Special Delivery (Always Satisfied Book 5)

by Lauren Blakely

  “I know. But I’m really fast,” I say, reaching the door in seconds and setting her down.

  But I can’t resist one more kiss. I lean in, draw her close, and seal my mouth to hers as I reach for the keys in my pocket. She tastes so damn good, and all I want is to have more of her. To experience all of her.

  To learn all the flavors of Quinn.

  And with that heady possibility luring me, I open the door.

  As soon as it snicks shut, she smiles at me.

  And hell, it does me in, like it has since the night I met her.

  Tonight, it’s a new kind of smile. A sexy, sensual one. A delicious, inviting grin.

  Our coats come off, and she reaches for the collar of my shirt, tugs me close once more, and whispers three fantastic words. “I want you.”

  Then she adds two more to make it even more perfect. “So much.”

  I groan and wrap her in my arms. “Spoiler alert—the feeling is mutual.”

  She laughs, and I do too, and like that, a new round of kissing takes us all the way to the bedroom.

  11

  Quinn

  It’s been a year.

  Twelve months without someone’s touch, without contact.

  But that’s not why I’m buzzing with anticipation. That’s not why my skin sizzles with every brush of his hands, every sweep of his lips.

  The way I feel has everything to do with chemistry—our chemistry—and the way he looks at me, touches me, treats me.

  That one most of all.

  I’ve only known him a short while, but he treats me like I’m precious.

  And he touches me the same way.

  He sets me on the edge of his bed, unzips my boots, and runs his big hands up my calves.

  My smooth, shaven legs.

  He touches me reverently, and it’s addictive. It makes me shudder.

  His hands play with the hem of my skirt, then my sweater, his dark eyes glinting. He lifts it over my head, and I help him along, taking off my cami next, and my skirt too.

  Then I’m in only a red lace bra with white stripes and matching panties. His eyes widen as he takes in my lingerie.

  “Merry Christmas to me, and it’s not even Thanksgiving,” he says, his voice smoky.

  I give him a naughty grin. “I thought you might like the holiday decor. Since you do seem to enjoy Christmas decorations.”

  Running his fingers over the lacy material of my bra, he asks, “And is this what we’d call a candy cane cocktail?”

  I shake my head, letting my gaze drift down his long, tall frame, settling on the zipper of his jeans, a grin playing on my lips. “No, but I’m hoping that is.”

  He shakes his head. “Such a dirty girl.”

  Then he kicks off his shoes, flops on the bed next to me, and pulls me over so I’m straddling him. His hands rise, threading through my hair, and he brings me down for another kiss.

  Only this one is hotter.

  Deeper.

  Fevered.

  It’s a prelude to the rest of the night.

  The trouble is . . .

  I break the kiss. “You’re still dressed.”

  He looks down at his Henley as if shocked. “Yeah, what’s up with that? Why aren’t you getting me naked, woman?”

  I press my hands to his chest and shoot him a saucy look. “Because you keep kissing me and distracting me, that’s why.”

  “Well, I’m distraction-free right now,” he says, and waits patiently.

  But I don’t make him wait long. I make quick work of his shirt, marveling at his broad chest and tracing my fingers over his firm pecs, his toned arms.

  Even though he’s no longer playing, the man has an athlete’s body, and he’s not just firm. He’s rock-hard, with strong muscles and carved abs. He’s fantastic to touch.

  We shift around, and I unbutton his jeans. Then he kicks them off the rest of the way, and I draw a sharp breath when I see the outline in his boxer briefs.

  “Maybe I’ve been a very good girl after all,” I murmur in appreciation.

  “Is that so?”

  I reach out, pressing a hand to his erection. His eyes shut, and he groans as I stroke him.

  I don’t need a man to be huge. I don’t have visions of giant sugarplum cocks dancing in my head.

  But I don’t have to peek inside Vaughn’s pants to know I like this present. I like it a lot.

