by Camden Leigh
“Is your mom better?” she asks when I don’t answer.
“Look how often she comes around. I don’t expect her to forget, but she hasn’t come close to forgiving, so “better” is a relative term to loosely describe her.”
“What was reason two for leaving?”
“You get one secret at a time. Plus, you need to catch up.” I shove my hands in my pocket, feeling more naked than I would if I were standing here in my birthday suit.
“Fine. Never have I ever scored on the first date.”
I examine her green eyes and how they play in the light as they track back and forth, watching me and waiting for my answer. I can’t tell if she hopes I get it wrong, or hopes I get it right. “Define scoring. Is that kissing, touching, oral, or sex?”
“I’ll amend.” She clears her throat. “Never have I ever had sex on the first date.”
“I’m going with false.”
She pauses, pulls her lips to the side, then sighs. “Wrong. Take a shot.”
“No way! Surely you date.”
She shrugs. “But he doesn’t score, not until I figure out if he’s clingy or not. No need to get anyone’s hopes up.”
I drum my finger against the counter. “You mean like me.”
“With you”—she shrugs—” I’m not sure first dates or scoring are an option.”
“Not sure?” I stand a little taller. That’s better than straight up “aren’t” an option.
“I can’t figure you out. I can’t figure me out when I’m with you. There’s a tug or a pull between us that’s unsettling. For me.”
I grab the phone from her hands and slip it on the counter, then take hold of her arms. God, is this my one chance? Better not fuck it up. “Another secret.” I rub my hands down her arms as slowly as possible. “I want to kiss you. Long. Slow. All over.”
Her gaze pops to my lips. She licks her own so slowly I groan.
Invitation? I think so.
I cup her cheeks and pull her to me. She pushes to her toes, making it easier to find her lips. Easier to taste them and feel them sliding across mine. Her hands twine up my neck, pulling me closer to her. I set her on the island and she wraps her legs around me.
I tug her shirt, pulling it free of her shorts. Her body shudders as I snake my hand up her back. She moans against my mouth, then pulls slowly away.
“Cassie.”
Her face reddens, then her neck. “Quinn.”
“I want a secret from you. I want to know how you feel around me. How you feel about me.”
She forces me back and slips off the counter.
I grab her elbows, cupping them with my hands. “Just tell me.”
She turns her head and her lip bobbles. “Safe. Confused. Falling for you scares me. I don’t invest me in other people’s lives because I can’t afford to let them invest in mine.”
“Try, just this once.” Come on, I’m not a fucking serial killer.
She shakes her head. “You don’t get it. Relationships are a waste of time. You give, give, give and please, please, please, and all you get in return is a mediocre pat on the back and the notion your two hundred percent is worth ten to the other person. Relationships fuel disappointment.” She leans back on her elbows, grabbing all the distance from me she can. “I have no use for disappointment, and with you . . . I foresee monopolized time, emotions, and quite possibly my heart. That equals disappointment. Long term isn’t an option and cannot happen. And you want long term. You want heart and soul. I don’t have that to give.”
My heart stops beating, like physically stills in my chest for one, two, three seconds, then whoosh, I inhale and holy fuck. I get it. I totally get it. I understand how having something, then losing it fucks with your heart and mind. It made me cautious, leery even, of new people entering my life, and old friends who don’t know the half of what I’ve suffered. Not so cautious I never avoided relationships. I dated. And yeah, maybe slept around a little—or a lot in the beginning, but I know what I want out of a relationship and I know they take work. I blink Cassie back into focus. And this one’s going to take a fucking front-end loader and a wrecking ball to make happen. “None of that changes how much I want to kiss you.”
“I think I should go to bed.” She ducks under my arm from where I pinned her against the counter. The glance she casts over her shoulder leaks her uncertainty into the air.
Fuck if I’m going down that easily.
I push open her door, grab her around the waist and pull her into me, taking her lips without caution. Her hands ball into fists and press against my shoulders. She turns away and I give her a second to think this through, to really consider what she and I could have, right now, right here. If she wanted. And I need her to want me.
