With a Twist

by Martin, Deirdre

  Quinn began a slow descent down her body, his hot mouth pressed against her skin as he kissed her hips, her belly, all the flesh she had that was revealed to him. And then he paused. And then she begged.

  “Please . . .”

  Possession in his wild eyes, he undid the zip of her jeans and tugged them off, followed by her panties. His hands began blazing a slow, heated path up and down the insides of her thighs. Unable to control herself, she began rocking her hips as wave after wave of pure, unabashed pleasure assaulted her. The longing to have him moving inside her was overtaking everything. She could think of nothing else.

  “Now,” she urged, hearing the desperation in her own voice.

  Quinn’s groan was pure animal as he tore off the remainder of her clothing before stripping off his own. She thought he would take her now, as she’d pleaded, but he didn’t. Instead, his fingers began exploring her again, stroking the terrain of her hips before trailing ever lower. He paused, panting, then cupped her between the legs. Natalie could not control her quivering now.

  “Please,” she rasped.

  Quinn chuckled wickedly, then began to use his fingers to slowly circle her, the pressure unbearably light at first, then gradually becoming harder and faster in rhythm with Natalie’s body. Desperate for release, she let herself go, convulsing beneath his touch as her screams of pleasure filled the room. It seemed to go on and on, glorious in its perfection.

  She was just beginning to return to herself when Quinn sat up a moment, grabbing his pants from the floor to pull out protection with which he sheathed himself. He slid back up her body and, carefully parting her legs, plunged into her. Barely able to hold on to consciousness, she wrapped herself around him, reveling in the sensation of him moving inside her, the white-hot pressure within her body beginning to build again, sharp and steep, until once more she was lost, crying out a second time, driving Quinn to madness.

  Natalie clutched hard as his body shuddered with its own release. Finally, he was fully and completely hers.

  24

  “Nat. Natalie.”

  Natalie was one of those people who awakened instantly. Hearing Quinn’s voice in the dark bedroom, she bolted upright, blinking as he gently shook her shoulder.

  “What is it?”

  The light shining in from the hallway showed he was perched on her side of the bed, holding a large, steaming mug in his hand.

  “I have to go,” he whispered. “I made you some coffee.”

  “Go?”

  He kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry about this, but I got a call from one of my NYPD contacts that some business owner was found beaten to a pulp in a warehouse he owns on Twelfth Avenue and Fifty-sixth.”

  “I didn’t hear your phone.”

  Quinn brushed her hair off her forehead affectionately. “You were out like a light.”

  Natalie accepted the mug of coffee woodenly, doing her best to hide her disappointment. This was not the way she pictured their first morning together. She’d imagined cuddling, spooning, and more sex as the day got away from them until finally, she had to rush into the shower to make her shift at the Hart on time. Once there, there would be a new level of ease and affection between herself and Quinn’s parents.

  Instead, he was leaving her alone with a steaming cup of coffee and an empty bed.

  Natalie squinted at the digital clock atop the night table. “Chere, it’s only seven o’clock.”

  Quinn looked perplexed. “So—?”

  “Well, can’t you tell your police friend to call another reporter at your newspaper?” Natalie asked, trying to stifle her frustration. “There must be others.”

  “No.” Quinn sounded irritated. “Nat, I told you—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. It just would have been nice . . .”

  “I know.” He picked up a strand of her hair and kissed it. “Look, honey, I have to run.” Her disappointment retreated for a moment when he treated her to a long, slow kiss. “I’ll try to shoot you a call at some point. Otherwise, I’ll probably see you at the Hart tonight.”

  Natalie sighed resignedly. “Okay.” She reached up, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Last night was beautiful.”

  Quinn grinned. “Très magnifique.”

  Natalie kissed him. “I love you.”

  “Love you, too. Later,” he said, walking back into the hall. Seconds later, she heard the front door close.

  Natalie took a sip of the coffee, then put the mug down on the nightstand and stood, rubbing her arms to ward off the room’s chill. Her gaze played over the tangle of bed-sheets, a reminder of last night’s passion. The sight should have made her bloom with happiness; instead, she felt hollowed out and lonely.

