Chapter 19
Harlan
W hen I leave my office mid-afternoon for the second time in a week, headed for home, Brant looks at me strangely, and Manus asks me if I’m unwell.
But Carlisle has informed me that Quinn is at my place, and I haven’t seen her in six days.
After we ate chicken tostadas the other night, then she insisted on cleaning up the kitchen herself rather than letting my staff do it, I took her up to my bedroom, peeled off that black-and-white dress and the lacy panties beneath, and ate her out. Until she begged for release, which has now become my favorite thing.
I know this, because it’s taken priority over all other thoughts.
The way she moans and pleads, giving herself over to me.
The way she says my name when she’s desperate, and I’m in control of her pleasure.
The way she comes for me, so hard, when I tell her she’s a good girl.
The next morning, I dropped her at home on my way to work, and ever since, it’s been slightly killing me that she hasn’t come back for more.
Every night, I’ve worked late at the office. When I come home to my silent house, I lay out by my pool or pace the length of my family room, staring at the stars or the ceiling or the floor, lost in thought. I even had Manus procure me some weed so I could smoke a joint; an old habit from college, but something I haven’t done in years.
I’ve also been drinking too much, maybe to try to fill the void she left.
It’s like there’s something missing that I never thought I needed, never wanted to need, but now that I’ve had a taste of it, I’ve stumbled upon this deep, cavernous emptiness I never noticed was there before, just lurking under the surface.
But maybe it’s always been there. Like a crack in the floor you step over so many times, and maybe throw a rug over, and you pretend it’s not there for so long, you actually start to forget.
Maybe I’m just a spoiled brat, deep down, and I don’t like being deprived of my favorite thing.
But as soon as I get home, and I know she’s there, I take a quick shower. I put on fresh clothes, though my home clothes are pretty much the same as my work clothes. Black pants and a black collared shirt, just no suit jacket. I roll up my sleeves a bit to make it more casual, wondering what Quinn thinks of the way I dress.
Which is not the kind of thing I wonder about women.
I want to get into her head almost as much as I want to get into her body, which isn’t right. It isn’t my thing.
But I can’t stop it.
The thoughts are there in my head, insidious little compulsions, these wonderings about her, even when I don’t want them to be.
I head downstairs and find her in the family kitchen, where it looks like a bakery exploded. I’m so glad to see her, I’m not even that bothered by the incredible mess of baking supplies and ingredients that’s covering almost every surface.
I just try not to look at it.
She’s wearing a little lavender-colored dress, her turquoise hair up in a messy ponytail.
She looks like dessert. Sweet, and good enough to eat.
She has music playing quietly, and I ease in behind her. She’s measuring what looks like powdered sugar into the big bowl of her standing mixer. I say in a low voice, close to her ear, “Can I get extra sugar in that?”
“Oh! Jesus.” She startles, and I give her a wicked smile. “Don’t creep up on a girl like that!”
I give her what I think is the closest to a sad-puppy face that I can make. “But I’m so good at it.”
“You’re a creep.”
Oh, but she’s smiling.
“So what you’re saying is, you’ve missed me.” I settle against the counter as she turns the music way down with her phone.
She glances at me almost guiltily. “This week has been a blur. What day is it?” she jokes as she measures a bit of cream into her bowl.
“You haven’t been baking much?” She hasn’t been back to use the kitchen until today. I don’t want to be disappointed, but I kind of am.
“I’ve been working so much at Champagne, and I don’t have a cake order to fill until the weekend. But I offered to make some cupcakes for Mom because we need a few batches for tomorrow.”
“How’s the job at Champagne going?”
“It’s like nine straight hours on my feet, and I’m not getting home until three in the morning. The tips are excellent, though.”
Yeah. That waitressing job is really interfering with my ability to screw her as often as I’d like to. I even went in there last night when she was working, just to see her—and maybe see if I could take her home after. But it was so crowded, so loud and filled with obnoxious drunk people, I had to leave, before she even saw me.
The idea of watching men leer at her became unpalatable as soon as it was right in my face. I don’t know what I was even thinking arranging a job for her at Bliss. I’ve examined it a few times, and can only conclude that I was so focused on the need to keep control of that whole transaction, and make sure she was safe and content—while working somewhere I could keep tabs on her—that I was in denial about the rest of it. And how much I would utterly hate it.
It’s for the best she’s working at Champagne. It’s a nightclub, and I’m sure men hit on her there. But at least people aren’t fucking on the premises.
Probably.
I’d really rather she didn’t work in a bar at all. But maybe we’ll get to that.
“What are you making?” I inquire. I can’t even tell, there’s so much to look at, and I’m really trying not to.
“Buttercream,” she says, and turns on the mixer.
“Why is it so… disorganized?”
“It’s not.”
“I don’t know how you get anything done like this. How do you even know what you put in there?” I eye her buttercream suspiciously as she adds pink coloring.
