by Zara Cox
After dinner, we move to the sofa. Quinn turns on music but the lights stay dimmed so we can better enjoy the stunning views of New York City. Through the pounding lyrics of Garbage, he undresses me and lays me out on the sofa. The sex isn’t as frenzied as it was in his office this afternoon, but it’s still powerful and electric and punctuated with a lovingly expressive Quinn, enough to bring tears to my eyes every time my many orgasms hit.
Eventually, we fall asleep, spent, with our limbs intertwined on the sofa.
Chapter Nine
Elly/Q/Lucky
Exposition
I wake up blindingly happy on Wednesday morning. That probably should’ve been my first warning. After a leisurely hour doing laps in the private pool that comes with the penthouse, I blow-dry my hair, dress in shorts and a T-shirt, and head to the kitchen. I clean up the remainder of our meal from last night and confirm our appointment with Dr. Freeman before I head into the home office with my books and laptop. It doesn’t take long for me to bring myself up to speed on the segment I missed on Monday. I revise the rest of the course work until my growling stomach announces that it’s lunchtime.
I survey the contents of the fridge and vow to take a culinary class the moment I’m done with my real estate course. Not being able to make anything more than scrambled eggs or a grilled cheese sandwich sucks when I have a fridge full of yummy ingredients. The catering service is great but sometimes I just crave a home-cooked meal. I settle for the next best thing—Italian food from the restaurant across the street—and I’m throwing a cashmere sweater and scarf over my T-shirt to head out when my phone pings. My heart leaps when I see Quinn’s name on the screen.
Quinn: How’s your day going?
Me: About to head across the street to have lunch at Paolo’s. You?
Quinn: You’ve ruined lunch for me forever. I get hard as fuck just looking at my goddamn dining table, and I can’t eat without you here.
I’m almost ashamed at how giddily happy that makes me. I record a quick five-second video and send it.
Me: Does this help?
Quinn: You telling me you love me ALWAYS helps. But that mouth. Fuck. You just made me even harder, and I have a meeting in ten minutes.
I have to squeeze my thighs together to alleviate the sudden intense ache in my pussy. My fingers fly over the keyboard before I can stop myself.
Me: Show me.
I bite my inner lip and hold my breath, unable to stop the warm flush rising up my body into my face. By the time the message bubble begins to ripple, I can barely stand it.
The image of Quinn’s big, strong hand gripping the thick column of his cock through his pinstriped tailored pants is almost enough to make me come right there in the bedroom.
Me: God. That’s so hot. I’m counting the hours.
Quinn: Me too. Tell me you’re wet.
Me: I’m soaked. And I’m dying for you. Go eat something anyway. For me. Please. I need you firing on all cylinders when we get back home tonight. I fully intend to blow your mind.
Quinn: My cylinders work just fine, firecracker. But I look forward to having them thoroughly tested. X
I need a minute to get myself under control before I can grab my purse and head down. I’m not surprised to find Lionel waiting for me when I reach the foyer. We exchange greetings, and I let him walk me across the street to Paolo’s.
The short, balding owner of the fifty-year-old restaurant heads my way with arms wide open the moment I walk through the door.
“Bellissima, it has been too long.” After a kiss on both cheeks, he looks over my shoulder, to where Lionel is seated at one of the outside tables. “Will that handsome devil of yours be joining you today?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s just me today, Paolo.”
“Then it will be my honor to be your lunch companion. What does your beautiful heart desire today, bella?
My mouth waters at the glorious smells coming from the kitchen.
“Hmm, do you have any lasagna?”
He beams. “Fresh out of the oven. Paolo will be right back. Sit, sit.” He waves me to a table for two before he disappears into the kitchen. The size of the lunch crowd is healthy, and although a few people cast glances my way, I shrug off the self-consciousness and take a seat.
When Paolo brings my meal, he pulls up a chair and sits across from me. I sprinkle a large helping of grated Parmesan on top of my lasagna and take a bite of the rich food. My groan of appreciation produces another beaming smile from him.