  She sat back down on the edge of the bed, taking a sip of coffee. How many women before her had sat just as she was sitting now, alone in the early morning as he’d flown out the door on his way to what might or might not be a major story? She cast it from her mind. She was the one who was different from them. She was the one who would let him be who he was. Right?

  She threw on her robe and, mug in hand, walked out into the living room to sit on the couch, her feet curled up beneath her. She knew Quinn loved her, yet his not being here now was bittersweet. It had never been a word that she’d particularly liked.

  Quinn sat at his desk at the Sent, digging the heels of his palms into his eye sockets in sheer frustration. He’d arrived at the warehouse only a few minutes after the cops, where they all gathered the same information: the owner was a guy named Dominick Tallia, and he’d been found, bloodied and semi-incoherent, by one of his workers on the early morning shift. Both the cops and Quinn talked to the worker, who claimed not to know anything. The poor bastard looked so rattled Quinn knew he was telling the truth. Either that or he deserved an Academy Award.

  Leaving the warehouse after they’d gleaned all they could, both he and the cops headed over to Roosevelt Hospital, where Tallia had been taken by ambulance. Beating wise, Tallia was far worse off than PJ, but like PJ, three hooded thugs had attacked him. The cops asked if someone had been extorting him. Turned out he hadn’t even been offered that option; he was told by one of the masked thugs that someone wanted the warehouse and his business, and if didn’t like it, he’d find himself chopped up in a Dumpster in Red Hook. To bring the point home, they beat him up.

  A few more questions, and he passed out. Quinn and the cops left Tallia to languish in peace, and then Quinn headed over to the Sent. He hated it when he didn’t have enough info for a story beyond “Business Owner Threatened, Found Beaten in Hell’s Kitchen Warehouse,” though he did mention the mysterious torching of Sweeney’s Hardware Store. And at least Tallia was willing to talk about it, which was more than he could say for PJ. He wrote it up, which took all of five minutes, and then he called his brother.

  “We have to stop meeting this way,” Liam groused, sliding into the booth at Longo’s, where Quinn sat waiting for him. Technically, Quinn could have waited until later in the day to talk to Liam. Hell, he could have waited until later that night, when he and his pals descended on the Hart. But Dominick Tallia’s beating was eating at him. Natalie said Liam couldn’t come to dinner at her place yesterday because he was doing something with Tommy. While Quinn was fairly certain that “something” wasn’t beating up a middle-aged Italian warehouse owner, Quinn’s craving for any possible tidbit of Whitey-related information, be it large or small, was overwhelming. And so he’d called Liam and lured him to Longo’s with the promise of lunch.

  The senior Longo waddled over to the table as soon as Liam sat.

  “Afternoon.” He playfully pushed Liam’s shoulder. “What, you only come here when you’re with your brother?”

  “I usually eat with my folks, Rocco.”

  “So bring them, too, sometime. I won’t tell them you stole those mints from me when you were a kid.”

  Liam chuckled.

  Quinn pointed at him. “One of your famous omelettes for this man here.”


  Liam held up a hand and put the other to his stomach. “Actually, I’m fine. I already had some soda bread at Mom and Dad’s,” he explained to Quinn.

  “Coffee?” the old man asked.

  “Hell yeah,” said Liam. He turned his gaze to Quinn.

  “You don’t have to buy me off with food, you know. I told you I’d tell you if I found out anything.”

  “I’m not buying you off,” Quinn replied, offended. “I was just trying to be nice. Christ.”

  “Yeah, well, whatever,” Liam muttered. Clearly he was in one of his moods. Maybe he was still wary of Quinn and their newfound relationship.

  Perhaps sensing he was being a prick, Liam switched to a more amicable tone.

  “I hear it went great at Natalie’s yesterday. Mom and Dad really like her. And Mom even liked her sister, despite the whole church flap.”

  “Yeah, it went great.”

