13. Quinn
CHAPTER 13
QUINN
“ W hat the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I groan at my reflection in the mirror.
I’m currently locked in Knox’s bathroom after he handed me a fluffy towel and offered me their shower. I’m staring into the mirror, fingers white-knuckled where they’re curled around the edges of the counter, totally freaking out.
I look as much of a mess as I feel like. There’s a part of me that appreciates Knox for not mentioning my state, but the other part of me is fucking mortified that I’d been talking to him while looking like a drowned raccoon. My mascara has run from the rain, streaking dark down my cheeks that are pale from the cold. My hair hasn’t fared much better—glued to my head from Knox’s helmet. It’s tangled in knots around my shoulders.
Of course, Knox had looked like a fucking God when he’d run his fingers through his own drenched hair. It had stuck up in all different directions but he only managed to make the hairstyle look even better. And worse, the black t-shirt that clung to his skin only showed off his impressive arms and the tattoos lining them. It gave me a closer look at his forearms and the scarred patches of skin crawling from his hands up.
My staring didn’t last long, and although I wanted to ask him about the scars that look like lightning, erratic threads in the sky, I managed to keep my intrusive questions to myself.
I covered myself with the towel he handed me as I slipped out of his leather jacket, returning it to him with a grimace. It was heavy with rain, and I hope it’s not ruined. The fabric of the towel helped cover my pert nipples, hard from the cold and Knox’s glorious presence before me. It didn’t stop the shiver from raking down my spine and collecting between the apex of my thighs when Knox leaned over to stretch the jacket across a nearby chair, showing off the impressive expanse of rippling muscle lining his back.
I’m standing in the bathroom, completely beside myself. I shouldn’t be here. I should’ve sprinted right past Ace fucking Rory into the couch and locked myself in my room. I should’ve shoved my headphones into my ears and turned my music all the up to drown out the sounds of them having sex. It would’ve been way more mortifying for me, but at least I wouldn’t be in the situation I’m currently in.
Huffing out a breath of frustration, I slide my phone from my pocket. The case sticks against my damp jeans and I nearly drop it onto the tiles below my feet when I manage to pry it free. My heart races in my chest as I catch it, clutching it even tighter. Thankfully, it has made it out of the rain unscathed, but the battery is running low.
Quickly, I pull up Slate’s contact and shoot off a text before I can really think about it, asking when he’ll be returning to the apartment. When the message reads delivered and there isn’t an instant reply, I tack on that he’s missing out on hot gossip because I know that will draw him home like a bee on honey.
“Okay, you can do this,” I mutter to myself, taking a breath to calm my nerves. “Just take it one step at a time. A shower, first.”
There’s a pile of clothes that Knox found for me, folded atop the counter. Sifting through them quickly, I wonder if I should be thankful. There’s a plain black t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, not forgotten garments of the three boys’ conquests or items left behind from rowdy partygoers that may have been a little too drunk to remember all of their clothing.
Drunk. That’s what I need to be right now.
Snagging the wash cloth from the top of the pile, I twist the knob on the shower until steam begins filling the small room. For a bathroom in a college boys’ apartment, it’s cleaner than I thought it would be. There’s a shower mat placed outside of the tub and they even have a shower curtain. Surprisingly, the toilet seat is also down.
Three towels hang on hooks around the room but that’s the only disorderly thing about it. A brown one hangs on the back of the door next to a robe, and I recognize it as the same one Slate had worn to my drawing class the day that he modeled for us.
It’s shocking that I actually remember what he was wearing that day.
There’s a gray towel slung along a rod nailed beside the shower and a dark azure one hanging from a hook next to it. Wondering which towel belongs to which roommate helps keep my mind off of my internal freakout.
Stop distracting yourself.
Right. The shower.
I’m still shivering a little when I strip down, peeling my wet clothes from my body. It’s hard to wiggle from my jeans with the way they’re clinging to my legs and I nearly trip, biting back the noise of fright that tries to free itself from my throat when I stumble.
Righting myself, I take a moment to ease the racing of my heart. I pray that the hot water will relax my tight muscles and clear my head of all my worried thoughts.
The spray is delightful. Near scalding in temperature, I relax almost instantly under its prefect pressure. They’ve clearly replaced the shower-head because this is utterly fucking therapeutic. This one is heaven sent compared to the leaky one in my apartment. I release a sigh of enjoyment at the way the water warms my aching bones.
When it’s time to shampoo, I eye the products lining the built-in shelf. There are enough that I’m surprised, immediately trying to discern what belongs to each roommate. I eye the three-in-one Knox mentioned was Slate’s and laugh because with hair like his I wouldn’t expect him to be using that, but hey, whatever works for him.
