Chapter 12
Naomi
The elevator opened into Quinn’s penthouse, and I stepped out onto hardwood floors and floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city sprawled beyond the windows.
It smelled like him—cedar and bergamot and something darker, like whiskey left out too long.
The scent wrapped around me, familiar and dangerous.
I turned to find him watching me, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he was trying to anchor himself.
His sleeves were rolled up, forearms corded with the kind of muscle you get from work, not a gym—hauling lumber, swinging a hammer, building something real.
The kind of arms that could pin you down or hold you up, depending on the night.
“No shag carpet,” I said, because if I didn’t say something, I was going to do something else. Something reckless. “I’m disappointed.”
He laughed, low and rough, the sound scraping over my skin. “I’ll have it installed by morning..”
I wandered farther in, running my fingers along the back of his couch. The leather was buttery soft, worn in just the right places—like he’d spent years sitting here, staring at the city, wondering if he’d ever get what he wanted. “You really live here?”
“Most of the time.” He moved to the bar, pouring two fingers of whiskey into a glass. The ice clinked against the crystal like a warning. “Sometimes I forget.”
I took the drink he offered, our fingers brushing. The contact sent a jolt up my arm, sharp and electric. “Forget what?”
“That this is mine.” His voice was quiet.
I sipped the whiskey, letting it burn. The good kind of burn. The kind that made you feel alive. “What do you mean by that?”
He didn’t answer. Just held my gaze, like the question was a dare.
I set my glass down and turned in a slow circle, taking in the details—the framed photo of him and his sister on a beach in Thailand, her laughing, him squinting into the sun like he was trying to memorize the moment.
The stack of books on the coffee table (all thrillers, no surprises, but one had a bookmark halfway through, like he’d been interrupted).
The way the light hit the kitchen island, warm and golden, like it was waiting for someone to sit there.
“It’s nice, but it’s not really me.”
“It’s very manly. You’re manly,” I said.
“The place basically came like this. The flooring. The architecture. I just added furniture. But I have to admit, I like it a lot more tonight than I usually do.”
“Oh yeah. Why’s that?”
His hand found my hip, light but deliberate, like he was testing the weight of me. “You’re here.”
The words hung between us, heavy and undeniable. I turned to face him, and the air between us crackled. The city lights painted his face in gold and shadow, but his eyes were all dark heat.
I stepped into him, close enough to feel his breath on my lips. Close enough to see the way his pupils dilated, the way his jaw tightened.
His mouth crashed into mine before I could finish the sentence.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was years of wanting, distilled into something raw and desperate.
His hands found my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I arched into the contact like I’d been waiting for it my whole life.
His tongue traced the seam of my lips, and I opened for him with a gasp, letting him take what he wanted—what we both wanted.
My body lit up like it hadn’t in a very long time. I felt sexy. Wanted.
I bit his lower lip, just hard enough to make him groan, and the sound sent a thrill through me. His fingers tangled in my hair, tilting my head back so he could deepen the kiss, and I let him—because for once, I didn’t have to be the one in control.
My fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, impatient. He groaned as I yanked it open, the fabric straining against his shoulders. His chest was all hard planes and warm skin, and I pressed my palms against him, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat.
He groaned, low and needy, and then his hands were on me again, rough and demanding. He spun us around, pinning me against the wall instead, his thigh sliding between my legs. The pressure was perfect, and I rocked against him with a whimper, my nails digging into his shoulders.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his mouth moving to my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.
This was the first time I heard him swear, like I was too much for him to handle.
His hands slid down my arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake, and then he was lifting me onto the kitchen island. The marble was cold against my thighs, a stark contrast to the heat of his body. He stepped between my legs, his hands sliding up my thighs, pushing my dress higher.
“Quinn,” I breathed, my voice barely a whisper.
He paused, his eyes locking onto mine. “Tell me to stop.”
I shook my head, my fingers tangling in his hair. “Don’t you dare.”
He groaned, his mouth crashing into mine again, his hands sliding under my dress to trace the lace of my underwear. I gasped into his mouth, my hips bucking against his touch.
“So responsive,” he murmured, his fingers teasing me through the fabric. “I’ve dreamed about this.”
I whimpered, my nails digging into his shoulders. “Less talking, more—”
He cut me off with another kiss, his fingers sliding under the lace, finally touching me where I needed him most. I gasped, my back arching off the counter, and he swallowed the sound with his mouth.
“God, you’re wet,” he muttered, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles. “So fucking wet for me.”
I moaned, my hips rocking against his hand. “Quinn, please.”
He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, his fingers stilling. “Please what?”
I whimpered, my body aching for more. “Please, I need—”
“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice rough. “Tell me what you need.”
I took a deep breath, my fingers tightening in his hair. “I need you inside me.”
He groaned, his forehead resting against mine. “Fuck, Naomi.”
And then his fingers were gone, replaced by the hot, hard length of him. He teased me with the tip, his eyes locked onto mine, and I whimpered, my hips bucking against him.
“Quinn,” I breathed, my voice desperate.
He didn’t make me wait. With one swift motion, he lifted me off the counter, my legs wrapping around his waist, my arms around his neck. He carried me to the couch, never breaking our connection.
Somewhere between the counter and the couch our clothes ended up on the floor. He and laid me down gently, his body covering mine.
His thrusts were slow and deep, like he was savoring every bit of me. I arched into him, my nails digging into his back, and he groaned, his mouth finding my neck.
“You feel so good,” he muttered, his hips rolling against mine. “So fucking good.”
I whimpered, my body tightening around him. “Quinn, I’m—”
“Let go,” he demanded, his voice rough. “I’ve got you.”
And I did. With a cry, I came apart around him, my body shuddering with pleasure. He followed me over the edge, his groan muffled against my neck, his body trembling with his own release.
We lay there for a long moment, our bodies tangled together, our breaths ragged. The record had long since stopped spinning, and the only sound was the distant hum of the city.
Quinn rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. His fingers traced idle patterns on my stomach, sending shivers through me.
“That was…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“Yeah,” I agreed, my voice soft.
He met my eyes, his expression serious. “I’ve wanted that for a long time.”
I smiled, my fingers tangling in his hair. “Me too.”
He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “Stay.”
I hesitated, my fingers stilling. “Quinn—”
I couldn’t stay, because if I did, I’ll fall in love for real.
And then, what would happen when it was time to end things?
What happened after the wedding? Sure, he might want to fake date some more to really sell it, but that won’t last forever.
What happens when Quinn Holland got bored of playing make belief?
“Just for the night,” he said, his voice gentle. “I’m not ready to let you go yet.”
I shook my head. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I just—I just can’t.”
Then I was running, I was grabbing my things and running. Because I realized something equally wonderful and horrible. I, Naomi Cross, was falling for Quinn Holland. And I was falling fast.