by Zara Cox
My jaw drops to the floor, and I jerk back to look into his eyes. “No way.”
“Shut your gorgeous mouth before I put my cock in it. I’m buying you breakfast; then I’m buying you another piano. Then we’re spending the rest of the day being slobs.”
He starts to drag me toward the kitchen and the sound of the hissing coffee machine.
I hide my grimace before he can spot it. He won’t like what I’m about to say anyway. I wait until he pours two cups of coffee, passes one to me, and has taken his first caffeine hit before I say, “I can come to breakfast but I can’t go shopping. I have school today.”
His coffee cup freezes midair and then he returns it to the counter and his jaw clenches. “School was Friday.”
“I rescheduled it because of the trip.”
His gaze sweeps down, and he doesn’t speak for a full minute. Then he swallows. “I want to spend the day with you. Forget school today. Play hooky. For me.”
A request, not a command. My brain screams at me that something is happening here. But I can’t tell what it is.
Everything inside me wants to scream yes. But I’ve gone from not believing I’d get a chance at a real life while on the run to having the opportunity to make something of myself. As much as I want to be with Quinn every second of every day, I’m determined to be something more than Quinn Blackwood’s girlfriend. The real estate license I’m studying for is it.
“I want to. You know I do—”
“Don’t say no to me, Elyse.” His deep, low voice vibrates across mine.
“Then don’t ask me to cut school for you. You know how important it is to me. I’ll only be gone for a few hours.”
He watches me in silence for another minute, and then he pushes his mug away. “Fine. We’ll go to breakfast; then I’ll take you to your class and wait for you to be done. Then we go shopping.” His eyes dare me to refuse.
I have no choice but to refuse, on account of the other thing I need to do today. I’ve put it off for long enough. I don’t want to have my fears confirmed, but I can’t bury my head in the sand any longer. “No, Quinn. You’ll prowl the halls, and I won’t be able to concentrate.”
He stalks over to the sink and dumps his barely touched coffee down the drain. “For fuck’s sake, Elyse. I still don’t understand why you have to travel across town for a course you could’ve done online!”
“So I don’t go stir crazy when you’re not here? Besides, if I want to be any good at selling real estate, I need to know my way around the city, at least, dontcha think?”
“Not at the cost of losing time with you. That doesn’t work for me.”
The man I love is used to having his way. On everything. I knew that going in. That ruthless streak is the reason he’s so wildly successful. But he’s not unreasonable when it counts. He just needs handling with care.
I abandon my own coffee and walk over to him. His tension hits me from three paces away but I’m not daunted. I slide my arms around his bare waist and place a soft kiss between his shoulder blades. A deep shudder rolls through him, and his abs clench beneath my touch. Quinn may own me, but I’m not displeased with the power I have over him. I trail more kisses along his spine. “I have an idea.”
“If it doesn’t involve a serious compromise on the hours you’re proposing to spend away from me, I don’t want to hear it,” he grumbles.
“Let’s skip breakfast. I don’t need to be at school till eleven. That gives us four hours of me being your complete and utter slave. Who knows? I might even wear you out long enough for you to sleep through my class.”
He turns and grabs me by the waist. I wrap my legs around his hips the moment he picks me up. “You’ll never wear me out for that to happen. And you damn well know I don’t fucking sleep when you’re not here.”
“So is that a no to skipping breakfast?” I ask as I bury my face in his neck and take a huge, glorious hit of his warm, vibrant skin. When I add my teeth to the mix, he stumbles on his way out of the kitchen. The T-shirt I claim to love comes off somewhere between the kitchen and the bedroom.
Once he has me pinned beneath him on the rumpled bed, he tunnels his fingers into my hair. Enthralling silver eyes hook into me. “I’m not a decent human being. You know this. So what’s to stop me from tying you to this bed and keeping you here the whole fucking day?”
