by Alison Kent
The woman wouldn’t give an inch. He walked closer. “You’d rather I said no?”
She stopped twisting, stared into her glass as she ran a finger around the rim. “It would be easier to believe you if you did.”
Touché, he mused and shrugged. “It’s a wall I’ve lived behind a long time.”
“Would letting someone in be such a bad thing?” she asked softly, lifting her gaze.
It took the strength of a thousand men to make the admission she was forcing from him. “I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m doing here.”
“And?” she asked moments later, moments during which he wondered what was wrong with his heart. God, but it burned as if it had been pierced, and pierced hard. “Is it so terribly frightening?”
To let down his guard? To trust that her attentions were real? To know he wasn’t stepping off into a situation that would do more damage than the paternity suit?
No. It wasn’t. Not frightening in the least.
And it felt damn good to realize that he believed in her and in the things she made him feel.
He raised a hand and cupped her cheek that was cooled by the night air. The light of the moon kissed her bare arms, and he watched her gooseflesh rise. “Are you cold?”
She shivered. “No. Nervous but not cold.”
“What do you have to be nervous about?” he asked as he slid his fingers to her nape.
She shuddered again. “The responsibility.”
His frown deepened. “Of what?”
“You.”
At that he tossed back his head and laughed. “You make me sound like a new puppy.”
“It’s a workable analogy,” she said, leaning into him once he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You’ve got those eyes that beg for attention.”
“More like you’ve been seeing your own eyes reflected back.”
“Hmph. My eyes do not beg.”
“Maybe not.” Her annoyance amused him—especially since she’d mumbled the words into his chest. He found himself lighthearted and enjoying the rare-to-him feeling. “But your mouth certainly does.”
“What did I tell you?” she moved away, putting enough distance between them that he felt the loss. “We’re not up here to talk about sex.”
“Hmm. All this talk of puppies and eyes, I’m not sure I remember what we are up here to talk about.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, knowing exactly why they’d left the apartment and come.
For the change of scenery Shandi needed, the fresh air and the break from the place it looked as if she wouldn’t be calling home for much longer.
But suddenly he didn’t want to talk about any of that.
He wanted to change the subject, to see the light return to her eyes, to feel the heat from her fire that burned when her passions ran high.
He watched her walk along the low brick wall edging the garden. “Though, now that I think about it, wasn’t it something to do with a class project?”
She hung her head, shook it. “I’m about ready to blow off the whole thing. I can’t even think about it now.”
He joined her where she’d dropped to sit on the bricks, breathing in the smells of rich peat and fertile ground and cooling tar. “That doesn’t sound like the Shandi I know. Giving up after being so excited?”
She glanced over, her eyes limned in smudged kohl, her lashes heavy and dark over the shimmering silver of her mask. “You think you know me that well? After less than a week of interrupted conversations and equally abbreviated, uh, intimate encounters?”
He didn’t even stop to think. He simply nodded. “Yeah. I do. That phone call this morning said a lot.”
“Dear Lord, Quentin,” she said, leaning against him. “How can everything be going right one minute and the next minute it all be ripped away?”
Because that’s life, the cynical bastard in him wanted to say. Instead he wrapped one arm around her, held her close and whispered, “Because, Shandi Fossey, that’s how you find out what you’re made of.”
“Easy for you made-of-money types to say. Us not-made-of-money types have to cut back on classes, work extra shifts, possibly get second jobs, just to pay rent. Forget utilities or entertainment or clothes.”
“You’ll do fine,” he said, unable to imagine her doing anything but landing on her feet.
She rocked against him. “It’s a damn good thing Chef’s generous with his handouts. At least I won’t starve.”
“I won’t let you starve.”
“Oh, what?” She pulled back enough to look into his face as she interrogated him. “Now you’re a patron of starving student-artists?”
He hadn’t considered it before, but… “I could be, sure. Have my accountant set up a scholarship fund. Or a grant. To take care of your expenses so you could concentrate on school full-time.”
She continued to stare up at him, her gaze hard to define in the eerie glow of the moon. But then she blinked slowly, her mouth drawn in a thin line that even a blind man couldn’t mistake for a smile. “You would do that? For me?”
“I’ve thought about doing something like it for a while now,” he lied, having carefully weighed the answer and finding he didn’t like the truth.
He’d been so wrapped up in his own career, he’d never thought of giving back until now. Until meeting this amazing woman whom he wanted to see succeed.
This woman who hadn’t asked him for a thing except to help her with a project she still hadn’t told him about.
Leaving her wineglass on the brick wall, Shandi got to her feet slowly, turned and stared down.
He could almost see the wisps of steam coming from her ears as she towered above.
“So you’d support me while I went to school, and the only thing I’d have to do in return is sleep with you?”
9
IS THAT WHAT HE MEANT? That he wanted to set her up as his mistress? A kept woman?
Did he think calling himself a patron of the arts instead of a sugar daddy would make it palatable for the both of them?
