Chapter 26 Sadie
TWENTY-SIX
SADIE
The first thing Sadie saw in the guest cabin was the bear skin rug sprawled in front of the fireplace like it had just lost a wrestling match. Its glassy-eyed expression seemed to say, Yeah, I didn’t see it coming either.
For someone who could probably buy a small country without checking his bank account, Quentin was shockingly committed to not redecorating. Even the main house, though much nicer, was humbly decorated. His family seemed to prefer it that way.
At the very least, after being subjected to free labor in the form of endless empanada rolling, they had fed her. And oh, the food was divine. Tapas galore. She had eaten her weight in jamón and manchego and had zero regrets.
She kicked off her boots and shrugged out of her parka, her sock-covered toes sinking into the bear rug. She immediately recoiled.
“Did you kill this thing with your bare hands and throw it on the floor as a warning?” she asked, staring at it with pure disgust.
Quentin smirked as he shrugged off his jacket and crouched by the fireplace. “It’s faux fur, thank you very much. I don’t kill animals, I save them. There’s a whole wildlife refuge on the property.”
Sadie resisted the urge to groan. The man was one woodland serenade away from being a full-blown Disney prince.
He struck a match, the flame flickering to life. “And before you ask, no, this is not the set of a bad porno.”
Sadie surveyed the room with narrowed eyes. “Debatable. All it’s missing is shag carpet and a suspiciously placed hot tub.”
“Damn, you really know how to set the mood.” He shot her a look over his shoulder, his smirk deepening. “If this were a porno, we’d have at least ten minutes of unnecessary plot before—”
“Finish that sentence,” she cut in sweetly, “and I will absolutely push you into the snow.”
Quentin chuckled, shaking his head as he tended to the fire.
She crossed her arms. “For someone this rich, you’ve really committed to… whatever this is.”
He cast her a dry look. “Oh, I’m sorry, do you not like my humble murder cabin?”
“Oh, I love it,” she deadpanned. “Nothing says welcome like furniture that looks like it might be cursed.”
He let out a low laugh, then stood and turned to face her. The teasing glint in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something darker. The smirk slipped from his lips, leaving behind a look that made her pulse stutter. He took a slow step toward her.
Sadie raised a brow. “What are you doing?”
“You tell me,” he said, his voice lower now.
Her stomach flipped, but she held her ground. “Trying to scare me into silence?”
Quentin stopped just shy of her personal space, tilting his head. “I wouldn’t have to if you’d just admit you feel this too.”
She scoffed. “Feel what, exactly? Irritation? Disgust? A deep concern for your interior design choices?”
“The tension,” he murmured.
Sadie swallowed. “The only tension in this room is between me and that hideous couch.”
Quentin let out a soft laugh but didn’t step back. “Enough with the act.”
“Act? That’s all you, honey,” she replied, forcing a laugh to mask the sudden heat rising in her cheeks. She crossed her arms, a flimsy shield against him.
He took another step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “Say you feel this too. Don’t make me take serious measures.”
“Like what?” she shot back, her tone laced with sarcasm, though her heart was pounding in her chest. “Suplex me into submission?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but the teasing glimmer in his eyes was overshadowed by something deeper, something more raw. “If that’s what it takes to get you to stop running, yeah,” he said, his voice soft but charged as he closed the distance between them, his gaze steady and unrelenting.
“I’m not running. I’m strolling at a totally normal pace,” she whispered, her sarcasm wavering under the intensity of his eyes.
“Sadie.” His voice dropped to a whisper, her name rolling off his tongue like a command and a plea all at once. When his hand found the curve of her neck, her pulse betrayed her with its frantic rhythm.
“Fine,” she finally muttered, the word spilling from her lips like a reluctant surrender. The second it left her mouth, everything changed. It was like she’d flipped a hidden switch inside him.
Before she could even blink, Quentin had one hand fisting in her hair and the other gripping her lower back, hauling her down onto the ridiculous faux bear rug. His body hovered over hers, braced on tense forearms, muscles taut as steel beneath her palms.
“What do you think?” he growled, voice low and laced with frustration, the words vibrating between them as he leaned in, their mouths a breath apart. “Does this feel fine to you?”
His lips barely skimmed hers, a cruel tease, before he pulled back just enough to make her chase him instinctively.
“Say it again,” he whispered, his breath scorching against her skin. “Say ‘fine’ one more time and I’ll make damn sure you forget what the word even means.”
