Broken At Love (Whitman University)

by Payne, Lyla

  My entire life I had been left behind by everyone and everything that was supposed to care about me. My mother. My father, in the sense that he wanted nothing to do with me. Alexandria. Tennis.

  No one ever stayed. So I didn’t, either.

  Chapter Twelve

  I caught her on the way into her studio around eight the next morning.

  The guarded look in her dark eyes tried to crack my re-hardened insides. She smiled that smile, the one that wasn’t sure it wanted to emerge, but this time I didn’t wish I could make it sure of me. Emilie shouldn’t be sure of me. She was too smart for all of this, and it made me angry all over again that she was about to fall for it.

  “Hey,” I said as she stopped in front of the glass doors of the old building.

  People bustled up and down the streets in this old part of town, headed to work or school or breakfast. None of them paid us any mind, didn’t have a clue what happened to us last night and didn’t care. She met my gaze and the embarrassment I’d prepared for caught my breath.

  “Where have you been?”

  “I told you, something came up at the party.”

  “What?”

  I paused, unprepared to be thoroughly questioned. No one had cared to grill me since I’d fired my first tennis coach when he tried to play daddy one too many times. “A family matter. I don’t care to discuss it.”

  “Okay.” She shrugged, her coffee-and-cream skin peach in the cheeks.

  “You were going to work?”

  “Yes. I need to finish the centerpiece in the next couple of days.”

  “Have you had breakfast?”

  “No. I was going to grab some coffee in a bit.”

  The stilted conversation belonged to people who knew one another casually, not to people who had been half-naked in an elevator less than twelve hours ago. I hated it. More importantly, I didn’t have time for it.

  Maybe I wanted to erase the worry in her eyes and the wrinkle between her eyebrows, if only for a few hours. “You go get to work. I’m going to get us some coffee and breakfast.”

  “Quinn?”

  Her voice stopped me before I’d made it five steps. It trembled, but when I turned she smiled, and it punched me in the chest. “Yeah?”

  “Try to make it back in less than eight hours this time.”

  “Deal.”

  ***

  I was gone less than twenty minutes.

  Upstairs in her drafty but comfortable loft, I unpacked bagels and coffee. She told me how she took her coffee and I made it for her, blowing the steam away before putting it in her hand. Our fingers brushed and it took everything in me not to jerk away.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She went to pick up her paintbrush, then stopped. “I really need to work, Quinn.”

  “I won’t bother you. I brought my laptop.” I patted the bag slung over my shoulder. “Homework.”

  Emilie raised her eyebrows. “Homework?”

  “I decided you were right. About my dad. If I want him to take me seriously, I’ve got to start acting serious. There’s a big project coming up in my multimedia class and I was thinking I could use it to design some progressive integrated media for Rowland’s overseas expansion portfolio.” I stopped talking, embarrassed that I’d said so much.

  “I have no idea what most of that means, but it’s good that you’re excited. I don’t know a whole lot about your dad that the rest of the world doesn’t know, too, but if you want to be a part of what he’s built, then you should show him.” She turned to her easel and picked up the paintbrush. “Now get started so I can finish this.”

  The ratty couch was more comfortable than it looked; no springs poked my ass and the fabric was worn and smelled lightly of sunshine, as though in its previous life it enjoyed soaking up the rays. My laptop warmed my knees and the coffee sloshed in my stomach. At some point I noticed Emilie had changed her canvas for a blank one, leaving the sexy painting full of vibrant summer colors against the wall.

  She smiled faintly at her new creation, looking inspired. Her cheeks glowed and stars shone in her coal black eyes. Her black hair hung down her back in a long ponytail, but silky strands had escaped and settled against her cheeks and neck. A brush hung from her right hand like an extension of her arm, like I knew it would the night I met her and saw the way she stared with such intensity at the Gauguin in our hallway. Concentrating on her canvas, standing with her feet spread apart like Peter Pan in ratty shorts and a paint-splattered hip-length sweatshirt, I thought she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.

