Right.
Her body told her to do it. Dared her not to. But her mind was kind of whimpering in the background, reminding her about fire and burning and being careful what you wished for.
Quinn took a tiny step forward. And he was twice as big. Twice as intimidating. And a hundred times as appealing.
Ginnie lifted her chin. “I can’t help it if the sight of my ass is more than you can handle.”
His hand shot out, dove under the far-too-big coat she wore, and slammed into the small of her back. He forced them into the wall and crushed her to his chest, and Ginnie tipped her head up expectantly. His lips were already close enough to warm her own. But instead of kissing her, he spoke to her.
“What you said earlier about control? It's true. A hundred percent. I like control. Live it. Use it. Wield it like a fucking sword if I have to. But I can adapt, and I can handle most curves that are thrown my way.” His voice was the very measure of that control – burning desire carefully bridled. “The curve of your ass, though, is a different story. Could I handle it? In a way you can't even imagine. But control? With you? Not a fucking chance.”
With each sentence, his fingers found a different spot to rub. To caress. To bring to life. The swell of her hip. The dip between her shoulders. The length of her thigh. And with each familiar stroke, Ginnie's breathing quickened a little more. Her chest rose and fell at a distinctly not-fit-for-public rate, her breasts slamming into Quinn's chest, her nipples aching and hard.
Quinn's hand crept across her knee.
"Is that what you want, baby? For me to lose control?"
Yes. Yes, please.
Because Ginnie definitely wanted this side of him, too. She wanted that edge, that ride with danger. The man under the tattoos and the man showcasing them.
She just couldn't form the words to articulate it. And the more he touched her, the more he refused to lean down and let their lips meet, the less coherent her mind became, and the more it refused to make her mouth work properly. Thankfully, as his palm skimmed over once again, her body spoke for her.
Her arms lifted and her hands clasped the back of his neck. She stood on her tiptoes, trying to drive them closer. When that wasn't quite enough, she lifted one knee and hooked her leg over his hip.
She was aware that she was more than a little exposed. Any second, someone could walk by. Ginnie didn't care.
She could feel every hard inch of him through his pants, and she could feel his heart hammering against her own chest.
He could strip those pants down, just enough to free himself, and he could take me here and now, and I still wouldn't care, Ginnie realized.
“Quinn,” she breathed.
Then the elevator dinged, and someone cleared his throat loudly, and the big man pulled away as a young father with two kids gripping his hands slid past shaking his head.
“Well,” Quinn said, his voice betraying his raw want. “Looks like we can take the elevator after all.”
“We can?” Ginnie replied hopefully.
“Mm hmm.”
He pulled her – still panting and still full of heightened anticipation – into the elevator.
Which was disappointingly full.
An elderly couple and a young family crowded the space between her and Quinn. They couldn’t even touch each other without jostling someone else. And by the time they reached the lobby floor, it was clear that Quinn had regained that control he’d been lauding minutes earlier. His face was a carefully schooled mask of respectability, and even though he reached for Ginnie’s hand as they exited, it was a strictly PG, palm-to-palm deal.
Two more seconds, she thought irritably. All I needed was two more damned seconds and he would’ve been dragging me back to the bedroom, caveman style.
Instead, he was pausing, pulling back, and giving her appearance a critical onceover.
“First things first,” he said. “Let’s get you a coat that fits properly.”
“A coat?”
“I don’t mind sharing, but when you’re wearing mine, it looks like you’ve got nothing underneath.”
Ginnie was going to argue, but when she glanced down, she saw that he was right. The jacket dwarfed her. It fully covered the short skirt and her legs stuck out from the bottom, and the jewelled high heels on her feet drew even more attention to the flasher look.
Oops.
She moved to shrug out of it, but Quinn’s hand clamped down on her shoulder immediately.
“Leave it on. At least for now.”
Ginnie frowned. “But you just said – ”
“I know what I said. And what you’ve got underneath there is worse than nothing,” Quinn told her.
