Chapter 9
Nine
B ack at the carriage house, Quentin held the door for Lowey.
They hadn’t said much of anything after her confession.
He was still trying to process it himself.
The harsh realities she’d laid out for him were beyond what he’d imagined.
Yes, he’d known Joey Barnes was an abusive dick.
But knowing her, how strong she was and how little shit she took from anyone, he’d just never stopped to consider that it might have been more than an isolated incident.
“Stop it,” she hissed.
“Stop what?”
“Stop looking at me like I’m some fragile little thing on the verge of breaking! I’m not. He did what he did, and I got through it. I lived . End of story, Quentin.”
He could hear the frustration in her voice.
But what the hell was he supposed to do?
She’d just admitted to him that she’d been put through every kind of torment imaginable by the sadistic fuck, and that wasn’t supposed to have an effect on him?
Maybe he wasn’t good at the whole commitment thing, and maybe he would never be a good bet for the long haul, but that didn’t change his feelings for her.
It sure as hell didn’t change the fact that he wanted to find Joey Barnes and rip the fucker’s spine out.
“Doesn’t seem like the end to me,” he said.
“Clearly it doesn’t seem like the end to him either, or he wouldn’t be plotting his revenge! ”
“I’m not a damsel in distress, and you’re sure as hell nobody’s white knight!”
“Damn it, Lowey, why can’t you accept the fact that I’m here for you?”
“For now,” she shot back. “And I don’t need temporary, Quentin. I’ll get a taxi to take me back to Fontaine. I’m not staying here with you anymore!” She turned away and stormed through the small guest house, heading for the bedroom where she’d left her things.
“It doesn’t change the way I see you,” he said.
It was an instinct more than anything that prompted him to say it, to recognize that she felt weakened, vulnerable, because of the things she’d admitted to him in the car.
“I still think you’re a badass. And I think any man, woman, or hell-spawned demon foolish enough to tangle with you deserves whatever they get…
and I still want you. Because there’s nothing that you could say or do that will ever change that. ”
Lowey whirled on him then, snatched the porcelain dish off the table, and hurled it at his head.
He ducked to the side and winced as pain stabbed his ribs.
She was hurting, and he knew it, but that didn’t mean he’d just let her take potshots at him.
In three strides, he reached her. Gripping her arms, he pressed her back against the wall.
He wasn’t hurting her, but he’d be damned if he was going to let her hurt him.
“I’m not the one you’re mad at,” he said.
“Fuck you.”
“If that’s an invitation?—”
She screeched at him. It was all rage and fury and the years of pain that she’d tamped down, locked away, and refused to ever deal with.
He was all too familiar with it. But fighting her wouldn’t help and keeping her pinned against the wall indefinitely wasn’t really an option.
So Quentin did the only thing he could think of.
He kissed her and prayed like hell she wouldn’t bite his lip off.
The kiss caught her off guard, not because it was unexpected.
She’d lost count of the number of times they’d argued, then fallen on each other like rabid animals.
But this was something else. The gentle press of his lips, the soft and sensual glide of his tongue, took her breath away.
But the tenderness in his touch cut through her.
It touched that inner part of her that she kept locked away .
Tears burned her eyes, and she could feel the lump forming in her throat as she tried to fight them back. She failed miserably. The tears spilled over, streaming down her cheeks as her hands clenched the fabric of his shirt, pushing him away and holding onto him desperately all at the same time.
When he pulled back, staring down at her with such tenderness and such longing, it cut her to the quick. “Don’t do this to me,” Lowey implored.
“What am I doing, baby?” Quentin asked softly as he wound the fall of her hair around his hand.
“Don’t make me need you when you’re never going to stay.”
He didn’t say anything, but he dropped his head until his forehead rested against hers.
His hands slipped lower, resting on her hips.
They stood like that for the longest time, like two exhausted boxers in the last round.
Bloodied, bruised, and worn out, offering as much solace as punishment to one another.
“No promises…I can’t tell you this is forever,” Quentin said. “But I can tell you that you mean more to me than any woman ever has. You’re in me, Lowey Tate…down to the blood and bone. ”
She had longed to hear things like that from him, to have some inkling that she was more to him than just a good time—a convenient and willing woman to scratch an itch.