  It was then I realized the real reason I was going to sleep with her, get her to admit she wanted to date me, and leave her.

  Because Emilie Swanson was far too good for me. One day she’d realize it and hit the bricks.

  I was merely going to do it before she could.

  The buzzing comfort in this place, the way we were quiet but together, wrapped around me and I felt safe. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt at home in a place other than a tennis court.

  ***

  I woke up with Emilie’s tentative mouth pressed against mine.

  When my eyes flew open she sat back on her heels at my feet. “Couldn’t resist. You looked adorable.”

  “No one has ever called me adorable in my entire life.”

  “Maybe you never let anyone watch you sleep, then.”

  The taste of her lingered on my lips and I licked them, my eyes traveling down over her body. She must have read my mind—not that it would have been difficult—because she stood up and pulled off the long sweatshirt, dropping it at her feet. The shorts were next, leaving her standing in front of me in a thin brown tank top and a scrap of pale pink lacy underwear.

  “Come here,” I demanded, reaching out to grab her hips. My voice sounded scratchy and hoarse, I supposed from just waking up.

  Emilie smiled a slow smile, one that was sure this time, and spread her knees around my hips, settling on my lap. My body responded immediately and there was no way to hide it. She leaned her arms into the couch and slid her tongue along my lower lip, catching it in her teeth a little roughly.

  She gave me a saucy grin that made me want to stop letting her be in control. “You taste good.”

  “Like sleepy breath?”

  “No. Like the ocean if it were made of whiskey.” Her breath whispered across my face.

  Hot breath trailed down my jaw and neck, along with her lips, and the occasional slip of a tongue, driving me mad. It had been a long time since I’d sat back and let a girl have her way but I didn’t stop her. The desire stumbling through my blood urged haste, but I wanted it to last.

  “You like whiskey?”

  “I love whiskey. It’s delicious.”

  “Mmm.” Words escaped me as her fingers worked their way under the hem of my thin t-shirt and splayed out on my stomach.

  She tugged it over my head, running soft hands over my chest before slipping off my lap and back to her knees. Kisses trailed down my stomach and I couldn’t suppress a groan when her palm rubbed me through my jeans. The rest of my patience evaporated when she went for the button fly.

  I hooked my hands under her elbows and dragged her back onto my lap, sliding the thin shirt over her head, baring her body to me from the waist up. The ability to breathe escaped me at the beauty of the moment. I wanted to remember this; her chest heaving in time with her heart, desire tightening her golden skin in anticipation of my touch.

  My hands brushed the base of her neck, pulling gently until her lips met mine and opened eagerly for my tongue. The willingness of her entire body turned me on as much as anything else. With women, I took what I wanted with gilded words and carefully orchestrated movements. Emilie was giving it to me like a gift, open and offered even with the knowledge that I wasn’t the guy she thought I could be.

  She pushed my hands down until her tits filled them. They responded to the lightest touch, and the way she shudder
ed harder with each brush of my thumbs loosed a groan from deep inside me. I throbbed against my jeans almost painfully, unsure how much longer I could draw this out but wanting her to remember it.

  That I made her feel good, even if it was only once.

  Her tongue grew more demanding against mine, pushing harder and asking for more. Then pulled her lips away, eyes like black pools of water reflecting the stars. “Quinn,” she breathed against my mouth.

  “Hmm?”

  God in heaven do not let her say stop. I’d never hurt her—or take from any unwilling girl—but I’d have blue balls for a week.

  “Do you think you can fuck me on a couch?”

  Her use of that word in this moment, along with the memory it evoked of last night in that elevator, sent me over the edge. I stood up with her in my arms, her gorgeous legs wrapped around my waist, then turned and dropped her on the couch. My jeans and boxer briefs were gone, along with her pink lace distractions, in the next two seconds. Another minute and I had the condom out of my pants pocket and in place.