It’s my turn to tremble at the mildly sinister intent in his voice. Echoes of his past alter ego Q bounce over us as he stares at me. I can’t help but recall the first time he had me blindfolded and tied to his bed. Other than the presence of the cameras he’d been recording our session with, it was one of the most primal and erotic experiences of my life.
“You’re not as bad as you’d like me to think. Besides, you love me.”
A flicker in his eyes acknowledges the power of that statement. “Loving you doesn’t mean I’m happy about this.”
I bring my feet up, hook my toes into his waistband, and nudge the sweatpants down. He lifts himself off me long enough for his cock to spring out before he’s back again, his stiff dick nudging my core. “Besides skipping school, tell me how I can make it better.”
He doesn’t even take a second to think. “Let me buy another horse for Petra.”
“Really? Why?”
“She’s happy, you’re happy. I get less bullshit from you.”
I roll my eyes. “God, you’re incorrigible. What else?”
“You, turning up at two o’clock sharp at Steinway’s.”
“So I am going to be missing breakfast?” I ask hopefully. Breathlessly.
“You are. You get to suffer, too, for making me lose my appetite.”
It’s a punishment I can more than live with. I slide the arches of my feet up the backs of his thighs. “Have you lost all your appetites?”
“You trying to distract me with your pussy works well to a point, baby. You will get fucked, but I’m not done with my appeasement list.”
He nudges me a little, and my breath fractures at the promise of his cock. “Okay,” I say in a rush.
“Dinner at Juniere’s tonight to make up for missing breakfast.”
“Deal.” The third proposal makes me the most happy because I’ve found out since we’ve been together that Juniere’s was his mother’s favorite restaurant. We’ve only been back there a handful of times since the first time he took me there last year. It’s a special place for him, which makes it special to me too.
I lift my head to kiss him. He pulls away.
“Stay still.” More echoes of Q. “Arms above your head. Grip the headboard.”
My breath shakes in my lungs as I comply. He levers himself over me and stares into my eyes as he penetrates me with excruciating patience.
When he’s fully seated inside me, he stops moving. Just stares at me. “Blackwood Estate has a private real estate licensing program. Did you know that?”
Oh God, he’s not done with voicing his displeasure. Too late I realize he was merely changing his tactic, using his most potent weapon.
Sex. Toe-curling, mind-bending sex. The problem is I’m addicted. And Quinn knows this. Knows it and exploits every iota of it.
“Did you?” he presses, while I’m dying with the need to beg him to move.
“Yes.”
He pulls out and slowly glides himself back inside me. My eyes roll in pleasure.
“So you understand how it’s difficult for me not to take what you’re doing personally, especially when you enrolled at this third-rate school without telling me.”
My internal muscles quiver with the cloying need to be fucked. “I…I wanted to avoid…gossip. You don’t need it after—”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he snaps at me. “After everything we’ve been through, you’re worried about that?”
I bite my lip to stop a pathetic whimper. “The paparazzi have laid off us in the last few weeks. I don’t want to give the tabloids any more column inches. Quinn…please, can we talk about this later
?” I plead.
He withdraws an inch before surging forward. The pleasure is remarkable but not nearly enough. “No. There’s more. Tell me.”
“I just wanted…this will be something I achieve on my own without…”
His face tightens. “Interference from me? You don’t want me to be a part of it?”
“You give me so much already. Let this one go. Please.”
A muscle tics in his jaw, and his cock jerks inside me as the stillness begins to get to him too. “Elyse.”
“I’m dying, Quinn. Please,” I whisper. Ruthlessly, I clench my muscles around him, knowing it might earn me a black mark.
His breath hisses from his teeth. Finally, he moves. “I reserve the right to remain pissed at this fucking situation for a while longer,” he rasps as he pulls all the way out and thrusts back inside me. “Understood?”
“Understood,” I gasp.
“Good. Now you can beg me to fuck you harder or you can beg to touch me. Which is it going to be?” he growls.
An impossible choice. Almost. “Can I touch you, please?”