  “So, this is the one, huh?” Liam asked as he gratefully accepted his cup of coffee from the old man.

  “I guess,” Quinn mumbled.

  “What?”

  “It’s early days yet, you know? We’re taking it slow.” Quinn felt pensive as he took a gulp of coffee.

  “She know that?”

  “Of course. It’s not like we’re planning a wedding or anything,” Quinn scoffed. He tried to imagine being married and couldn’t, at least not right now. And Natalie had made a point a few weeks earlier of saying she had no interest in marrying him. Which irked him. Which is it, Quinnie boy, he asked himself. Can’t have it both ways. See? He was already starting to worry about losing his edge. Not good. Not good at all.

  “Mom say anything else?” Quinn pressed.

  “She busted my balls a bit about not being there, but I’d already explained to her I’d committed to this thing with Tommy.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “I figured.”

  “Tell me what you got.”

  “He asked me if I wanted to come hang at a party a friend of his was having, some guy named Gerald who I’ve met a few times.”

  “One of Whitey’s guys?”

  “Oh yeah. Works for Shields Brothers. Big surprise, huh? You should have seen this guy’s apartment.

  “Anyway, some of the other guys there were suspicious when I came in, because they have no idea who the hell I am, despite my walking in with Tommy. Morons. But once Tommy explained that I was his best friend and Gerald said I was cool, it was okay. Everyone was talking about mundane stuff at first, the Mets, the Blades, blah blah blah. But once Tommy had a snootful, I was able to get some info—kind of.”

  Quinn took a deep breath. “Like—?”

  “Well, he asked me if I was sick of living in my crappy little apartment—which I don’t think is crappy, by the way. When I asked him why, he said one of the warehouses in the neighborhood was being turned into luxury apartments, and if I wanted, he’d see if he could have one set aside for me, since he knows the owner. Like it’s hard to figure out who that is, right? I asked him how the hell he thought I could afford a luxury apartment, and he just smiled at me and walked away. He’s such a feckin’ idiot when he’s drunk.”

  “No, he’s a useful idiot, at least to me.” Quinn gulped down more coffee. “Some warehouse owner had the shit beaten out of him last night. Same situation as PJ—three masked assholes.”

  Liam frowned. “Not surprised.”

  “You get anything else?”

  “Hell yeah. Whitey Connors was there. He asked about you.”

  “I can’t wait to hear this.”

  “I’m standing on the terrace talking to Tommy and some other goon, and Whitey comes out. Asks how tending the bar is going. Asks about Mom and Dad. Then asks about you. ‘Still working hard as a reporter? Still got his ear to the street?’ ” Liam sucked down some coffee. “He knows, Quinn.”

  “Of course he fuckin’ knows.” Quinn shrugged dismissively. “It’s not a big deal. Stupid as he is, he’d never kill a journalist. Threaten? Sure. Beat up? Maybe. But kill? No. I don’t need to worry.”

  “Well, maybe you don’t, but I’m sure Natalie will. She know what you’re working on?”

  Quinn frowned. “A little. And before you even ask, yeah, she’s worried. But it’s not like I’m going to stop.”

  “Mom and Dad know?” Liam asked.

  “What are you, crazy? They’d drive me up the friggin’ wall with worry and tell half of Manhattan.”

  Quinn leaned forward. “Look, Li, I really appreciate you keeping your ear to the ground on all this stuff.”

  Liam looked uncomfortable. “No problem.” He drained his coffee cup. “You comin’ in tonight?”

  “Probably. Depends. Gotta help keep up Rogan and Shep’s spirits, you know?”

  “You surprised you weren’t axed?”

  “A little. But like it or not, they still need some hard news runners around.”

  “Clement likes Natalie.”

  Quinn scowled. “No shit. But he had his shot. I really wish he’d find somewhere else to hang out. He does it on purpose just to irk me and the guys.”

  “I think he does it to see Natalie.”

  “Are you deliberately trying to piss me off? Because you’re doing a good job.”

