truth. That could be a fun new game we could play.”

  She draws in a deep breath until her chest expands, then exhales so her breath whispers along my sensitized skin. “Touché.”

  “What’s the thing you want to tell me?”

  “That I loved you.” She says it so quickly, it’s almost like she’s tearing off a Band-Aid. “I loved you, Jamie. Fully. Freely.”

  I turn over beneath her so fast that she doesn’t even have to move. From my front to my back, from sitting on my ass, to sitting on my cock, Quinn’s eyes cloud, but my hands go to her hips to hold her close.

  “I loved you too,” I admit on a rasped murmur. “With my whole heart.”

  “I knew that week would end badly.” She swallows. “In fact, I’m almost certain I told you it would. But once the warnings were out of the way, and we still wanted to give it a go…” She stares into my eyes for a heated pause. “I gave myself to you freely. I knowingly, willingly, tore my heart from my chest, and handed it to you. And when we drove away after Christmas—”

  “I’ve spent so long focusing on the hurt I feel.” Pushing up to sit, I swipe a thum
b beneath her eye when a lone tear escapes and slides over her delicate skin. “I’ve been obsessed with how unfairly treated I feel.”

  “You have a right to,” she chokes out. “I hurt you. And even while telling you I loved you, I lied about who I really was. That was shitty of me.”

  “Yeah.” I cup her jaw, and stop close enough that the tips of our noses touch and her breath scorches down my throat. “It was shitty,” I admit. “But my pity party and assuming I was the only one who was hurt was shitty of me. Maybe you were the one who left, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt you.”

  “I’ve been in pain every single day since we drove out.” Her breath hitches and catches. “I know I hurt you. But I hurt me, too.”

  “I’m sorry for pushing all of the blame onto you.” I press a gentle kiss to her wet cheek. “I’ve been riding a massive pity train for four years.”

  “But the blame is all mine to bear. I was the liar. I was the one who left. I was the one who refused to take your calls once I was gone. I was the one who worked in a seedy club for a seedy man. And I was the one who was kissed by someone right in front of you. This is all on me, and you were just the guy who fell in love with the wrong girl.” She looks up to the ceiling and shakes her head. “If you kissed someone else in front of me, even now, after four years apart, I swear I would rip that bitch’s extensions out.”

  My breath bursts out on a silent laugh. “You assume girls I date wear extensions.”

  “You like long hair, and I’m the only idiot poor enough that I have to grow my own, rather than pay someone else to do it.”

  “You’re so silly.” I press the pad of my thumb against the divot in her chin and smile when her breath catches. Pulling her forward, I stop with just a whisper of space between her lips and mine. “Q?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you gonna shank me if I kiss you?”

  She snorts and squeezes fresh tears past her lashes. “Maybe later. Hindsight, you know? Later, I’ll be mad.”

  “But for right now, we’re clear?”

  Instead of answering with words, she closes the space between us and presses her lips to mine. Her breath shudders out on a whimper, her chest bounces with a sob, but her arms come up and around my shoulders, and her long hair tickles my exposed skin.

  My cock throbs between us, but if she feels it, she makes no mention.

  It’s exactly how it was that first time in my uncle’s office. Fire, ice, electricity and power. Quinn plasters her chest to mine, and, giving herself to me, allows our kiss to deepen, for my tongue to lash out and tap her lips, for her tongue to meet mine and take her own pleasure.

  Her heart races, and when I slide my hand up to wind through her hair, my thumb touches where her pulse beats. For the first time in years, I feel her beat for me. I feel her warm for me. I feel her weight in my lap, and maybe – I have to admit to myself that just maybe – this will be the first and last time she allows it to happen.

  She was always a flight risk, and assuming there will ever be more is a mistake.

  “Let me—” She pulls away so our kiss breaks with a gasp, then reaching down with only one hand, she yanks her tank up and over her head until she sits on me in jeans and a purple bra.

  “Quinn, I—”

  “You can touch me.” She takes my hand and presses it to her breast. “This isn’t a trick or anything. This is like last time, but instead of a week, I’m giving you an hour.”

  Her words both excite and break me.

  “An hour to love freely? Bravely?”

  She nods. “An hour to love fully, without worrying about later.”

  Pushing up to her feet, she stands over me, and unsnaps her jeans. Her arm clearly hurts her, her movements hindered by the butchered shoulder, but she gets her jeans a few inches down.

  Then I take over.

  I reach up and yank the denim over her trim hips. Her muscular thighs. Down past her knees, then I toss her to the side to take her shoes off, and while she flies, her squeal is enough to heal a part of my four-year hurt.

  Her smile, her freedom, her ability to laugh while we touch, and not cry because of the pain…

  I toss her shoes across the room, send the skin-tight denim following, and then I crawl over her flat stomach, and grind my cock against her fiery hot core. “I might be a little rusty at this.” I press my lips to hers, and go to work undoing my jeans. “I haven’t been with a woman since… well… you know.”