She couldn’t believe it. She could not believe it and she began to pace. Sure, they’d known each other less than a week, but she had never picked up a single clue that this was how he operated.
Especially since his suggestion was nothing but the converse of his objection to being pursued because of his reputation. Instead he was using his reputation, his success, to get what he wanted.
But then he surged to his feet and spat out his next words. “Hell, no, that’s not what I meant. Why would you think so?”
“Honestly?” She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, holding in the crushing sense of suffocation. “Because the idea seemed to come out of nowhere. As if it suddenly occurred to you that you could have me whenever you wanted as long as you were paying my way.”
“The idea did come out of nowhere, Shandi, but that sure as hell was not the intent behind it,” he said, moving forward and kicking the wineglass he’d left on the ground. It shattered, and he bit off a long string of foul words.
“I’m sorry. I’ll replace it. And, no. That is not an attempt to buy my way into your bed.” He headed for the door to the staircase, opened it and stood back waiting for her to join him before he walked down.
Staring at him as he did, watching the play of light over his face, she had no idea why that one act of thoughtfulness—his waiting for her, not wanting to leave her alone on the rooftop no matter how deeply he felt her insult—did her in.
But it did. She sank back to where she’d been sitting and buried her face in her hands. She didn’t cry; she hadn’t yet reached the point of total meltdown, though she was certain it was next on the agenda.
Across the roof the staircase door clicked shut with a resounding echo. Quentin’s footsteps scuffed over the loose-gravel-and-tar surface as he made his way back to the garden wall where she sat.
He didn’t join her, but she sensed him standing there, still waiting, probably wondering what the hell craziness he’d gotten him
self into and how he could extricate himself without having to make excuses beyond saying goodbye.
She raised her head, shook it, sighed. “If I read something into your offer that wasn’t there, I apologize. I can only blame it on the moon.”
He shifted from one foot to the other before serving back her words for more explanation. “The moon?”
She nodded, feeling stupid and silly, both of which were better than feeling as if she’d ruined everything. “I’m used to the tiny bit of the sky I can see from my window. All these moonbeams are getting to me.”
Since she was staring at his shoes, she saw the minute he turned, tugged up on the knees of his pants as he sat beside her. He left enough distance between them that one of them had to make the first move.
So she did, gathering up the material of her dress so as not to snag it and scooting near. “I’m sorry. Truly. I think I snapped because your offer presents the perfect answer to all my problems but I just can’t take it.”
“I know that.” He laced his hands between his spread knees, hung his head. “You wouldn’t be who you are if you took the easy way out.”
“Then why did you do it?” Why did you give me a glimpse of hope? she wanted to add, but didn’t.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Maybe trying to buy my way out of my cynical bastardy.”
She smiled to herself. “Hmm. I’m not sure that’s the correct use of that word.”
“What can I say?” he asked with a snort of self-deprecation. “When you’re around, I’m a tongue-tied idiot.”
Her smile deepened, reaching down to squeeze her heart. “Really? I do that to you?”
He reached over and took one of her hands in his, as if the simple contact of palms pressed close said everything. “You do more than you’ll ever realize.”
“Tell me,” she said, squeezing his fingers and waiting breathlessly to hear what he said. Because she hadn’t told him the whole truth earlier. This week her dreams had been all about him.
But it wasn’t going to be that easy, she realized as he shook his head. “Nope. Not until you tell me about this class project that you’re not going to dump.”
“Okay.” If she blurted it out rather than dragging it the way she’d been doing, at least the wait for his reaction would be over.
She breathed deeply and said, “I have to do a print ad for a hair-color product. I’m using April and Kit Prescott as my models.”
“Kit from Hush?” he asked after several seconds passed.
“Right. The brunette and the blonde. Perfect bookends.”
“No black?”
She shook her head. “Too harsh. April has a gentle warmth, like buttered toast. And Kit is bright, like eggs sunny-side up. Weird, I know,” she went on, gesturing with one hand, “but it works for what I’m wanting to do. Except I’ve always known I need more. That the contrast isn’t quite right.”
“And this is where you want to use me.”
“Yes. Your coloring is the perfect amalgamation of Kit’s and April’s,” she explained, wondering if he thought she was totally nuts or if she should mention how wild and sexy he would look standing between the two serenely poised women. “The bookends and all the pages in between.”
“You’re back to books, and I’m stuck on breakfast,” he said, shaking his head.
“Hey, I make my art with cosmetics, not with words.” And then she groaned. “Which sucks because I’m going to have to come up with a slogan that works and I’m pretty sure eggs and toast won’t.”
“They work for breakfast,” he said, getting to his feet and pulling her with him. She straightened her dress.
“Breakfast?” Was he putting her off or was he simply wanting an invitation to spend the night? She took a stab in the dark. “I have to be at school at eight. I don’t do breakfast.”
“You will tomorrow,” he said and tugged her across the rooftop to the stairs. “My treat.”
“Are you taking me out or cooking?” she asked as he opened the stairwell door.
“Depends. Do you want to get up early or sleep in and have breakfast in bed?” The door closed with a snap, leaving them with only the light from the sputtering bulb on the floor below by which to see.
