by Maisey Yates
“I didn’t know it would hurt this bad,” she said, the last word wobbly and pathetic.
A million emotions flashed through Quinn’s dark eyes, but the most off-putting, and the most hysterical, had to be the pure terror she saw there. She hadn’t expected a little hymen could frighten such a big strong man, but it seemed that it did.
“Baby . . .” He leaned down and kissed her face. “Do you want to stop?” he asked, his voice ragged.
She shook her head. “No.” She shifted. “It’s not as bad now.”
“Well, damn, that’s about the least complimentary thing I’ve ever heard during sex. Not as bad now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me,” he said. “Not now, anyway.”
He shifted and went in deeper, another flash of pain accompanying the motion. She held on to him, moved her hips up and took him inside the rest of the way. It still burned, her body stretching to accommodate him.
“Just hold still,” she said, closing her eyes, waiting for her body to get used to him. And while she did, he kissed her shoulder, her neck, her face, her lips. And her arousal started to build again.
Eventually, the pain passed. And it was replaced by need. For him. For release.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you hurt?” She shook her head. He withdrew from her slowly and she locked her legs around his, trying to hold herself to him.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He thrust back into her, and this time it didn’t hurt at all. This time she just felt full, in the very best way, and closer to him than she’d ever felt to anyone before. “Good?”
“Very.”
“That’s an improvement.”
He established a rhythm, slow and gentle at first, but one that picked up as they went further. A rhythm that started to falter and fray as Quinn’s breathing got harder, as his muscles tightened.
“You feel so good,” he said, his face buried in her neck, his hands holding tight to her hips.
“You too,” she said. And she wasn’t lying.
She was so close to the edge, each of his thrusts pushing her closer. She arched against him, her breasts rubbing against his chest, her clit pushing against his pelvis, sending streaks of heat through her body.
“I can’t . . .” he said, “I can’t . . .”
“Don’t stop,” she said.
He lowered his head, sucking her nipple into his mouth as he thrust into her, pushing her over the edge, the tension that had been growing inside of her fraying, breaking. She was falling and she didn’t care. Surrounded by pleasure, drowning in it, in a wave so intense it overtook everything in her. Everything around.
The world had truly fallen away. But she was in Quinn’s arms. And nothing else mattered.
Chapter Twelve
For the first time in his life, Quinn was struck by the deficit of curse words in the English language. There weren’t enough of them. He’d thought through them all, in varying combinations, ten or eleven times since his head had cleared.
Since the roar of blood in his ears had dissipated and his heart rate had returned to normal, the aftereffects of his orgasm slowly slipped into the ether, dragging all good feelings with them.
He had just gotten the dirtiest revenge a man could have. He’d seduced his enemy’s younger sister. His enemy’s younger sister who, up until few moments ago, had been a virgin.
And he hadn’t meant to.
Well, he had, but it hadn’t been for the reasons he’d set out to seduce her. He’d decided not to seduce her for revenge, and yet he still couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d used her. Taken advantage of her. He’d slept with . . . lots of women. He’d never bothered to count. But he’d never, ever in his life slept with a virgin, and he was too damn old to be stumbling across one now.
But then, that was the problem, or part of it. She was way too young. And way, way too innocent. Much more innocent than he’d ever guessed at. Obviously she wasn’t overly experienced, but he had not, under any circumstances, expected a woman who looked like her and who clearly enjoyed physical touch as much as she did to be a virgin. It made no sense in his mind.
His mind that was now working again. Which meant he had no excuse to lie here with her curled up against him and not say anything. And not even dispose of the condom. But he was afraid if he tried to stand up, he would just fall over.
She shifted, kissing his chest, and he felt it with all the impact of a bullet. A little show of affection he didn’t deserve. Not after that.
“Are you okay?” he asked, because it was the most important thing. The look of pain, of fear, on her face when he’d been inside of her had been the single most horrifying moment of his life. And he had felt, in that moment, every inch the villain he’d ever been accused of being.
Funny, he’d always thought he already was. Bad blood. Beyond redemption. Unable to sink any lower.
Turned out, there had been a lower. It had been that moment. And it had most especially been the following moment when he’d decided to keep going. To stay inside of her. To chase his pleasure rather than pulling out, wrapping her in his shirt and running out of the room.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice all dreamy and sleepy. Content. Something else, along with her virginity, that he didn’t deserve. For her to not be screaming at him. For her to not throw something at his head.
“I’ve got to go and . . .” Why was it hard to say he had to go and throw out the used condom? Why did he suddenly not want to say the word condom in front of her when she’d just rolled one onto his cock fifteen minutes ago?
He cleared his throat and rolled away from her, tugging the condom off so she wouldn’t have to see. Then he turned back and looked at her. And saw a smear of red on his bedspread. His eyes followed that to her inner thighs, where there was more blood. More evidence of what he’d done to her.