“You can walk away,” I whisper, “but I can’t walk away without a fight.”
Her hands soften as her glazed olive-green eyes consider my offer. I let her go and hold my hands up, waiting for her choice. Will she choose me, or herself?
“Don’t stop fighting,” she whispers. “I want you to win.”
I lock the door and move swiftly to her side, afraid I’m imagining this. Afraid I’ve drunk too much—highly improbable—and am experiencing the most elaborate hallucination ever.
She takes my hands and walks me around the edge of her bed. Her hands slip over my chest, lower to my belt and undo me in a matter of seconds, both physically and mentally. I tug at her shirt hem and shimmy it up, exposing her gorgeous map of freckles. I lean down and kiss her neck, her shoulder, and the dip where her collar bones meet.
Her hands thread through my hair and direct me up. Her kiss settles on my lips. Her tongue traces their seam. I back her into the bed, no longer wanting to take it slow. She pulls her shirt over her head and reaches for the hook on her bra, but I hook her elbow with my finger, wanting to enjoy the sight a bit longer—loose red strands falling from her messy bun, curling just above her navy lace bra. I trace the outline of her nipples and they harden against the sheer material.
She sits on the edge of the mattress. I drop to my knees and lean over her legs, inhaling her and tracing a kiss across her breasts. She arches back and collapses on the bed, but not before grabbing a handful of my shirt and inviting me to stretch out with her.
She pulls my shirt over my head and traces the trail of tattoos across my chest before pulling me closer. I roll on top of her and settle a kiss on her lips. Warm fucking lips. Hot fucking body. Sexiest damn woman I’ve ever met.
“This is our first date, right?” she asks.
“No way.” I kiss her and stretch her arms overhead so I can trace the curves her body makes. “You don’t score on the first date.”
‘Thought we could change that.”
My gaze pops to her. I’m so fucking done. I hop off the bed and rip my boxers down. I eye her shorts and she lifts her ass off the bed so I can help her out of them. In record time, I have her naked and under me. “You still think sex equals scoring?”
“I think you better get a condom.” She points at her suitcase lying on the floor with clothes draped over it. “Inside pocket.”
“Are you always this prepared.”
“Always. Except when it comes to you.”
I don’t want to leave the bed, or her, afraid she’ll have second thoughts. Plus, I rather enjoy dragging my fingers over her hot skin and watching the flush settle in. I massage her legs, bending her knee to press her foot against my stomach when I stand. Cassidy, stretched out for me. Waiting for me. Better get a move on then. Not like me to keep a woman waiting.
I search through her suitcase, finding the pocket on second try. I grab a condom from the unopened box and flip it onto the nightstand. “Where was I?”
“You were ripping that open and rolling it on.”
Skeptical of jumping right into it, I laugh her comment off. I return to kissing her freckles and tracing her curves. She wiggles out from under me, pushing me down on the bed and grabs the condom.
&
nbsp; “May I have the honors?” she asks. “Or do you need more foreplay?”
“By all means, go for it.” Goddamn sexy, her on top of me getting all sassy.
She rolls the condom on my cock. It gives her an agreeable nod when she pumps her hand down to the root. She shifts over me, stroking my abs. I grab her hand and jerk her forward, folding her over me so I can kiss her tits and taste her lips.
Neither disappoint, and that I can’t worship her a bit longer is a goddamn shame. She moves her hips slowly over my cock, priming herself for my entry. Her moan, delicious and sweet as peaches, makes me pump my hips. I penetrate slowly, working into her with a pace that leaves her breathless. Gasping for air. Wanting more. And bucking forward. She arches back, forcing me deep and I grab her hips, slowing her rocking, wanting to enjoy every damn minute like it’s the first and last time I’ll have her.
“I’m close,” she pants.
“I’ve been close since you got here. Go for it.”
She pushes into her feet, raising and lowering over me, enjoying the fullness when I’m deep with a sigh and a moan. I reach down and press my thumb against her clit. She rockets forward, eyes rounding as I add another dynamic to what she’s feeling.