  “Jesus, relax. It was just a bartender’s observation.” Liam shook his head. “And they claim I’m the moody one,” he said under his breath.

  Quinn changed the subject. “You headin’ back to the Hart?”

  “Yeah, of course. You know there’s always a ton of shit to do. You coming with? Say hi to Mom and Dad?”

  “Not today. I have some poking around I need to do. But like I said, I’ll probably be in tonight.”

  “Okay.” Liam stood. “Well, thanks for the coffee.”

  “Thanks for the info,” Quinn said gratefully.

  “No problem. I just hope it doesn’t result in you getting beaten up.”

  “Quit being such an old lady. I told you: there’s nothing to worry about. Trust me.”

  25

  TWO MONTHS LATER

  “You’re still up? ”

  Quinn glanced up from his laptop to see Natalie in the doorway of her dining room, rubbing sleep from her eyes. It was 3 a.m. He’d been plagued with insomnia for three weeks running. Just as he’d feared, trying to balance his job and a relationship had caused him to lose his edge as a reporter. Sometimes he found himself distracted, daydreaming about making love to her when he should have been focused. Sometimes he found himself watching her when he should have been listening to what his friends were saying. They’d kid him about it, but it made him feel bad. To top it all off, his parents were dropping hints about marriage.

  Quinn had come back to Natalie’s place every night since they’d first slept together. He hated that it felt obligatory. Not that he didn’t love her, but it was making him feel roped and tied.

  He had to tell her the truth, even though it risked wounding her. If he didn’t come clean, his unease would turn into resentment, which was the last thing he wanted.

  Natalie came and stood behind him, tenderly rubbing his shoulders. “Work. Always work.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s me.” Quinn turned around to look at her. “We need to talk.”

  Trepidation rippled through the room as Natalie slowly dropped her hands. “Can we go where it’s more comfortable?” she asked quietly.

  “Of course.” Quinn playfully tugged a strand of her hair, trying to lighten the mood. “Don’t sound so afraid. It’s not bad.”

  Natalie was silent, leading the way to the living room. Quinn made sure to sit right beside her as she curled up on the couch. Even with her face a little puffy from sleep and her long brown hair somewhat of a tangled mess, she looked beautiful. In fact, this was one of the ways he liked her best: no makeup, unguarded, just pure, unvarnished Natalie.

  Despite his telling her not to be fearful, there was no mistaking the anxiety in her eyes. “What is it?”


  Quinn took a deep breath and blew it out. “I need a little more space for myself. I’m feeling a little—pressured.”

  Natalie drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her shins. She looked like a vulnerable little girl. “Pressured?”

  “Nat, I told you when we got together that my work is extremely important to me. And sometimes, to do it well, I need to be alone. To think. I don’t feel like I can do that when we go home together every night. You think I don’t see you bristle every time my phone rings?”

  “Because you work too hard. Because you never stop working.”

  “It’s who I am.”

  She was quick to disagree. “Non. Non. It’s who you choose to be.”

  “All right, it’s who I choose to be. Especially now, working on this story.”

  “Yes, the story that will get you killed.”

  Quinn suppressed his exasperation. “How many times do I have to tell you? It won’t get me killed.”

  “When will you be done with it?”

  “Soon.”

  She looked hopeful. “And maybe then—?”

  “Maybe then what?”

  “You’ll cut back a little?”

  Frustrated, Quinn ran his hand through his hair. “You’re not understanding me. I can’t cut back.”

  “Not even a little bit? Why can’t you compromise?” she asked plaintively as she feathered her fingertips across his cheek. “I love you, and I’m proud of what you do. But it’s difficult sometimes, knowing that in the back of your mind, even when we are out to dinner or just relaxing here, you are always thinking about work. You’re obsessed with it.” She looked sad. “I wish you were obsessed with me, even if it was just a little bit.”

  “I am obsessed with you,” Quinn said, trying to express his misery and confusion. “That’s part of the problem. I find myself thinking of you when I should be focusing on my work. I’m not paying attention to my friends when we’re hanging out at the Hart.”