There are three other bottles of shampoo, along with hair oils, expensive looking conditioners, razors, shaving cream, and face washes all lined up nicely—presumably in the order they’re used on the shelf. Reading the bottles of each one as the water pours soothingly down my back, I tentatively pick one up and take a whiff of the product. The label reads hydrating but the overpowering lavender scent that consumes my senses nearly makes me gag.
Next.
The second bottle smells like actual heaven. It’s deep, musky, and masculine. There are hints of pine and something I can’t really describe as anything other than man.
It’s every woman’s wet dream.
It’s a little robust for me but I use it anyway because I haven’t gotten any in months and I want to smell like I’ve just been cuddled up to the most gorgeous, amazing-smelling man in the world. Seriously, I’m debating stealing this for when I finally get a boyfriend and force him to bathe in it.
I lather it in my hands and scrub it into my scalp, breathing in deeply when the heady scent fills the room.
I work as quickly as I can so Knox doesn’t have anything to complain about except the lack of hot water because I just can’t help myself. I’m cold and I want to marry his shower-head.
If it were detachable, I’d absolutely take it down to the courthouse right now.
My stomach twists at the thought that the products I’m using right now might be Knox’s. We’ve been arguing less, and if it weren’t raining, I might admit that the ride on his motorcycle was nice, minus the near topple we had when we turned the corner to our street. My heart had kicked out of my chest when we slid, but then Knox’s hand caressed my thigh, squeezing it like I had been the one to save us from falling when all I did was try my best not to scream. His reassuring touch had made me wet for a completely different reason than the storm.
After I finish cleaning up, I shut the water off and dry myself off. I feel much better already, no longer shivering from the cold.
The clothes Knox gave me make me look like I’m drowning all over again. The shirt drapes long down my legs and I frown, tucking the side of it up into the waistband of the boxers so if anyone happens to walk in on me here, at least they’ll know I have pants on.
I don’t understand how the shirt can fit him so tightly but is so loose on me.
The steam from my shower has revealed a message written on the mirror that reads ‘ hurry up, fucker.’ It’s been left by Slate, no doubt, and I smile, thinking about him sneaking in here while Ace or Knox were showering to leave them this note. Only he could have such scraggly writing like this. His entire persona screams sneaking into the bathroom while his roommates are showering just to leave them cheeky messages.
The novelty of the joke doesn’t last long when I hear rummaging from the other side of the door. It hits me once again exactly where I am and who I’m with.
Enough, I scold myself. It’s now or never. I only need to stay here for as long as it takes Ace and Rory to finish fucking or until Slate comes back so he can be the buffer between Knox and I, even if he isn’t being entirely intolerable tonight.
After making sure my panties are folded as small as possible and tucked tightly into the middle of my wet clothes pile, I scoop them from the floor and exit the bathroom.
The smell that slaps me in the face is incredible and my stomach agrees with a loud growl.
The sight might be even better.
Knox is standing over the stove, shirtless as he stirs something in the pan that smells like heaven. My mouth waters and I blame it on the aroma of whatever he’s making and not the fact that his back looks just as good as I imagined it.
Two, large wings are tattooed across the expanse of his shoulder blades, dipping down to caress the line of his spine. They flex when he moves, reaching to stir something in a different pot, and my knees wobble as all of the warmth from my shower converges deep between my legs.
He’s changed his pants, I notice, into a pair of light gray sweatpants that hang so low on his hips that I can see the cutting lines of muscle where they triangle into the waistband. There’s no line of underwear to be seen, but the two dimples at the base of his spine call out to me and I want to press my tongue into them.
Knox turns, heading for the fridge, freezing when he sees me standing two feet out of the bathroom, ogling him.
The jade of his eyes stirs and my cheeks go molten. They’re so hot I can probably fry an egg on them while Knox takes his time looking me up and down, just like I’d been doing to his backside a second ago.
Of course, his chest looks even more magnificent than his back. I knew he was muscular but I wasn’t quite picturing this. The cording of his muscles, arms bulging with little effort, the tight abdominals and taut waist. The expanse of tattoos lining Knox’s skin are inked exactly where they belong, an effortless addition to his beauty that even Monet would be envious of. I need to take a step closer, get a better look at them. He’s glorious, and it makes me want to drop everything and draw him, trace those lines with my pencils, my fingers, and my tongue?—
“You can put your clothes in the dryer,” Knox croaks, and his words startle the both of us into action. My brows furrow until his sentence catches up with me and then I’m looking down at the bundle of wet clothes I’m holding so tightly to my chest, even my clean shirt is wet with it. It also gives me something to lay my eyes on instead of his illustrious body. “If you want to.”
I nod because I don’t trust my voice right now. Shuffling quickly to the dryer, I stuff my clothes inside, reminding myself that I should not be ogling the noisy neighbor who just happens to be the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
And he’s most certainly a prick underneath all that glory, so there’s that.
