by Payne, Lyla
The quiet returned, and when I found the courage to look up into his face, the pity I feared didn’t appear. Only sorrow softened his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” At least he stopped with the innuendo. For now.
We tiptoed around each other for a while after that, lobbing easy questions about favorite movies and books, places to travel, classes at school.
“What’s your major?” Quinn’s blue eyes filled with increased curiosity the longer we played, as though he found me as much of a puzzle to be solved as I found him.
“It was art but now it’s graphic design. But not for long, probably.”
“Why not for long, probably?”
“My dad. He thinks it’s a waste of time.”
He opened his mouth to ask something else, but I cut him off. “You already got two for the price of one. My turn.”
So far he’d managed to avoid any question that could help me discover whether or not I’d imagined the depth I sensed. Time to push. “Why do you hate it at Whitman so much?”
“Who says I do?”
“That’s just another question.”
A sigh wound out of his chest, barely audible over the waves. His fingers inched further up my thighs and I did my best to ignore them. When his distraction didn’t work, he looked out at the water. “It’s not Whitman that’s the problem.”
“It’s just not the tour?” I prodded.
The expression in his eyes hardened. “I don’t want to talk about tennis.”
“You still have to answer or I win.”
“It’s not where I expected to be, you know? I used to look into the future and know exactly where I’d be and what I’d be doing, even in twenty or thirty years. Now I look but there’s nothing to see.”
“But what about working for your dad?” The memory of his snapped anger the other night, the admission that his father wouldn’t let him go home, rattled in my mind.
“Questions about Teddy are off-limits.”
Sadness gripped my heart. The refusal from Quinn felt heavy, as though even in avoiding a topic, he shared a piece of himself. The implicit trust weighed on me. I knew exactly how he felt about his future and about his father. Art had been such a part of how I made sense of life since I was small, but we weren’t children anymore. “I thought I would be an artist, but all of the sudden it’s not about what makes me happy. It’s about my parents and earning potential and settling down.”
“Take it from me, if you can still do what you love, you shouldn’t let anyone stop you.”
Our eyes met, passion burning so hot in his gaze that it lit me on fire. I gasped when his fingers moved again, brushing the tender skin behind my knee. “It’s your turn again.”
“Did you like kissing me the other night?”
Oh, God. “Truth?”
Quinn nodded, his fingers skimming higher, leaving trails of wildfire in their wake. He was distracting me from the too-personal questions and the fact that he’d refused to answer most of them. My rational mind knew it but my traitorous body didn’t care if we’d finished using our mouths for talking the rest of the night.
“Yes.”
The word didn’t have a chance to fully form before his mouth met mine. The hot saltiness that clung to his lips tasted as good as the other night, and this time I let myself enjoy it. When he felt my hesitation dissolve he leaned in, hands sliding all the way up my dress and gripping my hips, tugging me closer. A whimper escaped at the demanding feel of his touch and I didn’t even care if he heard it.
My nerve endings came alive. If he had four or five hands it would have been better, because as good as they felt on my bare hips, I wanted to feel them everywhere else, too.
As though Quinn read my mind, one hand made its way up to my neck, tilting my head back and opening my lips. His tongue slipped against mine, not asking. Taking. My heart stuttered faster when his breathing quickened, fingers wound tight in the hair at the back of my neck. Shivers joined the shuddering heat and need wetting my skin. When his arm pressed against my left breast I managed to free my arms, winding them around his neck.
We couldn’t get any closer sitting cross-legged facing each other, and the intensity of my frustration at that fact knocked some sense back into me. His heart pounded underneath my palms, matching the thudding in my own ears. Quinn’s lips left mine bruised and swollen, moving down my neck. He flicked his tongue over my throbbing pulse in the hollow between my neck and shoulder. If I’d been standing, my knees would have given out.
“Quinn,” I gasped.
He paused but didn’t move, so I reached shaking hands to his strong jaw and lifted his face back to mine. I couldn’t resist pressing my mouth to his one more time, or sliding my tongue over his bottom lip to remember what he tasted like. Or taking a quick nip. Too delicious.
“It’s my turn.”
His eyes were closed but flew open at my statement, the same baffled surprise displayed as the first time I stopped kissing him.
“When was the last time you kissed a girl but didn’t have sex with her?”
His eyes dropped back to my mouth, then down to my chest, which still heaved from the sheer force of my want. I’d have been more embarrassed if he wasn’t having trouble catching his own breath. Quinn Rowland may not have been interested in a relationship, but he was interested in having me.
Desire and satisfaction, along with the same fear I’d felt sitting down, sucked the moisture from my mouth and I swallowed hard.
When he looked at me again the confusion was gone, replaced by an almost predatory need. “I can’t remember.”
“It’s not so bad, huh? Kissing?”
“That’s another question.” His confidence and cool head returned as quickly as he’d lost it. “Why do you stop these little scenarios of ours when you clearly don’t want to?”
“That’s your question?”
“Yep. Are you bowing out?”
“Hell, no. It’s simple. I am attracted to you. You’re a fantastic kisser and I’d do it for hours if I thought I could handle it, and obviously your…prowess in certain areas has not been exaggerated.”
