Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
CELESTE
The second my knees meet the hardwoods, I’m on fire again. Quinton strains against his Santa boxers, chest heaving, eyes darkened and homed in on my face. Disheveled and every inch of his body taut, he’s gorgeous. I giggle at the tiny Santas on his pajamas asking if I’ve been naughty or nice.
Sorry Santa, I may have been nice, but I’m about to ruin that.
“Celeste . . .” His voice is gravel over deep and desperate inhales as his hands slide into my hair.
I slide the boxers down, releasing his cock. His shallow breaths peter out altogether.
I sweep the boxers down his legs, and he steps out.
I rest on my heels and take him in. His hands fall to his sides, and when I look back up to him, I swear he’s stopped breathing.
Rising off my heels and back to my knees, I grip the base of his cock, keeping eye contact. His eyelids shutter closed, and his palms cup my face. “Fuck, woman.”
The smile stretching my face feels so damn good. How long has it been since Quin had someone to take care of him? He spends every spare minute working or being with Maisey.
Something snaps in my chest as I realize I want to be the one to give him what he needs.
I trace the tip of my fingers around the head of his cock, eliciting a shudder. A drop of pre-cum beads at the tip.
“Cele—”
I slide him into my mouth.
The following groan is enough to wake the house.
How long has it been, Quin?
I slide over his length in long, languid strokes, keeping my eyes on his gorgeous face as it falls apart bit by bit. When his hands tighten around my face, it’s the only warning I get before he takes over.
“Sorry, baby. It’s either this or fuck you on the sofa,” he rasps.
I shake my head to say it’s fine.
I want him to have what he wants.
His pace quickens, sinking further into my mouth. Tears burn behind my eyes, and I clamp around him, sucking hard to fight off my gag reflex.
“Ah, fuck . . .” His grip turns punishing in my hair.
My hands wander his thighs, tracking to his balls. I roll them through my fingers, and his head falls back on a low moan.
Good.
When his movement turns messy, I take up the rhythm and his gaze finds mine again.
“Bab—”
I tap my cheek, and his eyes all but roll back in his head.
I’ll take it all, if he’ll give it to me.
But when his gaze returns, it’s desperate. It’s like . . .
Hot release floods my tongue and I swallow it down—every wave he gives me.
Quin stills, his hands planted on my face. And I lose his cock from my mouth. Rough hands haul me to my feet a moment later, then strong arms have me off them. He sinks into the sofa, and I curl up in his lap.
“Fucking hell, CC,” he whispers into my hair.
“Yeah” is all I can say.
His chest is still heaving. He wraps himself around me, dotting kisses down my neck and over my shoulder.
Embers bloom in my core with every hot, heady kiss that brushes my skin.
And I—
I turn on his lap, sinking my knees into the cushions either side of his thighs. “Quin.” My hands find his jawline, his blues meet my gaze, and warm palms guide my mouth to his.
We weren’t going to . . . but I . . .
I swallow hard.
God, all I want right now is him. Is us.
Breaking away, he brushes a strand of wayward hair behind my ear, blue eyes studying my face. “God, you’re beautiful, Celeste.”
I huff a breath. “Back at you, sweet man.”
He slides a hand behind my neck, guiding my head down, pulling my forehead to his. “I don’t usually do this type of thing. I can’t let Maise get attached if—”
“I know. I mean, I understand . . .”
I pull away, forcing a smile. Does he regret what we just did?
I don’t. Not at all.
He growls. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t want to make things hard.”
“Bit late for that,” he says, glancing down.
I huff a laugh. “You know what I mean.”
He clears his throat. “Yeah, I do.”
“What about Maise?”
“She’s asleep. We have”—he glances at the clock over the mantle—“at least two more hours.”
“Hmmm, how shall we spend the—” A yawn drowns out the words.
He chuckles. “Asleep. I think we should spend them sleeping.”
Crashing down from the high, I’m exhausted. Quin rises, taking me with him. I’m on wobbly footing a beat later as he helps me into my pajamas. He slips his boxers on before sweeping me into his arms like I weigh nothing.
Padding up the stairs, he presses kisses into my hair as I rest my head against his chest, trying and failing to stifle another yawn. He turns for Maisey’s room.
“Other way, Quinnie.”
“Hey? You two huddled up in my bed?”
I nod, the yawn slipping past my defenses.
“If I’d known you were in my bed, I would have been over here much sooner,” he whispers.
I can’t fight the thrill of excitement his words have traveling over my skin and through my body. But it fades when another yawn hits.
“Baby, I’m sorry I kept you up.”
My eyes fall shut without my permission, my head lolling. “I’m not . . .” The words are barely words. The second they’re out, Quin’s warmth disappears, only to be replaced by the softness of his bed.