My instinct tells me it’s the right choice when his nostrils flare in a reaction he can’t contain. Besides, he’s harder than fuck, which means he’s moments away from pounding me into the bed anyway.
But still, every particle in my body thrills when he lowers his head until his lips hover over mine. “Touch me,” he commands.
* * *
I leave our penthouse on Park Avenue just after ten thirty. The commute to my class is a thirty-minute brisk walk or a fifteen-minute car ride, depending on whether I let Quinn’s driver, Lionel, take me. It also depends on how bad Midtown traffic is. I haven’t made up my mind either way, but as I head down in the elevator, I pull out my phone, take a deep breath, and place the call I’ve been putting off for days.
“Detective Ellen Shultz.”
My heart thuds loudly in my ears and I have to swallow hard before I can speak. I can’t help but recall my last brush with the law when I was kidnapped by Clayton and then rescued by the NYPD.
In the course of the resulting FBI investigation and trial that saw Clay sentenced to a long term in prison, I had to confess to the arson that destroyed the Villa. I also had to confess to killing a man, Ridge Matthews, Clay’s lapdog and the man who’d not only been intent on raping me but had also developed the same fixation on Petra.
Between them, they were determined to hunt her down and make her the latest star attraction at the Villa. Clay, being Petra’s biological father, believed it was his right. I was the only thing that stood in his way. And I fought like hell, and killed, to make sure he never succeeded.
The authorities eventually agreed to not pursue charges against me in return for my testimony against Clay, a deal I happily took. The guilt over taking a life will stay with me forever, but I believed my time of dealing with cops was behind me. The thought that it might not be has been near unbearable. Keeping my suspicions from Quinn has been even worse.
“Hello?” the voice on the phone snaps.
“I…sorry, Detective, it’s Elyse Gilbert.”
“Yeah, I thought that was you.” She sounds harried and a little distracted. Like every other overworked cop in this city. “Hey, I hope you’re not calling to cry off our appointment?” she asks sharply.
I can’t say the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. “No. No, I was calling to confirm it.”
She huffs out a breath. “Okay. Good. Like I said before, it’s better to get ahead of this thing before it becomes a bigger thing, you know?” I hear papers being shuffled in the background.
“Yes.”
“Wonderful. I can do without the shit storm that will ensue if we don’t take it seriously. So I’ll see you at the precinct at one o’clock?”
“Yes, I’ll be there.”
I hang up, take a deep breath, and think about Quinn and what I’m keeping from him. I haven’t stopped holding out hope that this is nothing but my overactive imagination at work. He’ll go absolutely berserk when…if he finds out. But what the hell am I supposed to do?
How the hell do I tell my borderline psychopathic lover and the man who already finds it difficult to let me out of his sight that somewhere along the line I’ve picked up a stalker?
Chapter Four
Elyse
Perspective
I first noticed it three weeks ago. It began as a sensation I wasn’t able to shake off as I left the apartment to head to my first class. However, with butterflies the size of eagles creating havoc in my stomach at the thought of being in a classroom for the first time in forever, I dismissed it.
My association with Quinn and Q last year flung me into the merciless glare of the paparazzi’s spotlight. Since then, my presence in Quinn’s intensely high-profile life means I’ve become a constant source of interest to the media. At first I thought it was a reporter following me in the hopes of getting the exclusive they all crave. But the same self-preservation instinct that kept me on high alert when I was on the run from Clay warned me that this was different. And in a city of millions, it’s almost impossible to spot a sinister shadow unless it was right on top of you.
Initially, I toyed with asking Fionnella Smith for help. In our short time together, I found out that the constantly smiling woman who called herself Quinn’s assistant was embroiled in her own righteous path of retribution, same as Quinn. She also turned out to be far more resourceful than the simple assistant she claimed to be. All that aside, though, I didn’t ask for her help because her loyalty is first to Quinn. So until I’m sure what I’m dealing with, I’m choosing to keep them both out of the loop.