She was still going to protest, but he spoke again, and his voice was rough.
“Please, baby.”
And Ginnie could tell that in spite of his expression, the lid on his passion was still close to snapping off.
“All right,” she said sweetly. “I’ll let you buy me something pretty.”
Quinn grabbed her hand again and grumbled, “I’m actually hoping to buy you something hideous.”
Ginnie laughed, but two minutes later, she found herself standing in the boutiques shops adjacent to the hotel lobby, shaking her head vehemently at a hot pink parka. A very hideous choice.
Twenty-Four
Quinn lifted his hand to his mouth to cover his smile. He knew he didn’t stand a chance in hell of convincing Ginnie to buy anything that came even close to resembling the ski jacket in front of them, but he figured if he started with the worst possible suggestion, she might be willing to go with something reasonably conservative instead of something as provocative as her current outfit. Which was clearly designed to kill him, bit by bit.
He had to admit he was also enjoying the horrified look on her face as she ran her fingers along the silver-stranded fur collar.
“You can’t be serious,” she said.
“There’s a snow storm out there,” Quinn reminded her.
“And you think this is appropriate snow storm attire?”
Quinn picked up the tag. “I think it’s a waterproof, down-lined jacket, good up to twenty degrees below zero. With a five-year warranty.”
“It’s pink.”
“So were your underwear.” He raised an eyebrow. “And now, so is your face.”
“Shut up.”
Ginnie lifted the jacket off the rack like she was actually considering it, and Quinn bit back another smile as she held it up to her body.
“You actually think this is going to make me look less like I’m naked underneath?” she asked.
“It will once you put on the matching pants.”
“That is not happening.”
She slammed the hanger back onto the rack and strode away from the ski jackets toward the back of the store.
Quinn watched her go, admiring the way her swift, irritated pace made his jacket ride up. His admiration disappeared quickly, though, when he noticed another man giving her legs the same appreciative stare. Quinn’s mood darkened immediately. He shot the man a glare, and the ogler jumped and hurried away.
Just to be sure, Quinn followed the man’s flight until he was out of the store and had disappeared around a corner.
Yeah, that’s right, buddy. Find some other girl to mentally undress.
Then he turned back to Ginnie, who was standing on her tiptoes, trying to grab a coat hanging just above her head. Her ass was practically hanging out. Again.
With an exasperated exhale, Quinn crossed the length of the store in four strides, positioned himself behind her, and placed his hands on her hips. He forced her to flatten her feet to the floor.
“Are you completely unaware of your general effect on every warm-blooded man in a ten-foot radius?” he said into her ear as he reached around her to pull the jacket down. “Or are you deliberately tormenting all of us?”
She leaned into him for a second, then snapped the coat from his hands and pulled away. “You could ver
y easily end the destructive path I’m on. Just take me back to our room.”
“Or you could let me buy you the hot-pink parka.”
She shot him a dirty look. “Buy one for yourself. It’s not as though you’re hard on the eyes, either.”
“Every woman that walks by isn’t thinking about what I’m wearing under my jacket.”
“Because you’re not wearing a jacket. Speaking of which…Hold this?”
Ginnie slid his coat from her shoulders, and just the beginning of bare skin was enough to remind Quinn that he was thinking about what was under the coat himself. His hands shot out to stop her from undressing any further.
“You’re half-naked under there for real,” he said. “So let’s just leave it on.”
Ginnie rolled her eyes. “I can’t exactly try on the other jacket if you won’t let me take off this one.”
“I’ll buy you one in every size and you can put on the one that fits when we get somewhere…darker.”
The suggestion was ludicrous, and the moment it was out of his mouth, Quinn knew it. He still meant it. He waited for Ginnie’s responding sarcasm, but she just took a step forward, which loosened his hold on the jacket. It fell to her elbows, and she tipped those oh-so-green eyes up at him.
“What is it, exactly, that you’re scared of?” she asked teasingly.