  I remove his briefs, biting my lip as I stroke him. “This is the kind of surprise I enjoy.”

  He chuckles. “Glad I could deliver for you.”

  “Did I say you’d delivered yet?” I tease him.

  His eyes snap open, and in a flash, he flips me to my back, pins my wrists, and stares hotly at me. “And for that, you’re going to get extra special attention.”

  “You were planning to hold back before?”

  His eyes narrow. “You were always getting the full treatment. But now I think you need extra orgasms for that sassy attitude.”

  “I can be sassier. I can bring the sarcasm if it brings me Os.”

  “And Os I will deliver.” Then he silences me with a kiss—a deep, sweet kiss that makes my toes curl. Moving down my body, he strips me as he goes, taking off my bra and lavishing attention on my breasts, making me moan as I curl my hands in his hair.

  Then he makes me gasp and cry out when he slides off my panties, spreads my legs, and kisses me where I’m aching for him.

  My hips shoot off the bed, and I’m already saying his name.

  It’s that good.

  He’s that attentive.

  He seems to revel in licking me, tasting me. In having me like dessert. Because that’s how he goes down on me—as if I’m the sweetest thing he’s had in ages. His tongue is magic. His lips send sparks of pleasure all over my body. I grab at the sheets. I grab at his hair. I moan and groan in bliss.

  “So good,” he murmurs as he consumes me. “You taste so fucking good, Quinn.”

  His words, the way he growls them—that’s all I need.

  Desire coils in me, tightening, and then I’m calling out his name as pleasure obliterates my senses and I’m nothing but white-hot bliss.

  Seconds later, he crawls over me, his lips hooked in a crooked grin. “You were saying?”

  I grin. Wickedly. “Let’s see if I’m clear on how this works. If I sass you again, I get more orgasms?”

  “Sure,” he replies. “Think of it as a special delivery.”

  “I do like extra presents.”

  Laughing, he rolls his eyes. “Quinn Summers, you are absolutely fucking awesome in every way.”

  I beam, the gleam coming from deep inside my chest. This man. He just does it for me. “Well, let’s see if the fucking is awesome,” I toss back.

  With a smile, he stretches his arm to the nightstand, reaching for a condom, I presume.

  But something he said last night sticks with me. I’ve been all about work since then. And I’m better off without her. “Vaughn . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “I haven’t been with anyone in a year. I’m clean, and I’m on protection.”

  His lips curve up. “I’ve been a monk too, and I’m safe.”

  He drops the condom back into the drawer, moves over me, and lifts my arms above my head. I tremble.

  The feel of him is extraordinary. The weight of him. The heat.

  I cup his cheek. “I need you to know, this doesn’t feel like just sex,” I whisper.

  With that, I surprise myself.

  Because I was wrong.

  Wrong about being safe from hurt.

  Wrong about being impervious to heartache.

  And I was dead wrong to think that ending this will be easy.

  My heart’s already onboard. It will ache when he leaves.

  But tonight is about feeling good.

  And I feel amazing when he answers me with “I need you to know it won’t be just sex for me.”

  My heart melts a little more.

  Settling betwee
n my thighs, he guides himself into me, and I moan instantly, my eyes floating closed. I’ve been so turned on all night, and now I finally have him, this man I desperately want. This man who knows what to do with me.

  He takes his time till he’s all the way in, and I gasp once he’s there. The feeling is extraordinary. My bones hum, and tingles race down my spine.

  I widen my legs and wrap my arms around his neck, craving closeness.

  He takes his time, listening to my cues, finding a rhythm. Soon, we’re moving like we know each other’s bodies. Like we were meant to be tangled up together.

  He raises up on his arms, reaching for my right leg and hooking me tighter around him. At that angle, he goes deeper, and I nearly lose my mind with pleasure.

  “Oh God,” I pant, then I look up at him, meeting his eyes. They’re so intense right now. I swear I see something in them. Something I haven’t seen before.