Detective Schultz came across my radar last year during the investigation. Calm and briskly efficient, she made an impression on me, enough for me to decide to trust her with this. With no concrete evidence as to who my stalker is or even if he’s real, I expected her to dismiss my concerns when I plucked up the courage to call her.
I don’t doubt that being Quinn Blackwood’s girlfriend played a part in her agreeing to meet me for coffee last week. She took copious notes, and we agreed to a follow-up meeting today.
I put my phone away and wipe my sweaty palm on my jeans as the doorman holds the foyer door open and doffs his cap. Lionel and the sleek Mercedes town car are directly in my line of sight when I exit. I’m torn between the need for head-clearing fresh air and the need to be safe. I know he’ll follow me anyway should I decide to walk. Quinn might have given in to my request not to come to class with me, but he sure as hell isn’t going to risk me being even a minute late in getting to him once I’m done.
Which means I need to plan my meeting with Detective Schultz very carefully. I’ve already accepted that I’ll miss an hour of my three-hour class today, but I’ll make it up later. I pause on the sidewalk and glance around me.
There’s nothing out of the ordinary. People hurry past, their glances flitting past me, their electric connection to the city pulling them along like iron filings to the tune of a powerful magnet. But evil lurks everywhere. I’m wise enough to know that now. All the same, the need to not be a victim pulls at me. Years of suffering under Clay’s thumb has triggered a strong incentive to never experience that kind of fear and helplessness again.
“Good morning, Miss Gilbert,” Lionel greets me with his distinctive Aussie accent, and holds open the back door to the town car.
I make up my mind quickly. “Good morning. I’m going to walk for a while, Lionel. Do you mind?”
His face remains neutral as he shuts the door. “Of course not, Miss Gilbert.” He glances at his watch. “You should make good time if you’re in the mood to power walk.”
“I’m in the mood for strong coffee and a bagel first,” I respond with a smile.
He nods toward my favorite coffee shop at the corner of the next block. “Would you like me to get your usual for you from Mickey’s?”
I shake my head. I feel a little bad for refusing him twice in a row, but wi
th my life now a well-oiled machine that functions with very little input from me thanks to Quinn, I take what little independence I can where I get it. “That’s okay, thanks. I need to walk off the calories.”
He smiles and nods and walks around to slide behind the wheel.
The weather is cool enough to require a scarf. I wrap the light blue cashmere scarf twice around my neck and secure my purse more firmly across my body.
Five minutes later, when I exit with my large, extra-creamy Americano and bagel clutched in my hand, I stop for a moment and glance at the breathtaking silver chrome building that is Blackwood 99. It’s the tallest apartment building on the island of Manhattan, an iconic masterpiece that won Quinn a clutch of awards when it was officially unveiled just before Christmas last year.
Somewhere high up there in the cloud-high apartment, Quinn is probably drinking his own coffee, hopefully less disgruntled with me after I let him work off his frustrations on me. The need to call him tugs hard at me. I resist the urge, take a hit of caffeine, and resolutely head in the opposite direction.
I arrive at the Hesse Real Estate Academy with three minutes to spare and grab my usual seat near the front. As on most days, the class is full with an eclectic mix of young career-starting hopefuls and middle-aged lane-changers who’re looking for something different. The instructor is a seasoned but sharp teacher who loves the sound of his own voice.
I drift off a little during the segment on zoning laws, my mind returning to its favorite subject—Quinn—and the surprise he’d had Lionel present me with just before I got to my class. The moment the instructor stops for the fifteen-minute break, I take out my phone and smile at the five text messages from Quinn waiting in my message box, each with an increasingly impatient tone. I ignore them and type a message of my own.
Me: Thank you for my gift. That was so sweet.
The lambskin laptop pouch for my MacBook Air was a replacement for the one I lost two weeks ago. Only this one was from an exclusive designer, monogrammed with my name, and probably cost the same as a small car.