Scared?
Quinn opened his mouth to scoff it off, but the briefest hesitation gave him enough time to consider that it might be true.
No.
That it was true.
He was scared shitless. Afraid that the draw he felt to her had more meaning that it should. Or worse…That it had less meaning that he thought it did. Scared of hurting her. Scared that a day ago, they hadn’t even met, but today, it made him crazy just thinking about some stranger checking her out. Scared that he wanted to share personal things with her, things that were true instead of some façade created to keep the undercover operation in play. Hell, he was even worried that he wasn’t capable of being that real.
“Genevieve…” He trailed off as he realized she wasn’t even looking at him anymore; her eyes were trained to his left, and her expression was pained.
Quinn turned sideways, already knowing what he’d find.
Dr. Douchebag. And his groupie girlfriend was nowhere to be seen.
“Shit,” he muttered.
The fake-tanned asshole was swaying a little on his feet, and Quinn knew the man was drunk. Not in a nice, shared a bottle of sparkling wine with a pretty girl tipsy way, but wasted as hell. He tripped and bumped into a woman, and the man beside her righted the jerk and shook his head before moving on again. The doctor stumbled and took two steps nearer to Quinn and Ginnie.
Fight or flight.
Quinn wasn’t entirely against the first, but he knew there was sometimes a need for the second, too.
“We should go,” he said quickly.
“Too late.”
Ginnie was right. Her ex had spotted them and was weaving in their direction. He was already close enough that Quinn could smell the liquor.
Fight it is.
As he got even closer, a sales clerk – the first one Quinn had seen since they came in – darted her nervous gaze from one man to the other, then took a miniature step toward them. Quinn shot her a quick headshake, then turned himself all the way around, making a wall between him and Ginnie just as the doctor stopped directly in front of them.
The other man’s hand sought a clothing rack for stability, missed it once, then twice, then managed to grab it on the third attempt.
“Can I help you?” Quinn asked coolly.
“You have something that’s mine,” came the slurred reply.
Quinn’s temper flared. Like hell she’s yours.
Except a heartbeat-long assessment told him that the doctor wasn’t referring to Ginnie at all. He was talking directly to her, his glassy-eyed glare sliding right past Quinn.
“Give them back,” he ordered. “You’re fucking with my life.”
He made a stumbling lunge past Quinn, but Quinn’s hand shot out and closed on his arm.
“Hey!”
Quinn ignored both his cry and the way he cringed under his grip.
“Lawrence, is it?” he asked.
His voice was calm, but on the inside, his blood was moving through his veins at a slow boil.
Seriously. How had Ginnie ever been married to this guy?
“What’s it fucking to you?”
“Second time you’ve caused a problem for Ginnie. I just want to make sure I’ve got your name right when your girlfriend comes crying to me and I have to apologize to her for kicking the shit out of you. Speaking of which…Shouldn’t you be attending to her instead of hassling us?”
Dr. Douchebag didn’t take the not too subtle hint. He tried to shake off Quinn, and when it didn’t work, he glared up sullenly.
“I need to talk to my w – to Ginnie. Alone.”
“Not happening.”
“She’s got stuff that belongs to me.”
“Still not happening.”
“Shouldn’t she have a say?”
Quinn’s preference would’ve been to flatten Lawrence outright, but the man had a tiny point. Ginnie was an extremely capable woman. She could tell him to go fuck himself on her own.
And if she doesn’t?
Quinn gritted his teeth at the idea. Then he’d find a different excuse to knock the other man on his ass.
He stepped back, just enough that both of them had a view of Ginnie, who’d pulled Quinn’s coat tight around her body. Whose face was more emotionless than Quinn had seen it.
“I don’t want to talk to you, Lawrence,” she stated, her voice a match to her expression.
“There you go,” Quinn said, his own tone full of satisfaction. “Go back your girl and leave mine alone.”