“And kissing isn’t even my specialty.”
“Exactly. And I’m not a prude, or a virgin, but I also don’t sleep around. You can see my quandary here. Because you are not interested in dating, no matter how casually.” Quinn didn’t deny it, staring into my eyes with a kind of concentration that unnerved me. “If you want sex, Quinn, there are at least a hundred girls in that house who will oblige.”
“What would you say if I told you they aren’t who I want?”
“I’d say prove it.”
Chapter Seven
Quinn
Sebastian found me on the beach the next morning and handed me a steaming mug of coffee laced with bourbon. “Waking up alone doesn’t agree with you, brother.”
“Yes. Thank you for that.”
“Ah. The little Mexican girl is still giving you trouble. I saw her come back last night and figured you’d sealed the deal.” Sebastian sipped his coffee, peering at me over the rim.
“She’s not Mexican, she’s half Peruvian. Her favorite movie is The Philadelphia Story, The Three Musketeers is her favorite novel, her father doesn’t approve of her art and she doesn’t sleep around. Any other questions, because I could do this for at least another five minutes.” Anger rose like acid in my throat, but I swallowed it along with some black coffee. He wouldn’t stir me up.
“Ah, you bonded. How touching. I had a hunch about the sleeping-around part, although that usually doesn’t trip you up so much.”
I narrowed my eyes until he squirmed, thankful I hadn’t lost that touch. “Did you bet on her?”
He never bet against me before and if he had, winning this round would be fucking personal.
Sebastian shrugged. “You know I never discuss the books with the talent.”
Sand stuck to my legs and clothes when I stood, the gray morning colder
than I preferred and rarely dealt with in South Florida. “If you’ll excuse me, it appears I have some wooing to do.”
His laughter followed me all the way up the back deck and into the house. We both knew I’d never had to woo anyone—nor had I ever cared to—and had no idea where to start. Playing girls for a few days came easily; saying what they needed to hear never bothered me, and it was simple enough. Convincing Emilie that I wanted her for more than sex would involve two things I honestly abhorred—emotional intimacy and lying.
There may be no honor among thieves, but I had my own code when it came to Sebastian’s game, and I never lied to girls to get them into bed. Even the line about me not being like everyone thought was the truth.
I was much, much worse.
There were no promises made about days to come, invitations to attend parties on my arm, talk of introductions to families. Never. Girls assumed what they liked and I let them, but I never lied. I didn’t see a way to get closer to Emilie without giving up some of my own secrets; last night had already pushed me to say more than I’d confided to anyone in years. The chances that she’d finally give it up without some kind of promise about the future meant I would break my second rule as well.
On the flip side, the competition thrilled me. Her body responded so fast on the beach last night, willing and pliant under my hands. That creamy skin heated at my touch and the sight of her swollen lips and salty neck had turned me on more than I wanted to admit. Emilie smelled like summer—some kind of citrus perfume, combined with the hour we spent talking beforehand in the ocean air—and it had gone straight to my head. Along with other parts of me.
Anticipation would only make the moment sweeter. Time to dig deep and find a Quinn Rowland capable of convincing Emilie to let me fuck her, because losing wasn’t an option. There was too much at stake, and my pride was the least important item on the list.
***
The fine arts building looked newer than most parts of campus; it had been built less than ten years ago instead of fifty. I appreciated art but had no particular inclination for it, so I had never been inside; majoring in business with a minor in communications seemed the best way to please my father.
To try to please my father.
Emilie walked out the front door, talking with Toby. She threw back her head and laughed, her neck stretched as she laid her head on his shoulder for a moment before straightening up. Two shocking things happened to me in that moment: I wanted to kiss that spot in the hollow of her collarbone again, the one that thrummed with her life, so badly it hurt. And I wanted to punch Toby in the face for touching her.
I had no idea what in the hell was the matter with me, but it couldn’t be good.
She saw me a moment later, pitch black eyes shining as a smile stretched her lips. It hurt a little that she looked happy to see me, when I only came to break her.
“Hey.”
“Stalker is kind of a good look on you, Quinn.”
Toby stood rigid at her side, giving me a stony stare. He should have buggered off now, given that he knew my claim on Emilie. Shit, he’d even helped set it up, inviting her to the party for Sebastian. “Toby.”
“Q.” He turned to Emilie, touching her elbow lightly. I wanted to snap his fingers. “Em, I’ll talk to you later, okay? Be safe.”
The last statement irked me, and the surprise in Emilie’s eyes said it wasn’t a normal parting statement for them. She smiled at Toby and nudged him with her shoulder. “I’m fine, Toby.”
He left, shooting me another reproachful look before disappearing around the side of the building. Emilie’s hand brushed my tensed forearm and brought my attention back to her. “What are you doing here, Quinn?”
People stared at us as they exited the building. This fucking debacle was going to be the talk of Whitman before I got it done. “I thought we could hang out.”
“Oh.” The soft, breathy response tugged my eyes to her chest for a moment. “I’ve got this art show next week and I really need to finish my centerpiece. Maybe later? Or after you’re done with the Aussie Open party?”