Both gyrating, we find a rhythm, increasing the speed after each thrust. She leans forward, fingertips gripping my shoulders, and calls out. Her body quakes, sending my cock into its own set of tremors.
When the aftershocks settle, she rolls off me and stares at the ceiling, chest heaving. “That was nice.”
“Nice? That was incredible.”
“Eh,” she teases.
I roll and pull her back against my chest. We lay like that for several minutes before she squirms out of bed and disappears into the adjoining bathroom. When she comes back in, she has shorts and a tight tee covering her magnificent body.
“Time for you to go.”
“No way,” I say. “There’s more where that came from.”
She leans against the door, hair a wild mess, like an out of control bonfire with smudges of ash beneath her eyes. “Seriously, Quinn. You have to go. You can’t stay.” She glances at the door.
“You’re afraid we’ll get caught? I don’t care about that and you shouldn’t either.”
“Not your ass on the line.” She leans down and picks up my clothes and drops them on my chest. “And that’s not really the case. I don’t let guys stay over. I told you that earlier.”
I push up to my elbow and thrust my clothes on the ground. “I’m not some fucking guy you picked up at a bar.”
“I told you, I don’t date.”
“Right, because you’re scared of disappointment.”
She folds her arms over her chest. “I’m not scared of it; I avoid it. I don’t have time to invest in the before, and I don’t need the heartbreak after. No boyfriends, no dating. It solves everything.”
“So just mindless sex?”
“Do you need a girlfriend to have sex?” She rolls her eyes.
I used to enjoy that lifestyle. Until I realized being numb sucked. “So, just the fucking?”
Her chin drops. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Well,” I say, “you have yourself a problem then, because eventually a guy will come along and you’ll be shit out of luck. All your rules will cease to exist. He’ll want you. You’ll want him.” I scoop up my clothes and head toward the door. “You’ll enjoy each other, and then after, you’ll wish it had been for a better reason than ‘just a good fuck.’” I nudge the door open with my foot. “When you realize that guy is standing right in front of you, let me know, because I meant what I said about not being the one to walk away.”
Chapter 14
Cassidy
Never have I ever drank a whole bottle of Jack by myself. I plop my ass in the chair.
False.
I stare so long at the striation in the granite counter, I swear it’s moving. Moving away. Moving closer. Which is it?
I set the shot gloss upside down on the empty bottle then rise to head to bed. I grab my reeling head and take a step closer to my room. The throbbing is minor compared to the emotions flapping through the room like locusts in a bat cave. Quinn couldn’t have put it better. I am shit out of luck. I’ve been out of luck since day one of my independence. Finding a stroke of good luck is like finding the golden egg on Easter morning. Everyone wants it. Everyone fights for it, but only one single person reaps the reward. That’s rarely me. Quinn? He’s the golden egg. Comes with all the bells and whistles the other plain eggs lack. Doesn’t mean I’m his golden egg, though.
After the worst night of sleep ever, which may have something to do with the liquor I consumed, but mostly has something to do with Quinn and what he’d said, I down two pills to dull the pounding in my head. Waiting for my waffle to pop up from the toaster, I reread the thread of texts between Mrs. Covington and Ellie. I rub sleep from my eyes and yawn. Twice.
My phone chimes again. “No, no, no.”
“Problems already?”
My heart stalls, but kick-starts as Quinn moves into the kitchen. Closer. And closer still.
Without looking up, I try to play it smooth. “Ellie put me on a group text. She wants her ball moved outside. I swear you people find any reason to throw a party.”
“It’s customary to have a party for the guests who arrive early.”
“A ball? Normal people do dinner at a restaurant or book tours for the early birds. Not plan an extravagant themed ball. That’s not even the worst part, she told her mom I was to be a guest.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
I look up from my phone but it chimes again. “Good God. Do your sisters always win?”
“Well, the name does kind of give us preferential treatment.” He fakes a yawn to conceal a grin. “You going as a guest works for me.”