“Shit,” he breathed. He forgot about the condom and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I hurt you.”
“You didn’t. Well, no, you did, that’s why I cussed. But it’s fine. It’s . . . supposed to hurt, right?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Aren’t you, like . . . an expert?”
“A virgin expert?”
“An expert on sex and women and stuff.”
“I’ve never . . . I don’t . . . I’ve never been with a virgin before.” And for some reason, just then when he said them, the words sent a shot of pure satisfaction through him. He was the only man who’d ever been with her. The only man who’d ever touched her, made her come.
And he should not be taking any pleasure in that. But he was. He couldn’t help it. It was deep, primitive beast that lived inside of him that he’d never known was there until this moment. He’d always enjoyed a woman’s experience. Mixed with his own, it made for some serious fun in the bedroom.
Women who knew he was a rough guy, women who wanted that and knew all the right ways to work with the tools at their disposal, so to speak.
But Lark had no experience. She didn’t have tricks. And she’d just given him the best, and worst, sex of his life.
The best because being with her, in her, had been damn near transcendent. The worst because he had emerged from it feeling evil and a little bit dirty. And he’d made her bleed.
“Just a second.” He walked into the bathroom and paced the length of it, before realizing he was still holding the condom in his hand, which he wrapped in toilet paper and chucked into the trash before resuming pacing.
He braced his hands on the sink and looked in the mirror. Bad idea. All he saw was his own hated face. Dark eyes, dark skin, features that looked nothing like those of anyone in his family. Evidence that he didn’t belong, written all over him from th
e moment he was born.
Even deeper was the evidence of what was inside of him. Evidence that spilled out in times like this. Had he really not known she was a virgin? Or had it just been convenient to ignore it?
And why was it such a big deal? He wasn’t the kind of guy who should even think it was a big deal, and yet . . . it mattered. Because everyone remembered their first. Even he did. He probably remembered it better than most of the encounters that had come since, because the first time was so important.
And her memory would be of clinging to his shoulders, every muscle in her body tight with pain while some great rutting bull tore the hell out of her.
Romantic. Sexy.
He doubted this was what she’d meant when she’d said she wanted to look back on him as a mistake she’d made.
And then some jackass cowboy scarred me for life and ruined sex for me forever.
Damn.
He walked over to the big raised tub and turned the faucet on. It was situated in front of a window, facing the mountains behind the house. A view of the world from in the tub. He didn’t much care about the world right now. The only thing that seemed to matter was the woman back in his bedroom.
He went back in there and saw her, still laying sprawled on the bed, the blood on her thighs screaming at him, a condemnation.
He moved to her, scooped her up into his arms, holding her against his chest. She flailed a little bit, her eyes wide. “What are you doing?”
“Taking care of you,” he said.
The bath was half full now. He set her down and leaned in to test the water with his hand. Warm. Perfect.
He scooped her up again and stepped into the tub, setting them both down in it, her bottom fitted snugly between his legs, his arms wrapped around her chest.
“Seriously . . . what are you doing?”
He pulled a washcloth off the side of the tub. “You bled,” he said, the words sticking in his throat.
“I didn’t really notice.”
“I did.”
He dipped the cloth in the water and put it between her thighs, moving it over her skin slowly. As if washing it away would make it better. Would make it like he hadn’t done it. Like it hadn’t happened. If only actions were undone as easily as blood washed away.
He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against her shoulder. She was so beautiful. Far too beautiful for him. He didn’t like how looking at her like this made him feel. All pale, smooth and beautiful, her glossy brown hair curling in the moist air. She made him feel like touching her would spoil all that beauty.
Like she was a priceless artifact and the more he handled her, the more he would corrode her loveliness, damage her color and shine. His fingers, his very touch, like acid.
Neither of them spoke as he continued to hold her, the warm water surrounding them. He should release her. He didn’t want to. But he would have to.
He sat with her until the tub filled to the top and he had to turn the water off. Until the water got tepid.
Then he scooped her up again and dried her off, taking her back into the bedroom and setting her on the bed.
“A girl could get used to this,” she said, her voice sleepy.
He went to his closet and found a big long-sleeved shirt, then threw it to her. She tugged it over head and pulled her knees up to her chest. “Thank you. I forgot to bring anything. Except for the ice cream. Which we could still eat later.”
“Aren’t you tired?”
She yawned. “Very. And I think maybe you liquefied my bones.” She poked at her arm. “I’m not sure I can walk.”
“You’ll heal,” he said. And he hoped it was true. In every way possible.
She laughed. “I know.” She didn’t make a move to get under the covers. She just sat there, her hair damp, looking warm and far too inviting.
“Get in bed, Lark.”
She obeyed, sliding beneath the covers and flashing an enticing amount of leg while she did it. His body stood at attention, and he wanted to punch himself for it.