I couldn’t wait that long.
“I don’t need to go back to the party; Seb can handle it. I’d love to see your work. I mean, if you don’t mind showing me.”
Her brow furrowed and I counted to ten in my head before she shrugged. “Okay.”
“I’ll drive.”
On the way to her studio I told myself to reach over and take her hand, but my body refused to obey the command. One step at a time, I guessed.
The studio loft was near campus in an older building, not the kind of space I expected for a girl with the kind of money her family had. It made me wonder how bad her problems at home were, but instead of commenting I complimented her on a few of her pieces.
Art had been a part of my life forever; my father loved it and acquired it the way the girls on tour snapped up new designer outfits. It was a passion he and I shared, though I’d stopped trying to discuss it with him by middle school since he purposefully trashed anything in which I expressed an interest.
“These are excellent, Emilie. Really.”
It wasn’t a lie, which struck me as a pleasant turn of fortune. Her bold brushstrokes, color palate, and layered technique were flawless, but it was the way each painting came alive and leapt from the canvas that made them extraordinary. The emotional state that accompanied each piece, laid bare and exposed for everyone to see. The one that intrigued me the most was the one she hadn’t finished—had hardly begun, really—propped on her easel. It felt raw and somehow sexual, but also edged with fear.
She moved it when she caught me looking, flipping it upside down. “That one isn’t finished.”
“You’re talented.” A pretty blush crept across her cheeks and pride made her dark eyes sparkle like stars in the night sky. I stepped in close, breathing her in, thankful she still smelled like summer.
“Thank you.”
“Your parents must be proud, even if they don’t think it’s a proper career. You’re going to exhibit at the show next week, right? At the new museum?”
“Not so much to the first statement, yes to the second.”
“I’ll see you there, then.” She’d probably be less than thrilled by that time, since it would take place after the Open ended.
“You’re going to a museum opening?”
The incredulous tone stopped me for a moment, but hopefully she didn’t notice the hitch in my step. It rarely bothered me when people assumed me a Philistine due to the professional-athlete thing. It did now. “I grew up in a house with a man who loves art. And in a life filled with more money than even you can dream. But I’m more interested in why you think your parents aren’t proud of your accomplishments.”
They were accomplishments, I thought again as I wandered from her side, running the tips of my fingers across her finished work. The intensity of a battle between light and dark throbbed in her work like a heartbeat and it spoke to me in a way I didn’t want to examine too closely. It made me more curious than ever about her, this girl who seemed so light and essentially good creating pieces equally infused with darkness and desire.
When Emilie didn’t answer I turned, and the look on her face, like she was piecing together a puzzle, made me want to toss her on the couch and solve it for her.
“My father’s a surgeon. A really important one.” She shook her head, refusing to meet my eyes. “Mine is a time-honored story, Quinn. Nothing too interesting. I was off the hook before Ana got sick, because she loved all of the blood and guts and science and math, but now I’m all he has left. Much to his disappointment.”
“I don’t think he could be too disappointed, seeing as he pays for this space for you.”
“He doesn’t know. I’m taking the money out of my medical school trust.”
Surprise clenched my fists. “He’s not going to be happy when he finds out.”
“True. If I don’t sell any work at the show, it’ll be the end of it
. That will be the proof he needs that I’m not good enough.” A single tear slipped down her cheek. “He won’t keep paying for school unless I change my major.”
Admission to Whitman meant family money and all of the trappings that came with it, and no matter her brave face, Emilie had grown up as privileged as all of us. She wouldn’t be able to stay if he pulled her trust fund.
Why on earth that bothered me, I’m sure I didn’t know, but the tears in her eyes wrenched something loose that had been tied down long ago. It flapped around like torn rigging in the wind, slapping painfully against my insides. I hated it, and her, in that moment. Because it hurt. “You’ll sell some work at the show. People would be blind not to see your talent.”
“I hope so.” Her cheeks glowed, a shy and tentative belief cloaking her.
My blood warmed, flowing lower and pushing need past my curiosity. What about this girl made me want her so badly, in a way that had nothing to do with any game? I wanted to win so that I could have her body, and not only to simply keep Sebastian in line or keep the memory of Alexandria’s rejection at bay. If I had met her, and there was no game, I would have wanted her anyway.
“It will work out. You’ll see.”
My eyes slid to the overstuffed couch again, thoughts running through my mind that made it hard to think straight. Emilie followed my gaze and when her eyes returned to mine, the desire fluttering in them almost made me groan. But when I stepped to her side, intent on at least touching her, she put her hands on my chest and held me at arms’ length.
“Quinn. I’ve been thinking about last night, and the other night, and what I said. I don’t want you to prove anything to me, so if that’s why you came here today, I’m sorry. We can try being friends, if that’s something you want, but we are who we are. You’ll get my clothes off and then tire of me quickly, and I’ll spend the semester feeling used and avoiding running into you on campus. It’s not my place to expect you to change.”
“So you believe what everyone says about me. And that’s all I am.”