“Thanks,” I murmur once I’ve started the machine. I dare step closer to see what he’s doing in the kitchen but when he glances at me from the corner of his eye, I freeze all over again like a fucking deer in headlights. “What are you making?”
“Chicken and pasta,” he says as if he’s making something as simple as a bowl of cereal, which would have sufficed. With the scents filtering through the room, I know it’s not as simple as chicken with pasta, but I refrain from asking. “Hopefully you’re hungry.”
I don’t question why he’s making something so extravagant but I also won’t complain. I’m hungry as fuck, and Knox is kind of… pleasant when he’s not being an utter dick.
“It smells incredible,” I offer politely, testing the waters with him. I’m not sure if we’re drawing up some sort of continued peace treaty, but the petty part of me still wants an apology out of him. A girl is hungry right now, so I can wait a little longer. “Can I help you with anything?”
Knox shakes his head. “Almost done, Princess. Have a seat.”
I do as he says, ignoring the nickname he refuses to stop calling me. I find a spot at the counter and the both of us fall into a peaceful silence as I watch him plate the dishes. He seems completely focused on the task at hand, rinsing the pasta and serving it into wide bowls. He seems confident in every step that he’s taking and a pinprick of envy pokes holes in my stomach.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair the longer I think about it.
“Do you think Slate will be back soon?” I blurt with sudden unease.
Knox doesn’t glance at me when he responds. “I’m not good enough for you, Princess?”
“Considering you’ve been a grumpy prick since we met, I’d say that answer is pretty obvious. And I told you to stop calling me that,” I snap, taking the bait. “I hate it.”
Naturally, my request is denied as Knox tops the sauce with some freshly grated cheese and slides a bowl across the counter to me. “Here you are, Princess. Enjoy.” Holy hell. I thought it smelled orgasmic, but it looks even better. My mouth is watering already and I can’t wait to dive in.
Knox rounds the counter, sinking down onto the barstool next to me with his own serving. He slides me a fork and sets a stack of napkins down between us, eyeing me as I stare between him and the steaming dish in front of me like the mess that I am.
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
Nice one, Quinn, really. The fuck did you have to say that for? Just shut up and accept the food.
In what I’m learning is typical Knox fashion, he lifts a brow, watching me with that intense gaze of his. “Do you prefer it when I’m rude, Princess?”
I huff, cheeks burning as I stab my fork into the pasta, spearing a chunk of chicken coated in sauce. I don’t even know why I asked because of course he was going to have a snarky answer in response. I should know this about him by now.
“You know, you don’t have to be so volatile all of the time—oh my God.” The moan that accompanies the flavor bursting on my tongue is completely unnecessary and unladylike, but the dish Knox made is just that damn good. And surprising. I stare at him in bewilderment. “What the fuck? This is fantastic!”
He startles in his seat, not expecting my compliment. I can’t blame him because I would react the same if he complimented me. There’s a faint dusting of color to his cheeks that makes me want to grin smugly but I’m much too busy twirling the pasta around my fork and shoveling another bite of delicious food into my mouth.
“What was that, Princess?” He taunts, and I duck my head. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of repeating myself.
“I’m not saying it again,” I grumble. The chicken is perfection, juicy and flavorful from how it soaked up the sauce he finished cooking it in. The pasta is delicious and the dish warms my entire body happily.
I’m taking this meal and the shower-head down to the courthouse.
I don’t notice the way Knox’s shoulders shake with silent laughter until I’m able to spare a second to look up from my bowl. There’s a self-satisfied aura to the air around him that I just want to burst.
I ignore him, because the food is much more important right now.
When my bowl is clean, I feel like I can fall asleep right at the counter, full and satiated. The entirety of my day, from my classes to the review I had with Beatrice about my project, to being drenched in rain mixed with my anxiousness of being in Knox’s apartment, are all catching up to me. Slate still hasn’t answered my texts so I’ll have to grill him about where he’s been when I see him next.
I might have to chew Rory out for not warning me that she had someone over.
Or the fact that she decided to have sex on the couch. With Ace.
Sure, it’s obvious that there was something going on between them, but I thought it was innocent flirting, not full-blown sex! Why wouldn’t she tell me?
Knox takes my dishes, holding the bowl out of my reach when I try and grab for it.
“I can clean up,” I protest. “You cooked! ”
He shakes his head, dumping the dishes in the sink. “Don’t worry about it. I’m more than capable.”
I scoff. “Clearly. Doesn’t mean that I’m rude, though.”
He tosses me a look over his shoulder like he doesn’t believe me and I scowl in response. It bothers me, those little looks he gives me, like he’s trying to bait me into arguing. I don’t want to start something after the civil dinner we’ve just shared, but the way that he acts like everything leading up to this moment is my fault gets to me.
“No, but threatening to have my bike towed wasn’t the nicest thing to do.”
Oh, so he really wants to do this right now? Okay, then.