She smiled at him. She damn well smiled at him. Like he was a pleasant sight. Like she was happy to see him.
“You’re still naked,” she said.
He looked down, at himself and his reawakening erection. “Yeah, well.” He bent down and picked his jeans up, tugging them on, tucking in all pertinent members and zipping his pants. “Not now.”
“Why not?”
“You need sleep, baby.”
“I’m pretty good, actually. You suddenly got it into your head that I was desperately tired, and you’re a stud, Quinn, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not like we just ran a marathon.”
“You need sleep,” he said again. And he had to get out of the room before he was tempted to touch her again.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re making that face.”
“What face?”
“There’s this face that Cole makes when he’s going to make me do something I don’t want. Something that’s for my own good.”
“I’m not your brother.”
“Nooo . . . clearly. So why the face?”
“Good night, Lark. I’m going to go and sleep in another room,” he said.
“The hell you are!”
“This was a mistake.”
“Yes, Quinn, it was a mistake. I know good and well it was a mistake. In fact, I think I’m the one who went into it was saying it was going to be my personal gigantic, sexy, amazing mistake!”
“And now it’s been made. It’s done.”
“I am not done making you, Mr. Mistake,” she said. “I want to have you more than once.”
“This isn’t what I bargained for,” he said.
“Were you a virgin? Did you not know how sex is?”
“You know I wasn’t.”
“Then how could it have surprised you? Or is it just that because I was a virgin, I wasn’t any good? Because I’m not as experienced as your little . . . buckle bunny skanks.”
“Jealousy?”
“Yeah. And?”
“Look . . .”
“No good statement ever has started with ‘look.’ Unless it was ‘Look, a puppy!’ or ‘Look, a unicorn!’ When you say it like you just did though, you can guarantee I’m going to want to kick you in the balls.”
“Lark,” he bit out, “I would never have touched you if I would have known you were a virgin. I am way too old for you as it is. And adding that . . .”
“Wait, what?”
“I wouldn’t have slept with you if I would have known you were a virgin.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “The only person my virginity should matter to at all is me. And news flash, I was well aware of my status.”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
“And . . .”
“I don’t want to hurt you. And you might think you know about sex—”
“I do know about sex. I had a cybersex . . . fling with a guy about six months ago. We talked dirty. I got off. I wasn’t hurt.”
“It seems the cybersex left your hymen intact,” he said through gritted teeth, his heart pounding so hard and fast he felt lightheaded. “So for the sake of argument, let’s say it didn’t count.”
“Why do you get to say my sex didn’t count?” He gave her his hardest stare, and she shrank back a bit. “Okay, it wasn’t actual sex. But I’m just saying, I’m not totally inexperienced.”
“You are. You were. And you have no idea what the ramifications might be to something like this.”
“What . . . like if we end up in a horror movie I’ll be the first to be killed because I’m no longer the virgin of the group?”
“Lark, be serious.”
“Are you serious, Quinn? Are you honestly serious?”
“Yes, I am, I’m trying to protect you,
and—”
“Hold. The eff. On. Did you just say you’re trying to protect me?”
“Yes.”
“What is wrong with . . . every man everywhere? At least every man I know. Stop protecting me from life. Do you want to protect every woman from your big bad penis?”
“That isn’t—”
“No. You don’t. So stop trying to protect me from it! I am not a thing for you to coddle and protect. I am a human being. You men can go ride on a bucking freaking bronco and travel the country and screw everything in Daisy Dukes, but I’m not allowed to know about my family. I’m not allowed to have sex. One flipping time. I thought you at least respected me. I thought you realized that I wasn’t a child.”
“This isn’t about not respecting you—”
“How could it be about anything else? You’re basically saying I made the wrong decision and had you had all the information you would have made a different one for me. Disrespectful.”
“Fine, if it’s not about you, then what about me? Maybe I didn’t want the responsibility of being your first. Did you think of that?”
“I—”
“Isn’t that my choice?” he asked.
“I . . . what . . . I don’t really see how it matters.”
“It does matter,” he said. “It does. I would have changed the way I did things. I would have taken my time. I wouldn’t have hurt you like that.”
“It was just a little pain. It’s nothing.”
“It was something, because I hated hurting you.”
“Well, I think it was basically unavoidable.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “And I think it was avoidable. Because like it or not, I do know more about sex than you.”
“And you’re an expert in devirginization?”
“No, I’ve never been with a virgin before, and for good reason. I’m a bad bet. I’m not ever going to do the love and commitment thing.”
“That’s fine. I don’t want it. Not from you. You’re my mistake, remember?”
“Well then, Ms. Mitchell, what do you want? Because you seem to have it all figured out.”
“I do,” she said, craning her neck, looking like a little heiress. In a baggy t-shirt with stringy hair.