  “I know.” She shoves me back, and crawls onto my legs to work on lowering my jeans. Much like I did for her, she tosses my boots, drags the denim away, then she takes my boxer shorts and slides them down my thighs until she balls them and drops them to the floor. “But also,” she looks up and peers into my eyes. “Same.”

  I frown. “Same what?”

  Laying on her back and pulling me over her, she stares into my eyes. “Same. There was no one else. I swear.”

  My heart stops for a single beat. My stomach drops, but it’s not a bad feeling. “No one?”

  “No one. I didn’t want anyone else before you, and I didn’t want anyone else after you.”

  “But it’s been four years.” I press a kiss to her chest, her collarbone, her jaw. “Four years, Q. And no one?”

  “You make it sound hard.” Wrapping her arms around my shoulders, she pulls me down and winds her legs around my hips.

  But her panties are still on. They’re in the way. So I break her hold from around my neck, and move along her body until I rest between her legs.

  “No one?” I ask again.

  She bends her knees and lets them drop open in front of me. Panting, she clutches the bedspread, and soaks through her panties right in front of my eyes. “No one.”

  “So that means you’ve never done this for anyone before.” I slide the tips of my fingers along the inside of her thigh, and moan when she quivers. “You’ve never laid open like this for a man?”

  “No. Oh god.” She arches up when I slide my finger over her lace-covered pussy. My mouth waters, and my cock seeps. With just one finger, I push the dark purple fabric aside and nearly lose myself at the sight of her glistening slit. “Never, I swear.”

  “What about Derek?” I slide a single finger inside and inhale sharply when she tightens around me. “What about all your boyfriends?”

  “Hogwarts.” She bucks beneath my hands and pants. “I lied. It’s what I do.”

  “Pain in my ass.”

  I pull my digit from inside her tight heat, and grin when she cries out at the unfairness. But then I tear her panties down and crawl along her body to sit back on my haunches and pull her into my lap until we meet at our cores. Dripping wet, chest heaving, she looks into my eyes and studies me with uncertainty. And for this moment, for this hour, I’m unafraid of the hurt tomorrow will bring.

  “I don’t have a condom. I had some in my wallet… like, four years ago. But they expired.”

  She snorts and circles her legs around my hips to keep me close. “I’m on the pill this time. We’re good to go.”

  “Swear?”

  She nods and creates a double chin with the angle she lays in, but I’ve always had a thing for her chin, so whatever. “Swear.”

  “Thank you, Jesus.”

  I grab her hips, and line my cock up at her fiery opening. Then without any of the gentleness I used last time we did this, I slam her down over my cock and make her swallow me up in one fast glide.

  Quinn screams out in both pleasure and pain. She throws her head back so I get a view of her delicate throat, her wildly beating pulse, and the underside of her jaw.

  Pulling back, I draw a deep breath and plunge inside a second time. I give her no time to adjust to my size. I give her no time for anything.

  Because maybe I’m still pissed about her leaving me.

  I slide a hand along her stomach, over her breasts, and then up to her throat. Pressing down a little harder than I should, I take my rage out on her body. I slam deep in
side her, brand her as mine once and for all. I chant ownership in my mind, and pray for it to be so easy. I pray that she’ll stay.

  But we both know she won’t, so I pleasure myself, and pleasure her at the same time.

  She reaches up with both hands, wraps them around my wrist like she might want to remove my grip from her throat, but she doesn’t. She merely holds on and stares into my eyes while I use her the way I’ve dreamed for years.

  I love her, and I hate her. I’m angry at her, but I’m a slave to anything she wants.

  My thighs burn from my punishing pace, but I can’t stop. I won’t stop.

  I bend forward and slam my lips to hers, because I’m fucking her like I hate her, so I must kiss her to show I love her. Our tongues dance, and the bed slams against the wall with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump each time I glide back inside her succulent heat. If my punishing pace hurts her, Quinn doesn’t show it, only meets me anger for anger.

  Using her strength and a swing of her legs, she guides me over onto my aching back and sits on my cock like a queen readying to address her people. She rises up, lets her long hair dangle between us, and when I reach up to touch her tits, she unsnaps her bra and tosses it aside.

  Right there, like I completely forgot its existence, sits a tiny, heart-shaped birthmark that sends me hurtling back four years to when we were new at this. Shy, scared.

  “Tell me when it’s too much.” It wasn’t an offer, but a plea. “Tell me to stop.”

  “Don’t stop.”

  My anger grows and multiplies. It feeds on itself, and turns hotter, meaner. But the birthmark is like kryptonite. I remember the scared girl. A smartass, yes, and tough as nails. But she was scared, and I made a vow to take care of her.

  “I love you, Q.” The words burst past my lips. My gripping hands turn gentler, my heart still races, but with love and wonder and happiness that we have this moment, and it washes away the bitterness, the rage, the need to take back a little power. “Fuck, but I can’t stop loving you.”

  I sit up tall, and wrap an arm around her stomach. While she slides up and down, I take her lips, and make love to them. I seduce her with my tongue, and change the tempo of what we’re doing, from an angry fuck to purity, to lovemaking.