  Her first, my mind chided.

  I growled, more desperate to feel her wrapped around me than I could believe. A deep breath helped, allowed me to push her back on the couch until she was flat against the tan cushions. My lips started at her jaw while my fingers played lower, trying not to push, wanting to make sure she wanted this as much as I did.

  My mouth trailed down, wishing I had enough control to linger on her tits an hour more, because they were fucking magnificent. When I slipped a finger gently inside her there was no doubt she was as ready as I was. She clenched around the second invading finger, growing my need uncomfortably.

  “Shit,” I murmured. The hot wetness at her center, the dampness across her chest and neck, were enough to make me worry I’d finish before we even got started.

  Which was not typically a problem for me.

  I moved lower, intent on making sure she got her pleasure before taking mine, but her fingers fisted in my hair and pulled my head up.

  Her eyes met mine, wild and snapping, burning with lust. “No. I want you inside me. Not your fingers or your tongue. You.”

  That was enough encouragement for me. I braced myself with one hand on the couch and nudged her knees farther apart, letting my hips fit in between them. When I slid inside her I almost collapsed from the intensity of the pleasure. Her spine arched, her body intent on pulling me closer, but I held still for a few seconds. Leaned down to kiss her lips and her jaw, her neck and her chest.

  Set.

  Emilie tipped her hips up, making me fall deeper inside her and wrenching a gasped moan from my throat. She smiled that saucy smile, sweat scattered across her forehead, and drew my mouth to hers again. I forgot about trying to go slow or be gentle, because nothing mattered to me but the perfect hotness of her wrapped around me, wanting me, encouraging me and meeting me at every thrust.

  We moved together, increasing in intensity as our tongues played together and her hands roamed my body. Our skin slipped against one another’s and she came fast the first time, gasping her release with hot breath on my neck while her fingernails dug into my back. When I felt her building again I let go too, holding her up off the couch and tight against me as we shuddered together for several seconds. We stayed that way for a long time, me buried inside her, until my arms started to ache and she unwound her legs from around my back.

  I flipped us quickly so that I pressed into the cushions and she rested against my chest. Her eyes sparkled, and I loved that she didn’t get shy and embarrassed like we’d just committed a crime. A lot of girls did that, and it always bothered me. It was sex, not murder. If we both wanted it—and we did—feeling shame ruined one of the better parts of life.

  “I suppose your reputation will have to stay intact. Because…whew.”

  “That’s good to know. And you’re not bad yourself.”

  “I’m a girl. What else do you need?” She asked me with a smile, then laid her head underneath my chin.

  You.

  The thought came out of nowhere. No, it came from a place where sincere things were hidden away. Her teasing statement was true enough, in that I could get off with any willing girl provided there was enough alcohol or few enough lights. But the kind of sex we just had on a ratty old couch in a drafty loft…that was more than getting laid.

  There was something between our bodies that went beyond chemistry. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d lost myself in someone that way; I had no idea if we’d moved together for thirty minutes or an hour, only that it had been the perfect amount of time. First times especially could tend toward awkward, no matter how experienced the participants. This felt like we’d done it a hundred times before; our bodies responded as though we knew one another intimately, but it was also a hot surprise at every turn.

  “Maybe we could go to the museum thing together?” She murmured against my chest. “My parents decided to come after all and I could use the moral support.”

  Match.

  I didn’t answer, letting her believe I’d fallen asleep again. After a moment or two she leaned up and pressed a kiss to my neck, the curled into my side. The feeling of her unbelievable naked skin pressed against mine made me hard again and I almost gave in to my desires, but then her breathing deepened and her muscles relaxed against me.

  I tightened an arm around her waist, tugging her as close as humanly possible, then shifted slightly to take a deep breath, memorizing the way she smelled like fresh sunshine mixed with the salty sweat of sex. My eyes closed, too. A few more hours wouldn’t hurt anything.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Emilie

  I woke up a few hours later, warm from the way Quinn’s arm pressed my body into his side.