We chat as I eat, and I laugh as he regales me with outrageous stories from his childhood in Palermo. When I leave an hour later, I’m full to bursting, and even happier.
Lionel escorts me back and waits until I’m crossing the foyer before he heads out. I’m almost at the elevator when I see the head concierge hurrying toward me.
“Good afternoon, Miss Gilbert. A pleasure to see you as always.”
I smile at the young, smartly dressed man. “Thanks, Jackson. Can I help you?”
He holds out a small package wrapped in brown paper. “This came for you a little while ago.”
The back of my neck tingles, and my senses ramp up to high alert again as I take the lightweight package. My name and address are scrawled in black ink, but there’s no postage markings or a return address. “Do you know who delivered it?”
Jackson shakes his head and starts to frown. “It was a bike messenger, I believe. Is something wrong, Miss Gilbert?”
“No, it’s fine. Thank you.”
He nods and heads back to his office.
I start to move toward the elevator but change my mind at the last moment. Call me paranoid if you will, but I don’t want to be alone when I open whatever is in the package. The vast foyer holds several groupings of seats positioned to enjoy the stunning atrium and works of art dotted all over the large space. I head for the nearest unoccupied seat and rip away the brown paper covering the package.
I stare at the item inside, my heart thudding. For a moment my senses suspend in a vacuum, unsure whether to soar into panic or drop into calm.
The laptop cover is the one I lost two weeks ago. At the time I thought I’d either left it behind after a class or dropped it in the coffee shop I sometimes use near the academy. I mourned its loss but didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about it. It’s nowhere as expensive as the one Quinn replaced it with, and although a few of my classmates know who I’m dating, I don’t think any of them would go through the trouble of returning it to my home address, especially when they could’ve easily handed it to me in class.
My instinct lurches toward panic as I turn the cheap leather over and see the single word on the Post-it note attached to it.
Lost.
The word is innocuous enough, written in the same ink as my name and address. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to return a thirty-dollar faux leather case to me. I look around the foyer, searching for fuck knows what. Unsure of what to do. The uncertainty pisses me off, but there’s nowhere to point my anger. After a minute, I grab my phone and send Detective Schultz a quick text. She calls me back as I’m heading to the elevator.
“You’re sure the case is yours?” she snaps the moment I answer.
“Yes.”
“I’m in Yonkers on a case right now, but I’ll swing by on the way back. Will you be home?”
My hesitation is enough to draw a hiss of irritation. “For God’s sake, Elyse—”
“I’m telling him tonight,” I blurt. “We have a thing…tonight. I’m telling him after.”
“Fine. But I still need that case. Might be a long shot but we could luck out on a fingerprint. Try not to handle the case too much.”
“Okay.”
“So where do you wanna meet?”
“There’s a coffee shop across the street.”
“Name?”
“Mickey’s.”
“See you there at four.” She hangs up as abruptly as she answered.
My bubble of happiness
gone, I spend the rest of the afternoon swinging between convincing myself this is nothing and skirting the edges of panic. It’s almost a relief when four o’clock rolls around.
My dark orange dress with an asymmetric hem closely follows the shape of my body and shows off more than a little leg, and the matching platform shoes offer much-needed confidence. I catch my hair in a loose knot on top of my head, allowing a few strands to frame my face, and finish off with complementing makeup and lipstick. A lightweight coat and scarf finishes off the outfit.
Ellen Schultz is waiting for me at a back table when I enter Mickey’s. Her gaze flicks to the street and the limo idling on the curb before she nods at the plastic bag in my hand. “That it?”
I nod and hand it over. She tugs a black forensic glove from her back pocket, slips it on her right hand, and reaches into the bag. She examines the case and then stares at the Post-it note.
“Fuck.” Her voice is disturbingly resigned.
Ice grips my nape. “What?”
“I think we can safely say that your stalker has established contact.”
I try to breathe through the vise tightening around my heart. “W-what happens now?”