He tucks me in the way he does Maisey. Snug as a bug in a rug.
I try to laugh, but it’s more like a dying moose noise as I roll over and snuggle down. Footsteps pad around the bed. I can barely crack one eye open, but it’s enough to see him lean down to his daughter and plant a kiss into her hair. “Love you, kiddo.”
She mumbles, rolling away from him, but he re-tucks her in.
My heart’s a puddle inside my rib cage.
He’s back on my side before I can process the sweetness that is this rugged, flannel-clad, burly man. Another kiss drops to my cheek. “See you in the morning, baby,” he rasps.
Maisey rolls over with a whine. “I’m not a baby, Daddy,” she mumbles.
He chuckles, planting more kisses to my hair before leaving.
Iset down Dad’s breakfast tray and wait while he takes his medication. “Get some sleep, Hank?”
“Mhmmm, a little.” He swallows a mouthful of tea, plucking up a triangle of toast smothered in jam. It’s always been his favorite breakfast—strong tea with a little milk, one sugar; two slices of strawberry jam on grain toast. He’s a creature of habit, always has been.
“Good, well. Take it easy today, okay?”
He looks up at me now, his gaze snagging on the small Band-Aid I swapped the large bandage out for this morning. “You alright? What happened to your face?”
“Just being clumsy, is all. Finish your breakfast, and holler if you need me.”
“Right, yes. Thank you for the tray.” His gaze is anywhere but on me now, like it’s impolite to stare at a stranger’s woes. That part of my dad is still alive and well, I see.
I pad upstairs to my room. The bed is made, the place neat as a pin. Better than I left it.
Still tired from the last twenty-four hours, I flop onto my bed face-first.
I’m hit with the overwhelming scent of Quin.
I groan into the pillow.
Dammit. Why is he so damn addictive? I’m not so naive as to believe whatever we have between us will turn into something worth keeping.
He has Maisey to think about. I may not be around for that long .
. . If Dad gets worse, like he was last night, I will have no choice but to find a place for him in a home.
The devastating thought crashes into me.
Emotion closes over my throat.
Could I do that? Send him away, like a naughty kid who keeps messing up?
He would never give up on me. Ever.
But I can’t take care of him properly here, or by myself, if he’s—
I sob into the pillow. Ugly, long wails that break my heart inch by inch with every one that slips up my throat.
The first sign of trouble, and I’m just giving up.
I can’t even be a decent daughter. How the hell would I cope with being responsible for someone for eighteen years . . . Like Quin is for Maisey.
I’m a hopeless daughter; I’d be an even worse parent.
I can’t breathe.
The hot, damp pillow slowly suffocates me. My lungs burn, and I snap my head up, pushing away from the bed with my palms.
I suck in much-needed cool air before crashing back down on my side and curling into a ball.
I’ve lost the plot. It was one incident, and Dad is fine. I’m the one who has a cut-up face.
Quin never asked me to be . . . anything. For him or Maisey.
I’m overreacting, overtired, and—ugh—just so over it.
I let the weight of the last month take me down, and it’s not productive.
Time to get up and shower, and maybe eat then take a nap. The world will look brighter when I’m rested.
That’s it, I’m just tired.
I haul my ass off the bed and into the shower. When I’m thoroughly warmed all the way down to my bones and utterly relaxed, I dress and pad downstairs to the kitchen. I make coffee and a slice of toast. Deciding to eat in my room to save any more questioning over my face, I walk back up.
Safe inside my room, I sit on the edge of my bed and eat my toast, taking sips of coffee.
With each one, the day seems brighter.
See, just needed to get myself sorted. A little hot water, a little coffee.
Placing the plate on my bedside table, I lay on the bed and roll onto my side. The pillow still smells like Quin. I don’t know why I thought it wouldn’t. But it catches me by surprise again, regardless.
Letting my eyes fall shut, I drown out every bad thought rattling around my head with memories of early this morning. In the living room . . . on the sofa by the fireplace.
I fall into the abyss of sleep before Quin gets to the good part.
Banging downstairs has me flying off the bed and down the stairs.
Something smashes as I round the end of the stairs and follow the noise to the sunroom.
When I make it to the brightly lit room on the eastern side, furniture is upturned and the few potted plants that anchored the corners of the room are tipped over, the plants pulled from their oversized ceramic pots.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit, shit.
Dad is stalking across the room, hands in his hair as he hunts for something. The urge to help flares. But self-preservation overrides it when he turns and spots me hovering in the doorway.
Fear snakes down my spine, making me nauseous the second it registers.
This is my father.
He’s my dad, not some psycho maniac . . .
But right now, as he takes a step toward me, I can’t tell the difference. I slide my hand to my back pocket to grab my phone.
I need Quin.
The pocket’s empty.
Fuck.