  And that look, it makes me want to connect with him. He slows our pace, tantalizing me with unhurried thrusts. “Hi,” I whisper, wanting, hoping he feels the same thrilling new thing I do. This wild beating in my heart.

  “Hi to you.” His voice tells me he does. His voice and the way he talks to me, the way he looks at me.

  “This feels incredible,” I whisper.

  “Yeah. There’s no other word for it.”

  Soon we speed up, a pace that sends pulse after pulse of pleasure through me.

  I’m getting closer to the edge. So damn close. I’ll be there any second. He swivels his hips and drives into me, making me unleash a string of oh God, oh Gods.

  He moves faster, rocking harder, groaning too.

  My hands grip him tighter. I need the connection. I feel it so deeply already as my stomach flutters and pleasure races through me, hard and fast, sending me over once more.

  I call his name, and the world spirals away as he follows me, joining me on the other side.

  His smile is devilish as he grins at me, so satisfied. “You were saying?”

  I laugh and run a hand through his hair. “I was saying . . . I’ll keep sassing you.”

  “You do that.”

  He excuses himself to go to the restroom and returns a few seconds later with a warm washcloth, running it gently between my legs. His tenderness makes my chest ache, my throat tighten.

  Part of me wishes this was just sex.

  But I can’t go back.

  It’s so much more for me, and for him.

  That’s the biggest surprise of the night, and I don’t know how to deal with it.

  But before I decide anything, I need to know the score.

  12

  Vaughn

  “Spend the night.” I run my hand along her waist as I make my request, savoring the feel of her.

  “Does that mean I’m still on the naughty list?” she asks, a little playful, a little coy.

  “You’re on the I-want-to-wake-up-next-to-you list,” I say.

  As soon as I voice it, her expression shifts. Gone is the sass, and in its place is something else—something vulnerable. “I want to be on that list.”

  “You definitely are.”

  She props herself on her elbow, resting her head in her hand. “At the risk of being totally forward, but also admitting I love to know what’s going on . . .” She takes a deep, bracing breath. “What are we doing?”

  Part of me wants to play it cool. Keep it casual. Act like this is no big deal.

  A bigger part of me wants to confess she’s doing things to me I never expected.

  Or maybe I did. Didn’t I say the night I met her that Quinn was my tailor-made temptation? That she could be the one to make me break my fast?

  I knew the first time I talked to her—knew deep inside—we’d wind up here. Not just in bed, but in bed connecting.

  In bed wanting more.

  I want as much of her as I can have, and I don’t need to hide that.

  “What are we doing?” I wiggle my brow because I can’t resist teasing her. “I think we’re doing each other.” Then I bring her close and wrap my arms around her. “But I also think we should keep doing it. Keep seeing each other. Keep spending time together. What do you think?”

  Nerves crawl up my chest as I wait for her answer.

  She takes a beat, then nods. “I think that sounds like an excellent plan.”

  “Also, I should probably give your brother a heads-up. Since it’s the right thing to do. Are you cool with that?”

  She laughs. “Let’s tell him now,” she says, grabbing her phone. “Group chat?”

  I shrug happily. “Let’s do it.” I search for my phone while she taps out a text then sends it. He replies before I can even unlock my screen.

  Quinn: Hi. Vaughn is hot and sweet and awesome. I’m going to date him. If you were Amy, I’d think you planned it, with all those phone calls you took at dinner when I met him, but since you’re you, I know it was accidental. So, thanks for hating parties.

  Josh: You’re right. I don’t have a matchmaking bone in my body. And you’re always welcome for the party hatred. Also, good choice in men.

  Vaughn: Aren’t we all so adult and mature. Everyone deserves a gold star.

  Quinn and I toss our phones onto the pillow, and she grins at me. “Told you.”

  I kiss her nose. Then pull back to look at her. “So does that mean you’re mine for the holidays?”