She looks at me with dead-serious eyes. “Now you make sure you do not go anywhere without security. I don’t doubt that will happen when you tell Blackwood what’s going on, but until you do, no fucking taking chances, okay?”
I shiver at the terse gravity in her voice. “Okay.”
She shoves the evidence back in her bag and removes the glove. She stares at me, and she looks like she wants to say more, but then she casts another glance at the limo. “I’ll be in touch.” She turns and leaves by the back door.
I’m grateful for her tact, but I’m more than a little shaken when I get into the car.
“Everything all right, Miss Gilbert?”
I quickly compose my face before I meet Lionel’s stare in the rearview mirror. “Yes, thanks.”
He nods. “Traffic is not too bad. We should arrive on time.”
I nod absently and stare out the window for the whole journey to Dr. Freeman’s office in Little Italy. Since Quinn’s office on Wall Street is closer, I’m not surprised to find his town car and driver already there when I arrive.
He’s sitting on the sofa, one ankle resting on his opposite knee, with his arm thrown across the back of the seat. The urgently tapping finger on the leather belies his relaxed stance. When he sees me, he rises and stalks across the office toward me.
“Elyse.” My name is a burst of relief on his lips. My man hates shrinks, which makes what he’s prepared to undergo for us even more remarkable. He starts to lean down to kiss me but stops suddenly, his eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
Shit. I haven’t managed to hide my anxiety as well as I thought. I shake my head. “It’s—”
“Something. What?” His mouth tightens into a grim line as his fingers slide up my arms to grip my shoulders. “Did I fuck something up?”
Tears triggered by panic and love prickle the backs of my eyes. “No, of course not,” I reply. But it’s clear he doesn’t believe me.
“Elyse. Please,” he breathes.
“Good evening, Elyse. Quinn. I trust you’re both well?”
I tilt my head sideways to catch Dr. Freeman’s gaze over Quinn’s shoulder and smile a response to his greeting before refocusing on Quinn. “Hi, Dr. Freeman. Can we talk about this later?” I say to Quinn.
He ignores Dr. Freeman and keeps his intense gaze focused on me. “So there is something to talk about?”
“Quinn, please,” I whisper.
Whatever he sees on my face makes his fingers tighten. “Jesus, Elyse. How the fuck am I supposed to concentrate?” he growls.
I grab his hand and squeeze. “It’s no big deal, I promise.” I hate myself for the lie, but what we’re doing here is too important to wreck with bad news.
Quinn’s jaw clenches tight. The fingers he meshes with mine promise retribution later, but he turns and leads me to the sofa.
Dr. Freeman is in his midfifties. A former professor at NYU, he looks the part with short, graying hair; rimless glasses; and conservative clothes. I got in touch with his practice after reading an article he’d written in the New England Journal of Medicine. He was reticent about taking a walk-in, but my desperation after Quinn fired our other shrinks had eventually won him over. Besides, I think Dr. Freeman was secretly thrilled to have a case study like Quinn Blackwood as a client. Whatever his reasons for taking us on, I’m grateful.
“So, how have you both been since our last session?” Dr. Freeman asks.
“Fine,” Quinn snaps, his eyes still fixed on me.
“Define fine.”
Quinn ignores him. I take a deep breath and jump right in. “He destroyed the living room on Sunday.”
Dr. Freeman’s gaze swings to an unruffled Quinn for a moment and then returns to me. “You don’t sound too upset about it.”
“I was when it happened. But I’m not anymore.” Quinn’s fingers tighten in gratitude around mine.
“And why not?”
I shrug. “Well, we didn’t move.”
“Right. Do you see that as a positive?”
I’m a little irritated that he doesn’t see things the way I do. “That’s a good thing, right? He stayed at the scene of the crime, as it were, rather than turning his back on it and pretending it didn’t happen.”
I flick a glance at Quinn. I can tell he’s a little annoyed that I’m talking about him as if he’s not here. I turn and glare at Dr. Freeman, my eyes telling him to throw us a fucking bone.
