21. QUINN
QUINN
The Morgans sure do know how to celebrate in style.
The ranch has been transformed into something out of a dream, and I’m in awe no matter which angle I turn.
White drapes billow softly in the evening breeze, tied back with wildflower garlands.
Fairy lights string between the oak trees, glowing warm against the dusky sky, their soft shimmer rivaling the stars just beginning to show.
Ava looks ethereal. Even without the cameras and crowds that usually surround her, she commands every pair of eyes effortlessly.
Her dress moves like water, silk catching the last burn of sunset, and yet there’s nothing showy about it—she’s radiant in a way that feels grounded, as if she was always meant to marry here, barefoot in the grass if she had to.
And Zane—I know Ava had to wrestle him into something more than jeans and a plaid shirt, and it’s paid off.
The one thing she let him keep is his cowboy hat, and it ties the whole look together.
The jacket of his tux is long gone, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, making him look like he just stepped out of a magazine cover.
He hasn’t taken his eyes off his wife once, not even to acknowledge the looks of awe from their small circle of guests.
The way he’s holding her as they share their first dance as man and wife is making my heart ache.
There’s no trace of fame or fortune here—just love, raw and steady, stitched into every glance they trade.
I’m struck by the simplicity of it all. No paparazzi, no endless guest lists, just family and a handful of friends.
It’s elegant in a way money can’t buy, intimate in a way I never thought possible for someone like Ava.
And for the first time, standing here among them, I don’t feel like an outsider looking in. I feel like I belong.
I never thought I’d crave this kind of closeness, not after the years of living under my father’s iron thumb. Belonging used to feel like a trap. Tonight, it feels like freedom.
Beck finds me just as the first dance wraps up.
He doesn’t ask, just slips a rough palm against my waist, and suddenly I’m pulled into the rhythm of the music.
One spin, two steps, and I’m weightless in his arms. The world narrows to him—the way his jaw relaxes when he smiles down at me, the faint smell of leather that clings to his shirt, the way his thumb strokes lazy circles against the back of my hand as if to remind me I’m not going anywhere.
“Have I mentioned how gorgeous you look today?” he rasps out, his heated gaze on me.
Ever since that day at the barn after the sexy calendar shoot, I’ve been doing my best to avoid getting caught in a compromising position with him, and I’ve succeeded so far—until tonight, it seems.
“I don’t know, have you?” I tease back.
“My apologies if I haven’t—you look exquisite,” he whispers low in my ear, his lips brushing against my earlobe, making my breath hitch.
I try to play it off cool, like I’m not affected by his mere presence when deep down, I want to jump his bones and let him ravish me. “Why, thank you, kind sir.”
He chuckles low, eyes locked on mine as we get impossibly closer. For a heartbeat, it feels like something is about to break open between us. His lips part, and there’s a flicker in his eyes—the look of a man balancing on the edge of words he’s afraid to say.
I’m confused, wondering what is eating at him, and I am about to ask when Daisy tugs at the hem of my dress, asking to dance with her uncle.
I want more time with Beck, but maybe this is for the best, so I step back and away from his arms to let her dance with him.
I glance back at Beck, but the moment is gone.
He gives me an apologetic look, but I smile at him, assuring him that it’s okay.
They dance together while I get something to eat and drink. Before Beck and I can find each other again, I’m swept away by my brothers to dance with them, and thus we are separated for the rest of the evening.
The night softens as the hours pass. The music slows, voices turn low, people start drifting away and turning in for the night. Beck finds me again, and this time there’s no more dancing, so he walks me back to my room.
To ensure that nothing happens between us no matter how badly I want it to, I start faking yawns the moment we are inside the house.
“That tired?” he chuckles.
“You have no idea. It’s been a fun day, but I’m exhausted.”
He hums in understanding as we get to my door.
“I’ll make sure you get inside safe,” he says, leaning against the wall.
“You’re relentless,” I tease, pushing gently at his chest. “Go on, cowboy. The night’s over.”
He smirks, tilts his head, and for a moment I think he might lean in. But I shoo him away with a flick of my hand, hiding the fact that my pulse is racing. He lingers one breath longer, then nods and steps back, leaving me with the echo of his presence.
