Still kissing her fiercely, I back her up and lift her onto the bed. She spreads herself wide for me and I can’t help but grin for a moment before I start trailing wet kisses down over her breasts, down over her stomach, and then continue lower.
“Is this for me?” I say, putting a hand on either side of her hips.
Her eyes are black with desire, and I see something in them that I only see when we’re together like this. When I drop my voice to use a certain tone with her. She’s stripped down to another level, needing me, wanting me, wrestling with her own need to be in control.
“Yes,” she whispers, and spreads her legs another inch apart, begging me without words to take her. To consume her. To claim her again and again.
I don’t have to say a thing to give her what she wants.
I just lean down and inhale her scent, then drag my tongue firmly over her soaking folds, lapping up the juices there.
Holy fuck, she tastes amazing.
Quinn’s body arches underneath me, her hips tilting up to press more of her against my face as I lick and suck and press my tongue into her wetness.
She presses her knuckles into her mouth to stifle her moans. It’s difficult to remember, down here between her legs, that she has a roommate to be considerate of. Carolyn’s been my friend for years, but right now I don’t give a fuck that she might hear us.
Quinn’s desire rises to a fever pitch, her hips jerking as she comes into my mouth in another burst of sweetness.
Then I’m pulling her toward me, putting her on her feet, her legs still quivering, and I bend her over her bed, pressing her breasts into the soft covers.
“You’re mine,” I growl, and underneath my hands I feel a minuscule motion of muscles that signals to me that she agrees, she wants this, she loves this. Whatever way I choose to dominate her, she’s prepared to take it.
I need to be in her.
Now.
I line myself up with her soaked slit at the same time that I catch both of her wrists and pin them at the small of her back. At the pressure of my hands on her wrists she lets out a deep moan, and in the sound is all her longing and need and a desperate request to fuck her, fuck her right now.
In one thrust, I’m buried deep in her wetness. There’s not an ounce of resistance—she’s so open for me that the only friction comes from the size of me pressing against her walls.
“Yes,” she pants, the word a drawn-out hiss as I get into a rhythm, fucking her deeply, claiming her, for now, forever.
It’s much later when the light of her phone screen wakes me up.
Quinn stands over near her vanity table, her hand cupped over the screen, squinting at it. I take a moment to look at her outline in the harsh white light emanating from the phone, at the tendrils of hair escaping from her bun, at the curve where her hip transitions into her waist.
Her shoulders slump and my heart twists just to see it. Instantly I’m pushing the covers off, going to her side.
She leans into my touch, her head resting against my chest just next to my tattoo.
“What’s going on?” I ask her softly.
“My house in Colorado,” she says, and then swallows hard. “It burned to the ground.”
“Fuck.” Tears fill her eyes, but she’s smiling now. “Quinn?”
“I’m free of it. I’m finally free of that place.”
A smile spreads across my own face, just to see her relief. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m great. I’ve never been better.”
I lead her back to bed, pull her down into its softness with me, wrap her in my arms. She settles in, every muscle relaxing, safe and sound.
Several minutes later, as I’m starting to drift off, she says something I can’t hear.
“What?” I whisper, not wanting to shatter the peace of the moment.
“I love you.”
My heart nearly flies out of my chest. It’s never felt more right to hear those words. We’re going to have to talk about all of this, figure out our next steps, decide for ourselves if it’s really too early, but for right now…
I smooth my hand over her hair and squeeze her one more time. “I love you, too, Quinn.”
Chapter 25
Quinn
My heart hasn’t felt this light and free in months, maybe years. Now that there’s nothing holding me back in Colorado, it’s like a massive weight has been lifted.
The house is a total loss, and so Thursday is eaten up with strategic planning for Christian’s next wave of public appearances and phone call after phone call from my insurance company. It seems like they’re calling every hour on the hour to confirm various details with me—how much furniture was left in the house, the accuracy of my home inventory list, how much I have left to pay on the mortgage.
“Ms. Campbell?”
I answer the phone for the twentieth time. It’s never joyful to deal with an insurance company, but I’m over the moon—and not just because of the house.
“Yes?”
“This is Michael Deacon, calling from Mountainside.”
“Hi, Michael.”
“I wanted to call and give you an update on your claim.”