“Please. I’m a pro. I had to buy more ingredients, but I haven’t had time to organize more thoroughly. I will, though.” She eyes me curiously. “Why does it bother you so much? You don’t have to come in here.”
Because you’re in here. So, yes, I do.
“It’s my house. I like things my way. I think I’ve earned that right. I pay for it.”
“Yeah…” She gives me an uncertain look. “That reminds me. I was supposed to tell you. Carlisle might be upset if I didn’t. So, here goes. He caught me snooping in your closet. Like, a week ago. I told him I’d tell you. I was just looking at your suits and stuff,” she adds quickly. “I was curious.”
“About what?”
“About how freaking perfect everything is in there! And everywhere in your house.” She shuts off the mixer and removes the bowl.
“It’s not perfect.”
I watch as she starts loading buttercream into an icing bag. “There’s not a crumb or a speck of dirt or a piece of lint anywhere, Harlan. Your staff tiptoe around like little cleaning ninjas, rarely being seen, but making everything flawless for you.”
“It’s not flawless. And like I said, I pay for it.”
“It’s more than that. It’s not their standards they’re adhering to.” She goes over to a big tray loaded with cupcakes, and puts one on a little turntable thing. She starts icing the cupcake, spinning it on the turntable to make a perfect pink dollop on top.
I don’t know what she wants me to say. So I just watch her ice cupcakes, one by one. She is a pro. The cupcakes look photoshoot-ready.
She keeps throwing me looks while she does it, like she’s waiting for me to explain my high standards or something.
I don’t.
“I’ve caught you doing it, too, you know,” she says. “You wipe down the counters behind my back when you think I’m not looking. You straighten books and mugs and shoes so they line up perfectly. You adjust chairs and doors and windows. You shower in the morning and when you get home from work?—”
“I like things clean.”
“It’s more than that, Harlan. I’m not blind.”
In the ensuing silence, I consider whether to tell her or not.
It’s not something I tell anyone.
My siblings know, because they’ve lived with me. I’m sure many of my staff have figured it out, too. I don’t hire stupid people.
But I don’t volunteer the information to them.
Quinn’s not stupid, either.
And maybe if I tell her, it’ll be another step toward gaining her trust?
“I’ve been diagnosed with OCD.”
She looks at me. She doesn’t seem surprised by this, exactly. More like surprised that I told her.
“In the past,” I add. “It’s not a problem. I have it under control.”
“I’m not judging,” she says. “I’m kind of fascinated, actually.”
“Why?”
“Because. That’s another piece of the Harlan puzzle, solved,” she muses.
“If you say so.” I can’t imagine how anyone would find something like my OCD interesting in the slightest. It used to feel like a fucking curse before I tackled it with major therapy.
“What kind of OCD do you have? I know there are different kinds.”
“And how do you know that?”
She shrugs. “My roommate in college had it. You know, when I was in culinary school. That was the most hyper-organized kitchen I ever worked in. She’d get mad if I put a cereal box back in the cupboard ‘backward.’ Let me guess. Orderliness and Symmetry OCD?”
“Correct.”
“That’s the same as my roommate. I wasn’t sure if you were just, I don’t know, controlling and perfectionistic.”
“I also have Perfectionism OCD.”
“Oh. Wow.” She considers this for a long moment. “So, I imagine it probably really bothers you when I do this.” She takes a scoop of her pink buttercream and blobs it on the counter.
I stare at it, and draw a deep breath. It’s not so much the blob of buttercream that’s irritating me. It’s her conscious attempt to irritate me.
Actually, it’s both.
“The rule was,” I remind her in a low voice, “that you keep this kitchen clean.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up. Of course. But first, I want you to taste this.” She picks up the cupcake she just iced and holds it out to me.
“You’re feeding me cake, now?”
“It’s a cupcake, Harlan. And I’d like you to taste it, and tell me if it’s good.”
“I can already tell you it’ll be too sweet for my liking.”
“Just taste it.” She puts it right in front of my mouth.
I eye her suspiciously.
Then I open my mouth to take a small bite.
She smooshes the whole thing in my face. Half of it sticks to me, and half of it falls to the floor.
I suck in a breath through my nose and glare at her.
“Whoops. My hand must’ve slipped.” She bites her lip.
“Are we doing this?” My voice is dark with warning. “How old are you?” I grab a dish towel, and swipe buttercream and cupcake from my face. “And I thought you wanted to build trust.”
“It’s exposure therapy,” she says innocently. “My roommate did it for her OCD.” She picks up another iced cupcake and offers it to me. “You want another one?”
“Don’t you dare.”
She starts backing up, but she doesn’t put the cupcake down.
“Put the cupcake down, Quinn.”
I advance toward her and she whips the cupcake at me. It hits me in the chest.
I stop abruptly.