  “I’m yours.”

  “Good, then I’d really like to have you again.”

  And I do, that night then in the morning too.

  And we make plans.

  Plans make her happy. They make me happy too, because they mean I’m going to see her.

  A lot of her.

  Like a few nights later.

  We walk up Fifth Avenue after dinner, checking out store displays and talking about family. I tell her about Callie and Danny and how excited I am to see them over Thanksgiving and then on a more regular basis when I live in Miami.

  “That’s great that you’ll get to see them so frequently,” she says. “I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t see Amy whenever I wanted to. You should meet her.”

  My heart thumps a little harder, thrilled that she brought it up. I squeeze her hand. “I’d love to.”

  We go to her place that night, where we test out the strength of her kitchen counter.

  “I can feel you so far in me,” she says, gasping.

  She loves it when I hook her legs around my waist. When I take her deep. When I bring her down hard on me.

  “That. When you do that,” she moans.

  “I’ll do whatever you need, whatever you want to get you there.”

  “You. I want you.”

  She loves it, too, when I thread my hand through her hair and kiss her neck as I bring her to the edge of the cliff.

  She seems to hover there, gasping, panting, moaning. God, she’s so fucking sexy, so incredibly gorgeous when she falls apart in my arms. When I follow her there, my body feels electric, pleasure pulsing in me.

  My heart races. It could be from the exertion, but when she clasps my face and pulls me close, I’m pretty sure it’s from something more. “It’s sooo not sex at all,” she whispers.

  “I know, Quinn. I know.”

  The next night, we visit an arcade that rents Skee-Ball machines for parties, and she places an order for the holiday bash.

  Then we return to my apartment again.

  In the elevator, I run into the head of the co-op board, who beams and launches right into chatter. “Everything is going swimmingly with the offer on your place.”

  “That’s great news,” I say, and Quinn looks away as the woman and I chat.

  Hell, there’s a part of me that wants to look away, too, from what’s coming at the end of the year.

  But we both know the score.

  We knew from the start.

  When we reach my apartment, Quinn offers a smile. “Looks like your place was an easy sale,” she says.

  “It s
hould be off my hands pretty soon.”

  “And you have a place in Miami already?” Her voice is the slightest bit strained.

  “I made an offer a few days ago.”

  “You’re going to be so happy there,” she says. Then she presses her lips to mine, and I feel happy right here too.

  And that’s exactly the problem.

  13

  Quinn

  It’s official. I’m going to burst.

  I point accusingly at my sister. “Why did you let me do this?”

  Josh chimes in. “You do this every year.”

  “It’s because Mom makes the best stuffing. And mashed potatoes. And green bean casserole.”

  Mom raises her hand, owning it. “I do. It’s all true. And your father is a champion turkey carver.”

  “I’m the best, and none of you kids can resist my birds,” he says.

  Kids. I look around at my thirty-six-year-old brother and his fiancée. At my older sister, Tabitha, who flew home from Paris for the holiday, and at Amy.

  I adore them all madly, and I’m so glad they’re here. We’re hardly children anymore, but I love that my dad still calls us “kids.” I love that I can see them often like this, as a family.

  Except for Tabitha. “Tab, when are you going to move back here? We miss you.”

  She waves a hand airily. “Someday. I miss you all too.”

  “We demand to see more of you,” Amy says, banging a fist on the table. “I see this stinker almost every week.” She points at me.

  “I second that demand,” I say with a laugh, then I toss my napkin on the table. “After all, don’t you miss Amy’s baked goods? She brought me peanut butter cookies earlier this week, and they were divine.”

  “Speaking of my divine baking,” Amy says, shooting me a stern stare, “you better have saved room for my world-famous walnut pie.”

  “As if I didn’t,” I say.

  Tabitha pats her belly. “My dessert compartment is open for business.”

  As Amy serves the slices of pie, a wave of contentment washes over me. I’m happy here. Delightfully so.