“It is, but that’s just the start.”
“We know that,” Quinn and I both respond in unison. I look over at him and smile. His lips twitch in response but the intensity of his gaze doesn’t wane.
“The ideal situation would be for such behavior not to occur in the first place.”
Finally, Quinn faces him. “With respect, we’re not coming here for you to state the obvious, Dr. Freeman.”
Dr. Freeman gives a little smile. “You left here a little agitated on Friday, Quinn. After we talked about your father. Is that what triggered the episode?”
Quinn gives a bitter laugh. “I’d say so, yes. So how about we make a very concerted effort to avoid discussing him? Indefinitely?”
“Was that all it was?”
Quinn opens his mouth, and I think he’s about to tell the good doctor to fuck off. But he pauses for a long moment. “I don’t do so well when Elyse isn’t around,” he admits with a low, grim voice.
Dr. Freeman nods. “And you don’t like how that makes you feel?”
“Of course not,” he snaps as he pulls my hand into his lap.
“We talked about crutches and how to start weaning yourself off them.”
“And I remember asking you why the fuck I’d want to wean myself off the woman I love,” he delivers with icy calm. “Don’t think you had an answer for me, Doctor.”
Dr. Freeman doesn’t rise to the bait. He merely makes a note on his pad. “I guess we’ll take the journey to that enlightenment together.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Quinn demands.
“I…I think what he’s saying is that, if you direct some of that love…elsewhere, maybe things won’t feel so bleak?”
Dr. Freeman smiles at me, and I feel like I’ve won the lottery.
Quinn tunnels his free hand into his hair and mutters under his breath. “I need to love myself? That’s your answer?” he asks incredulously.
“With a little forgiveness tossed in, yes,” Dr. Freeman replies.
“And how the hell am I supposed to do that?”
“You can start with accepting that what happened to your mother wasn’t your fault.”
Quinn’s grip turns viselike, and that deathly stillness I hate blankets him. “That’s a fucking tough ask, Doctor. I knew what Maxwell and Delilah were doing to her, and I did nothing.”
“You were a chil
d yourself, Quinn. And you did do something. You documented what your father and stepmother were doing. In your own way, you helped your mother. But short of stepping in front of the bullet, you couldn’t have stopped her from ending her own life. But you can stop the trajectory you’ve set your life on.”
For the first time since the day I came back into Quinn’s life a year ago, I watch the first strain of hope shift through his eyes. He turns his head, and even though he’s asking Dr. Freeman the question, he keeps his eyes on me. “How do I even begin?”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Dr. Freeman answers.
Quinn remains silent for an interminable minute. Then he nods. “Okay.”
I want to punch the air. I settle for leaning over to kiss his cheek. But he shifts his stance and my mouth lands on his. He inhales sharply.
“Are we done, Doctor?” he bites out.
“Elyse, is there something you want to discuss?” Dr. Freeman asks.
I have a ton of questions, but I’m suddenly itching to get out of here, to unburden myself to Quinn. I’ve kept this stalker secret for far too long, and I get the feeling that the longer I hang on to it, the more detrimental it could be.
“No, I’m good for now.”
Dr. Freeman nods and makes another note. “Okay, my mandatory question of the session. What do you want from each other? You first, Elyse.”
I chew my inner lip, wondering if I dare. It’s been a request I’ve been suppressing for a while. But what the hell. I look at Quinn. “I want you to meet Petra. She’s dying to meet you.”
He looks shocked. His fingers loosen their hold on mine. I die a little inside.
“You’re not receptive to the idea?” Dr. Freeman asks.
Quinn looks away. Blinks. “Not entirely.”
My shriveling heart shrinks to the size of a peanut.
“Why not?” Dr. Freeman presses. I’m glad he’s asking the questions.
Quinn’s jaw clenches. “She’s the most important thing in Elyse’s life. That gives her power. Above me. Above us. That scares the shit out of me.”
My jaw drops.