He moved to stand on the step beneath the main landing—a move that put him at her eye level. She stayed where she was and looked into his face, lifting a hand and caressing him, the smooth skin over his perfect cheekbones.
Why couldn’t he have been a doctor, a lawyer, any profession with roots in this city she was making her home? “Thank you. For forgiving me. For understanding.”
He turned his face to kiss the center of her palm, nuzzling the bristle of his goatee against her. “You’ve got a lot at stake. A lot on your mind. I should’ve been more clear with my intentions.”
“I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions,” she said, threading her fingers back over his ear and into the thick silk of his hair. It slid like water over her wrists, and she felt her nipples tighten.
With her white dress picking up all the stairwell’s light, Quentin noticed. He buried his face between her breasts and breathed in, settling his hands over her ribs, pressing his thumbs upward.
Her hands found his shoulders. Holding on, she closed her eyes and drank up the sensations sweetening her body, thinking how much better this would be in bed. Or not, she mused, as he found the garment’s overly large and loose armholes and touched her skin.
She shuddered as the hair at her nape tingled. “You never did tell me if you intended to serve me breakfast in your bed or mine?”
“Do you have a preference?” He breathed his question into the hollow of her throat, his thumbs rubbing circles over her bare nipples.
Clenching her thighs and the muscles of her sex, she tried to answer but couldn’t speak until she’d cleared her throat. “Mine’s closer.”
“That settles it then. We’ll stay here.” He kissed his way from her neck to her shoulders before moving down a step and taking his attentions lower, breathing hotly over the gauze of her dress where it covered her breasts, her waist, until he was on his knees and his breath puffed over her thighs. “As long as you have eggs.”
She didn’t, she realized as she widened her stance, the pit of her belly burning. She’d used them all for dinner. “I have pancake mix. Add water and pour.”
“That’ll work.” He lifted her skirt. She reached for the hand railing and held on as he pushed aside the minimal barrier of her thong, opened his mouth and kissed her as intimately as a woman could be kissed.
She trembled, gasped, couldn’t believe this was happening, that the fire between them burned this hotly, this fiercely and with such a desperate need to be fed that what they were doing seemed the only logical course.
He parted the lips of her sex with his thumbs, licked his way through her folds, found her entrance and pushed his tongue inside and did it while capturing her clit between his thumbs and massaging it.
She cried out, bit back the rest of the sound, feared she wasn’t going to be able to stand because he’d replaced his tongue with two of his fingers and was now sucking her as he stroked.
“Quentin, wait. We need to go downstairs. I don’t…think…I have any syrup.”
He chuckled there where his lips and tongue and fingers were busy making a wet, juicy mess between her legs. And she really hated putting a stop to what he was doing, but she wanted more. To feel the weight of his body, his mouth on hers, his thick sex inside.
As if he’d been reading her mind, he left her with one last lingering kiss, and as she shivered and groaned with the pleasure, he got to his feet, stepped up to where she was waiting and turned her to face the door.
She pressed her body to the cool metal, listened as Quentin’s zipper came down, spread her legs and waited. She didn’t give a damn about syrup. Not when he made her feel as if her only two choices were to come or to die.
Her skirt up to her waist, her thong a scrap of nothing he ripped away
, he moved in behind her, bent at the knees, found his position and thrust upward. He nearly took her off her feet when he did.
She bit her lip until she tasted blood, trying to keep quiet, to hold in the cries that ripped through her—a useless endeavor. How could she be silent when every time he drove into her he shook with the pleasure he felt?
He moved one hand to her hip, slid the other around to her stomach, his cheek rubbing against her hair as he whispered into her ear words she’d never heard him speak, words describing what he loved about her body, what he wanted to do to her, what he wanted her to do to him.
She wanted all of it. She wanted everything.
She wanted him—in her bed, in her body. But most of all she wanted him in her life. She wanted to laugh with him and cry with him and share her troubles as she worked them through. She wanted to open her eyes to him in the morning, kiss him before she went to sleep at night.
The realization tore through her, overwhelming her, and she cried out as she came. Quentin followed, spilling himself inside her, his low throaty growl tickling her ear, his body warm where he’d pressed himself against her back.
Caught between his warmth and the cool metal door, she collapsed, exhausted, thankful he was there to keep her from sliding all the way to the ground. Long moments later, he pulled free from her body, adjusting her dress over her hips before stepping back and putting himself together.
She turned, leaned against the door, her hands stacked behind her. “I think we have a problem.”
“It’s good to hear you say that because I was thinking it was just me.” He didn’t look up until he’d finished slipping the extra length of his belt through its loop. When he did, she swore she saw sadness in his eyes. “But I’m clueless what to do about it.”
She wanted to know what he was thinking, what that sadness meant.
She didn’t want to be the only one suffering here, dealing with an upheaval to her life that reduced the struggles of work and school and finances to dust beneath her feet.
Because that’s what this felt like, this attraction that was consuming them both.