Is this the same guy that charged out of my bedroom last night? I guess I did kind of kick him out, but still, he acts as if nothing went down, and something most certainly did. I expected him to never speak to me again. I did not expect to be greeted by this charming, forgiving man who considers my presence as a guest a great idea. “I should be in the kitchen bossing the caterers, or making sure the speeches follow your mom’s rigid time-table.” I sure as hell can’t do those flowy-gown dresses.
“I still don’t get what the big deal is. So you get to go to a party. A massive one at that. Have a little fun. You deserve it.”
I suck in a huge breath, then exhale my words quickly, “I can’t dance. I don’t do box steps or whatever. Or bows—”
“Curtsies.”
“What?”
“Ladies don’t bow, they curtsy. Gentlemen bow.”
“See what I mean? I’m a complete idiot when it comes to formal dancing stuff.” I pull my waffle from the toaster and drip syrup in the center. “In case you haven’t noticed, I wasn’t eligible for southern charm school. Sure I can hug the crap out of you people, and attempt to say ‘yes, ma’am’ and ‘yes, sir’ but let’s be honest; I was raised to brownnose the intellectual crowd at university parties, not charm the pantaloons or whatever off Mr. and Mrs. Manners. I don’t know the first thing about a dance of this magnitude.”
“I’ll help you.”
Glad he hasn’t brought up last night, I humor him. “Exactly how?”
“I’ll teach you the dances.”
I stop, a bite halfway to my mouth. “What’s in it for you?”
His eyes go dark and glaze like he’s thinking something inappropriate. I’m positive he is, because I am. I’m thinking my lips around his cock instead of this fork would be a good trade off.
I snap in front of his face. “Did you hear what I asked?”
“Uh, yeah. I um”—he adjusts his pants, confirming my suspicions— “just want you to survive. Mom’s notoriously lethal at these functions.”
I squint and give him the once-over. Twice.
“Why give her a reason to draw her weapons? I’ll teach you all the dance
s and we’ll show her you are perfectly capable of stepping out of the kitchen.”
I suppose lessons would benefit me in the long run. Pray tell I need to attend another ball in this century. And there’s Ellie’s insistence. Doubt she’ll let me say no. “So just dance lessons? No funny business?”
“None. All work. No play.”
Somehow I doubt that.
The door flies open and Kat, singing something about horses, dances into the room.
Quinn grabs her before she dances into my plate. She jumps, banging her elbow on the fridge handle. After a string of cuss words fly out of her mouth, she yanks her earbuds free. “What the fucking shit?”
She gawks at me, then Quincy. A grin spreads across her face. “Hey, Cassidy; did you get Ellie’s text?”
“Which one?”
“The one about the fabric. Ellie’s going crazy.” Kat pushes past me and wedges between me and Quinn.
“Has she decided?” I ask.
“It was broadcloth and she freaked. Mom suggested brocade, but Ellie’s hell-bent on dupioni. I don’t know why the fuck it matters. They’re all the same if you ask me.”
“Am I supposed to whip up a flock of caterpillars and weave more silk?” I ask. “Where am I going to get a billion yards of silk in the right shade of blue a week before the wedding?”
My phone chimes again. “Oh, in the Gentlemen’s Quarters?” I set my phone down. “Where’s that?”
Kat whips her head around and stares at Quinn.
“What does your text say?” she asks.
“Pick up five bolts of dupioni from the Gentlemen’s Quarters. Take them to the dressmaker. They’ll suffice,” I read.
“I’m bowing out of this one. Quinn will take you.” Kat backs out of the kitchen leaving me no clues and Quinn turning white as the fine china in the cabinet.
“Quinn?” I question.
“That would be Dad’s office.” He melts two inches. “Where he died.”
Quinn picks up my waffle, hands it to me and drags me out the door. I chase him down a clay bank past the barn, stomach rumbling because I lost my waffle to the bees. He pauses and I lean on my knees, sucking as much oxygen through the humidity as I can.