“Neither was parking in front of the truck I was just about to move!”
I swear I hear him mutter “whatever” under his breath and I grit my teeth. Standing from my chair, I swipe my phone from the counter.
“I think I should leave now.”
“I think that would be best,” Knox responds flippantly from his spot at the sink.
It makes my head spin, how we can go from having a semi-civil conversation to snapping at each other’s necks like rabid dogs.
As I move to gather my things from the dryer, a loud moan cuts through the wall, making the both of us freeze.
How the fuck are they not done yet?
I certainly have some dumb fucking luck.
Maybe I can still leave and call Slate out in the hall. Worst case scenario, I think Peep might let me stay over at her house if I need, but she’ll probably tell Sam all about it and I know I won’t hear the end of it from my brother until I explain why I had to stay over.
Stubbornly, I head for the dryer. Knox doesn’t say a word as I pull the door open and he doesn’t look up from the sink when I gather my warm clothes into my arms, holding them as close as I can to keep what remains of my temper. What is it about Knox’s attitude that always has me reacting like this?
“Wait,” Knox sighs, finally daring to speak when I’m about to snatch my wet shoes from the floor by the door. They’re still soaked and there’s no way I’m putting my bare feet into the cold fabric.
Pausing, I wait for him to continue, because really, I’m not all that confident about my other options.
“I cannot, in good conscience, kick you to the street,” he says, shutting off the water and wiping his hands clean on the kitchen towel. I watch him as he does, once again drawn to the marks on his hands and forearms.
He catches me looking and his jade eyes harden, but he doesn’t shift away or hide his hands, as if he’s used to people staring. I feel guilty, anyway, with the way he’s assessing me.
Knox looks a little like he might kick me to the curb, after all.
So, I build up that wall, fighting back like I always do. “You? A good conscience? As if.”
“I’m doing it more for Slate than for you. If he finds out I let you leave with no place to go, he’ll pummel me into the ground.”
I study him. He doesn’t break my stare, allowing me to search for whatever it is I’m looking for in those hillside eyes. I don’t even know what I’m hunting for, but I welcome the challenge.
“Afraid of Slate?” I taunt.
Knox crosses his arms over his chest and the sight of his muscles flexing makes me weak, my gaze trailing the movement. My mouth runs dry but my pussy is dripping and there’s no missing the way that his eyes melt with heat before I can snap myself out of it.
Knox shakes his head, the corner of his mouth tilting up, and it eases the tension a bit. “Have you seen how big he is?”
My shoulders slump at the ease that’s returned once again. It’s like a tennis match between us, the highs and the lows, volleying for attention. “Yeah,” I agree. “I have.”
His jaw flexes and he turns slowly, as if he’s afraid I might actually go running from the apartment and he’ll have to chase me down. I kind of want him to, I think before immediately cutting that thought off. No need to be thinking about a shirtless man running after me through the halls of the apartment complex and wondering what he might do if he catches me.
Shit.
When Knox is sure that I’m not going to leave, he returns to washing the dishes while I stand by the door like a fool. I can bear it for all of one minute—which I pride myself on—and then I shift on my feet, drawing his attention once more.
“You can sleep in my room. I’ll take the couch.”
That’s not at all what I was expecting him to say.
My throat dries right the fuck up because what? My gorgeous—albeit an asshole—neighbor is offering me a ride, shower, food, and his bed? I’d marry him right now too if I didn’t know that he has the personality of a brick wall.
Truly, a shame.
Knox doesn’t look my way while he offers this and I’m thankful because I feel like melting into the floor with how hot my cheeks surge.
“No, no,” I respond hastily, “I’ll take the couch. I’m not all that sure I’ll be able to sleep with the image of Ace’s ass in my head, anyway,” I word vomit, mind scrambling to put letters together as I imagine what the inside of Knox’s room looks like. “Was that a tramp stamp I saw?”
Knox bites back a smile that makes my heart race and my knees wobble.
“Sure was, gave it to him myself.”
“Shut up,” I squeal, before we both break out into laughter.
It’s nice, being on Knox’s good side. He has a great laugh, a low rumble that wraps around my bones like warm honey.
“At least take Slate’s room, then,” he offers. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Are the sheets even clean?”
His quiet chortle is melodic, husky like he hasn’t laughed in years.
It makes me ache for him.
“That’s a gamble you’ll have to take if you don’t want to sleep in my room.”
God, he really does make it sound appealing.
“Right,” I answer rather awkwardly, because now all I’m thinking about is being in Knox’s room with him and what his bed must be like and how he— “Thank you again for dinner, Knox. And the ride.” I inch towards Slate’s room even if the urge to get a glimpse of the real Knox is tempting.
“Pleasure’s all mine, Princess.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Not a chance.”
I shut the door to Slate’s room with a frustrated noise that puts the affable night to rest.