“Ginnie isn’t your goddamned girl,” the other man growled.
It was all Quinn could take.
Fight or flight.
Own or be owned.
Kiss or kill.
He spun toward Ginnie, slid his arm around her waist, and pulled her close. He didn’t give her a chance to react. He just slammed his mouth into hers. He dug his palm into the small of her back and forced her lips open with his tongue. Very quickly, he forgot why he was doing it, forgot that he’d stolen the kiss to show up the man who’d once been married to the woman in his arms.
Ginnie melted into him, her fingers creeping up the back of his neck and finding purchase in his hair.
She was so damned sweet-tasting. So damned sweet-feeling.
She moaned a little against his mouth.
Quinn pulled back, turning the kiss tender. He ran his fingers under her coat, up her spine, then back down again. He dragged his mouth from her lips to her chin, then along her throat.
My goddamned girl.
That’s what he wanted. Even if it was just for the rest of the weekend.
And he needed her to know.
He brought his hands up to her face and poured that need into their contact. When he finally eased away, they were both breathing heavily.
“I’ll take you back upstairs,” he offered softly. “If you still want me to.”
“We can go out,” she replied, her words just as low. “If that’s what you want.”
“We can go back upstairs, then go out.”
“Compromise. I like it. But it might mean we have to miss out on a little fake-Vegas action.”
“For fuck sake!” Lawrence snapped, temporarily breaking the spell.
Quinn reined in another urge to send the other man to the ground.
He let out a thick breath and said instead, “Their bag is up in our room.”
“So I guess we have to go up there anyway then? Fake-Vegas or not…”
“I guess we do.”
“Compromise and sacrifice. We should hurry.”
Quinn turned and shot Lawrence a smirk. “I’d say I hope you can keep up, but w
hat I’m really hoping is that you’ll fall flat on your face, break your nose, and spend the rest of your weekend in whatever passes for a hospital here in Asscrack, Colorado.”
Then he slid his fingers between Ginnie’s, pulled her from store, and didn’t bother to look and see if Lawrence was behind them or not.
Twenty-Five
Even though Ginnie could feel Lawrence slugging along behind them, she didn’t care. In a few minutes, she’d have shoved the suitcase into her former husband’s hands, slammed the door, and she’d be in Quinn’s arms.
A delicious shiver crept up her spine.
She wasn’t gloating. She didn’t quite feel like she’d gotten her way. This wasn’t seduction. It was something more. Or at the very least, a lead-up to something more. And it might be even better.
Ginnie was practically bouncing in her near-stilettos as they waited for the elevator. It was funny to her how little it bothered her that Lawrence stood to one side of them. It didn’t matter to her what he thought of the fact that she was sharing a room with the hard-edged man who currently held her hand tightly. In fact, the only real thought she had about Lawrence was that she’d never been so glad to not be married to him.
It was funny – really funny – to her that just a few months ago, the man had been her husband and she’d been satisfied with that. When now she felt like he was a stranger. And Quinn, who was a stranger, felt so much more an intimate part of her life.
It scared her a little.
More than a little.
But she wouldn’t trade in the last thirty hours. Not even if it meant going back to never knowing what she was missing.
That shiver of anticipation swept over her again, and Quinn kissed the top of her head.
“Almost there,” he murmured.
And like his words prompted it, the elevator doors slid open.
Quinn put his hand on the door and said, “Ladies first,” and Ginnie stepped forward.
But so did Lawrence.
And as he did, all hell broke loose.
Lawrence lunged at Quinn, and for all the other man’s size and strength, her former husband had surprise and drunken stupidity on his side. Quinn lost his footing, just for a minute. It was enough. Lawrence lifted a loafer-clad foot and drove it into Quinn’s knee. And before Ginnie could react, before Quinn could recover…Lawrence was in the elevator beside her, one hand slamming on the button labelled Close Door and the other on Ginnie’s arm.
Mile High Weekend (Opposites Attract Book 1) Page 17