  The moment overwhelmed me but I drank it in, trying to remember what it felt like waking up in his arms, the way he smelled, how deliciously my muscles ached. Quinn’s deep steady breathing said he still slept and I lifted my head, memorizing his beautiful face. When no one watched him the tension in his jaw and mouth disappeared, leaving him smooth and looking almost happy.

  The sun had risen high, burning off the gray fog that had enveloped the morning, and I guessed it was probably early afternoon. My stomach rumbled, the bagels from this morning still forgotten on the table, but food wasn’t on my mind.

  I meant what I said to Quinn the last time we were here. There was more to him, I was sure of it, but I remained equally sure that he wasn’t ready to show that person to the world. Maybe because it sounded like his father made his life harder, or because his dreams were ripped from him last year when that injury forced him to leave the tour.

  Or it might have been Alexandria.

  I didn’t want to think about her and her gorgeous, blonde, five-foot-ten tennis body perfection. He’d had that every night, naked and willing in his bed, and it made me boil with jealousy no matter how good the sex had been this morning.

  And it had been good. I thought. My experience certainly paled in comparison to Quinn’s, but it had never been so natural for me. Not so easy to let go, to not feel self-conscious but to just ask for what I wanted and have it given to me.

  We couldn’t last that long. This wasn’t a relationship. I didn’t know what it was, exactly, but something made him keep hunting me down, coming around, and before today it hadn’t been the sex. Maybe he would never come back now.

  If he was going to do that, I needed at least one more memory, even though it would surely haunt me sooner than later. My hand slid across his naked stomach, marveling at the way my body grew heavy in response to the hard muscle that covered him. When my fingers teased lower, dipping through the bramble of hair that grew thicker below his stomach, he hardened in his sleep.

  When I wrapped my hand around the length of him he woke up with a groan, turning so that we faced each other but not so I had to give up my grasp. Quinn gave me a sleepy smile, a quick flash of his teeth against his lips catching my breath, then trailed a lazy hand down
to cup my breast.

  It would be impossible to describe how much I loved the feeling of his hands on me. They were kind but demanding, soft but skilled, and soon I was the one arching forward and begging for more when it had been my intention to do that to him.

  “Mi sopresita,” he breathed against my neck, sending shivers down my spine. “Why does it feel like I’ve been waking up naked with you for years?”

  The words fell quiet on my ears, as though he didn’t really mean to say them aloud, but they stopped my heart in my chest. He felt it too, that familiarity between our bodies. What did it mean?

  “Yet I’m still your little surprise,” I teased, pulling back so I could drink in his electric blue gaze.

  “Yes. Even more so now that I know what a willing little tigress you are in the sack.”

  His words turned me on, emboldened me further, and I hooked a leg over his hip and lifted up to straddle him. A surprised chuckle turned to a lusty growl when I guided him inside me and sat down hard, moving my hips to meet his needy strokes.

  Those hands reached up to find my breasts again, testing their weight, driving me mad, but as our playfulness gave in to frantic desire he slid them to my hips. He pushed me hard against him and we moved faster, heat rising and pounding through my blood. It swirled and lit my nerves on fire until my body moved on its own, desperate to find release. When I tightened around him, my fingers curled into his chest, our eyes locked as his name came out in a whisper.

  Quinn moved quickly after I relaxed on top of him, pushing me onto my back with one hand and digging in his pants on the floor with the other.

  Condom. I’d totally forgotten.

  He slid it on and was back between my thighs in a matter of minutes. The feeling of him filling me felt as good as my orgasm a moment before, and I thought I would never tire of seeing his face above mine, of hearing the way my name scraped hoarse out of his throat when he finished a few minutes later and collapsed in a sweaty heap against my chest. I wanted to do this again and again as many times as we could before our inevitable parting.