Sadie swallowed hard, her brain a riot of need and fury, every nerve ending lit and sparking.
He smelled like woodsmoke and sin, a combination so maddening it made her eyes flutter shut for half a second.
Her hands found his shoulders, nails dragging over taut muscle, clutching at his shirt like she couldn’t decide whether to tear it off or shove him the hell away.
A low sound rumbled from his chest, answering her touch.
He dipped his head and dragged his mouth down her neck in slow kisses that scorched her skin like embers catching fire.
When the rough scrape of his stubble grazed her collarbone, she gasped, her hips jerking up against his with a mind of their own.
He hovered at the neckline of her sweater, his mouth brushing along the top swell of her breasts—close enough to make her pulse stutter, but maddeningly restrained, just out of reach. Her whole body was wound tight, trembling, a bow drawn past breaking.
“Are you seriously seducing me on top of a bear corpse?” she rasped, her voice a breathless wreck.
Quentin’s lips curved against her skin, slow and wicked.
“It’s faux,” he murmured, his voice dark silk.
She opened her mouth to fire off some half-witted comeback but he caught it mid-breath, devouring her words with a kiss so hard, so deep, it shattered thought entirely.
It was all teeth and hunger, a claiming that stole the air from her lungs and left her writhing beneath him.
His tongue claimed her, deep and unrelenting, his body crowding hers, pinning her in place.
One hand slid down her side, lingering like he was savoring every inch.
It traced the curve of her waist, dipped over her hip, then dragged down her thigh, leaving heat in its wake.
She barely had time to brace before his palm pressed between her legs, right where she was throbbing for him, the sensation ripped a sound out of her before she could stop it.
She rocked into his hand without thinking, chasing the pressure, heat flooding her so fast it made her dizzy.
He went still. He pulled back just enough to look at her, really look, and the satisfaction in his eyes made her stomach drop. Want burned there, yes, but worse than that was certainty. He knew exactly what he was doing to her.
“Is that fine, honey?” His voice came out rough. The heel of his hand pressed again, slow and exact, not enough to give her relief, just enough to remind her how badly she needed it. “That what you need?”
“Yes,” she whispered, helpless against the roll of pleasure crashing through her. A slow, wicked smirk curled his mouth.
“Beg.” The word landed hard, sharp as a slap. Heat flooded her face, humiliation curling low in her belly, dark and thrilling and terrifying all at once. She opened her mouth and nothing coherent came out, just a broken sound that made his eyes darken.
“Fuck—” she tried, but he pressed against her again, harder, dragging another ragged gasp from her.
“Yeah, trying to,” he growled. “Beg me properly.”
Her pulse roared in her ears. She could feel herself unraveling, every careful wall she’d built slipping loose. “Please,” she said finally, voice thin, ruined. It felt like tearing herself open and handing him the pieces.
The flash of approval in his eyes made her pussy clench. He leaned in, breath hot against her jaw. “Good girl.”
His fingers moved to the button of her jeans, popping it open with agonizing slowness, dragging the zipper down like he had all the time in the world to drive her insane.
He peeled the denim down her thighs, baring her skin inch by inch, exposing the tiny scrap of red lace hugging her soaked center.
Quentin swore under his breath, a low, guttural sound. “You wore these for me?”
She shook her head, breath catching. “No,” she lied, voice thin.
His eyes narrowed, dark with hunger. “Liar.”
One knuckle brushed the slick fabric and she jolted, the contact too much, not enough, her body crying out for more. Her thighs tried to snap closed instinctively, but he shoved one knee between them, forcing her wide open.
His fingers curled under the lace, pulling it taut against her swollen clit, grinding the fabric into her until she gasped and almost sobbed.
“You’re fucking soaked,” he muttered, voice thick with arousal as he circled his thumb over her clit through the lace, slow and brutal. “And you’re still lying to me?”
“I hate you,” she moaned, hips grinding up to meet him anyway, every word a betrayal of her body.
“Yeah? You hate me so much you’re dripping down my fucking wrist.”
She was losing her grip on reality, hands clutching at his shirt, nails dragging down his chest as he pushed her closer and closer to the edge with unrelenting pressure.
Then, without warning, he dragged the panties down her legs and off, his eyes locked on the soaked center like a man starving. He balled the lace in one hand and shoved it between her lips.
“Bite down,” he murmured, leaning in close. “Because I’m not stopping until you scream.”