“You just got that buttery shit on my shirt. That’ll leave a grease stain.”
“Good thing you can afford a new one.” She scoops up three more cupcakes, and dives behind the island.
“ Quinn, ” I warn.
She whips another cupcake at me, but misses.
I pick up the whole bowl of buttercream and advance on her.
She screams, drops her cupcakes, and runs.
I chase.
She does a full lap around the island, screaming, almost laughing, and starting to hyperventilate, then makes a run for the door.
I catch her by the hips just before she can leave the room, and haul her against me with one arm.
I drag her over to the kitchen table, in front of the big bay windows. I kick out a chair and set the bowl on the table. Then I undo my belt, unzip, and shove my pants and underwear down as she tries to scramble away.
I sit down, and she squeals as I drag her over my knee, face-down—and my hard-on digs into her hip. I yank up her dress.
“You’re being a very bad girl, Quinn. You know that?”
“Yes,” she says breathlessly. Defiantly.
It makes my blood boil. In the best way possible.
“You want to be punished?”
“Maybe,” she says smartly.
I yank her panties down her thighs, baring her ass.
Then I spank it, thoroughly, as she gasps and wriggles.
When I’m satisfied that I’m now in control, I squeeze, then smooth my hand gently over each reddened cheek.
She’s panting now, and I’m rock-hard.
I take a scoop of pink buttercream with my bare hand, and slather it onto her ass.
“That’s for a baby shower!” she cries.
“Then I guess you need to make more.”
She moans a little as I smear it over both cheeks.
“Any more complaints, little baddie?” I murmur.
She keeps her mouth shut.
I lift her off my knees, then yank her onto my lap so she’s straddling me. And sitting directly on my hard cock. She wraps her arms around my neck, eyes shining with lust.
I grab her by the hips, and fill her in one deep thrust. She arches, crying out, and shoves her tits in my face. I pull her dress down, and yank her bra out of my way.
I pinch her clit with my buttercream-coated fingers.
“You’ve been a very bad girl making my kitchen so dirty,” I tell her, nuzzling between her breasts. “Are you a dirty girl, Quinn?”
She mewls a response.
“Words, kitten. I need words.”
“Yes,” she pants.
“Say you’re sorry for being so naughty.”
“I’m sorry for being naughty.”
She whimpers as I drag my stubble over her skin, making her shiver.
“Because you know what good girls get, don’t you?” I pluck her clit with my fingers and lightly bite her breast.
She gasps.
“Good girls get to come,” I murmur, “so hard.”
I suck a hard nipple into my mouth. She moans.
This. Fuck, I needed this.
I grasp her hips again in both hands and start jerking her up and down, making her fuck me. I suck harder, and she starts to take over, riding me in a frenzy.
My thumb slides over her clit, rubbing insistently, as my other hand squeezes her ass, which is slippery with buttercream. It’s all over my thighs. I don’t even care what a mess we’re making, laser-focused on her pleasure now.
My cock is impossibly hard as she rides it, and I tell her, “That’s a good girl. Fuck that cock, Quinn.”
She moans. I cup her breasts with my buttercream-coated hands and feed them into my mouth. The more I suck, the more her rhythm stutters, the louder she moans. I feel her pussy contract, squeezing me, and my balls throb as she bounces on them.
“Harlan,” she pants, “can I… I need to come. Please?”
It’s so fucking sweet when she asks me for permission.
So fucking hot when her pussy pulses around my shaft.
I’m right there with her.
“Yes, baby. You can come. Put a big, juicy come on that dick.”
I’ve barely got the words out when she’s grinding against me and shuddering, crying out. She crushes her face into my neck, hips jerking, and I lose it. I slam her hips down on me and release with a growl of pleasure, filling her in hot bursts.
We’re still coming when her phone starts to ring.
It must be her phone; it’s an annoying electronic jingling, coming from the kitchen counter.
We both ignore it. Eventually it stops, and we cling together, panting, a sweaty, buttercream-smeared mess.
Then her phone chimes a few times.
She lifts her face from my neck and meets my eyes. Her pretty face is flushed, and awash with sated pleasure. “Well. That was messy,” she says dreamily.
I pull her to me and kiss her soft, swollen lips.
And her phone starts ringing again.
She moans, but not with pleasure this time.
“Is that your phone?”
“Yes. Shit.” She gets up, awkwardly extracting me from her body as she stumbles a bit. I catch her. “I should see if it’s important. It could be Mom.”
I smack her ass, and she flashes me a dirty look before darting across the room.
I struggle to stand myself, and debate whether to pull my pants back up right over the buttercream, or try to slip up to my shower, pants down, without running into any of my staff.
“Oh my god.”
When I look up, Quinn is staring at her phone, and her face has gone pale.
Her wide blue eyes meet mine across the room, and she looks panicked.
“It’s my neighbor. She’s driving Mom to the hospital.”