“I can’t do this with you,” she said, aware of the note of desperation in her voice.
She hoped he was too. Her sanity was dependent on him recognizing just how sincere she was.
He had the power to hurt her in ways that Joey Barnes never had.
Yes, he’d hit her. He’d tortured and tormented her physically, but he’d never broken her heart.
Quentin Darcy could do that and far more easily than either of them had ever imagined.
“It isn’t a choice, Lowey. This thing between us is inevitable.”
It was all the warning she had. He moved suddenly, backing her against the wall, his hands delving into her hair. Then his lips were on hers.
Being kissed by Quentin Darcy was unlike anything she’d ever known before. Pleasure flooded her, stimulating her senses—the taste of him on her tongue, the scent of him, the hard press of his body against hers.
Then his hands were sliding over her, mapping the curves of her waist, her hips, before his palms settled heavily on the cheeks of her behind. He squeezed, kneading her flesh, and pressing against her so that she could feel just how much he wanted her.
He was temptation personified, and she was too weak to fight it.
Giving in not just gracefully but eagerly, she reached for his tie, loosening it and then tackling the buttons of his shirt.
When the fabric parted, she slid her hands inside, tracing the hard ridges of muscle, the crisp hair that covered his chest. She scraped her nails lightly over the flat disk of his nipple and smiled as he hissed out a breath.
“Witch,” he murmured against her lips.
“I can stop if you want me to,” she offered.
“God, no,” he whispered hoarsely. “Do it again.”
She did and got the same response. How was it possible that stoking his desire only intensified her own?
“Take me to bed,” she said. “Let’s just forget everything for a little while.”
It took him a second to fully register what she’d said. Maybe it was the fact that none of the blood in his body was flowing to his brain, or maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t expected her to relent. Whatever it was, he didn’t need to be asked twice .
Carrying her to bed wasn’t an option, though he wished it was.
For the first time in his life, he wanted to be the man who made sweeping romantic gestures.
He wanted to pick her up and carry her to bed, he wanted to surprise her with flowers, with her favorite meal, to take her out and show her off to the world, and to show her that she was worthy of that and so much more.
But bruised ribs and the very real prospect of dropping her on the floor intruded on such notions.
So, instead he pulled her to him, kissed her again, and walked her backward toward the bedroom door.
Luckily, the carriage house was small enough that nothing was too far away.
Patience was in short supply and dwindling.
Once in the bedroom, he kicked the door closed behind them and reached for the hem of her sweater, tugging it up over her hips.
She raised her arms, and he pulled it over her head, exposing the lacy bra she wore beneath.
God, he loved every lush curve, every inch of soft, silken skin.
If he wasn’t a total coward, he’d just admit that he loved her.
But neither of them were ready for that.
So instead, he’d just show her all the things he was too terrified to say out loud .
With slow, deliberate movements, he freed the button of her jeans and then slid the zipper down one torturous inch at a time.
“We’re going to be old before you get me naked,” she said with a sly smile.
“I like to unwrap my presents slowly, Lowey…I want to savor every second of it.”
“Savor it a little faster, Quentin…I need you inside me.”
His cock hardened to the point of agony.
And she’d done it on purpose, he knew. He’d wanted to romance her, to make love to her, but like every time he was in her presence, the overwhelming need for Lowey simply took over.
Shoving her pants down, he spun her around so that her back was pressed to his chest. He bent his head, his lips pressing against her neck.
Then he bit down, his teeth scraping the skin.
She gasped, but it wasn’t pain. He knew that sound, knew the pleasure that prompted it.
“I want you on your knees,” he whispered hotly against her ear.
She shivered against him, and Quentin smiled.
It was what they both wanted—what they both needed.
Romance would wait. After two months, he just needed to sink into the heat of her, to feel her body closing around him.
It was worse than a drug, the way he wanted her.
She was like an addiction for him. For the past two months, since he’d been stupid enough to walk out, she’d been on his mind every waking second and even in his dreams.
When she climbed onto the bed, kneeling in front of him, her perfect ass displayed like he’d somehow been granted the gift of living out his favorite wet dream, Quentin knew that he was sunk, no more running, no more pretending. He wanted this—he wanted her—forever.