My room is quiet when I step inside, the hush of it pressing in after the noise of the celebration. I tug at the zipper of my dress, the satin refusing to cooperate. My fingers fumble with it, catching fabric instead of teeth, and frustration bubbles in my chest.
“Of course,” I mutter, twisting at an impossible angle. The stubborn thing doesn’t budge.
I could leave it. I could sleep in this damn dress and pretend it doesn’t matter. But Beck’s smirk flashes in my mind, and I realize that I don’t have to suffer all night when he’s right next door.
I pad down the hall. I don’t knock. I don’t even think.
The door swings open, and there he is—shirtless. Bare tattooed skin lit soft by the lamplight, his hair mussed from his own hands. For a second I forget why I came. My throat dries, and my fists tighten at my sides.
Beck blinks at me, surprised but not startled, his mouth curving into the slow grin that always undoes me. “Couldn’t stay away?” His voice is rough, lower than usual.
I clear my throat, pretending to have the composure I don’t feel. “My zipper’s stuck.”
His eyes flick down to the dress, then back up to me. Something unspoken sharpens in them. He steps closer, filling the space between us with heat. “Turn around.”
The command is quiet, but it makes me shiver.
I obey, lifting my hair out of the way. His fingers find the zipper with ease, callused but careful as they brush against the bare line of my spine. I suck in a breath at the contact, unprepared for how much a single touch can unravel me.
“There,” he murmurs, the zipper sliding smoothly down. His knuckles graze my skin on purpose this time.
I turn back to face him, heart pounding so loud I’m sure he hears it. Neither of us moves away. The air feels heavy, electric, alive with something that’s been waiting all night—maybe longer.
And then he kisses me.
It’s neither cautious nor testing. It’s a claim, hot and desperate, as if he’s been holding it back for too long. My fingers press into his bare shoulders, pulling him closer, and he groans against my mouth.
So much for staying away and avoiding complicating things between us.
I forget about the zipper, the dress, the fact that I came here for help. There’s only Beck—solid and burning beneath my hands—and the ache that’s been building between us finally spilling over.
The night belongs to us now.
His mouth devours mine, and the force of it knocks every thought clean out of my head.
One second I’m standing in the doorway of his room, and the next my back hits the wall, the coolness of it biting through the satin of my dress as Beck presses against me.
His body is solid, burning, impossible to ignore.
I gasp, and he takes it as an invitation, deepening the kiss until I’m dizzy.
His hands bracket my waist, rough palms sliding over satin, tugging me closer like he can’t get enough.
I can feel the tension in him, the restraint he’s fought with all night, and it’s snapping, unraveling under the weight of us.
“Beck…” My whisper is half warning, half plea.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark, his jaw tight. “You drive me crazy, Quinn.” His voice is low. “All night, all I could think about was this.”
And then his mouth is on my throat, hot and hungry. I tip my head back, a shaky moan escaping as his lips trace fire down my skin. My hands fist in his hair, holding him to me, silently begging him not to stop.
The zipper of my dress is already undone, and he doesn’t waste time.
He drags the straps down my shoulders with aching slowness, his callused fingers skimming bare skin until goosebumps erupt across me.
The satin pools at my waist, and suddenly his mouth is there too, pressing heated kisses along my collarbone, down to the swell of my breasts.
I’m trembling—not from fear, but from the way desire coils tight and sharp inside me.
He drops to his knees before me, the sight of him there—broad, shirtless, reverent—making my breath catch.
His hands grip my thighs as though I might vanish, and then he looks up at me with that raw hunger that makes my knees go weak.
“Tell me you want this,” he says, voice rough.
I don’t hesitate. “I want you. I always want you.”
Something in him shatters at my words. He groans, burying his face against me as his hands push my dress down further, until it falls away completely.
I’m bare under his gaze, exposed and trembling, but I’ve never felt more powerful.
His eyes roam over me, not with judgment, but with reverence so fierce it steals my breath.
His mouth is everywhere—thighs, hips, stomach—each kiss a brand that sears into me. By the time he rises, pulling me up against him again, I’m already lost.
We stumble toward the bed, tangled in heat and desperation, his mouth never leaving mine for long. When he lays me down, his body covering mine, the world narrows to the press of his weight, the scrape of his stubble against my skin, the sound of both of us unraveling.
He takes his time, teasing, touching, drawing out every gasp and moan until I’m shaking beneath him.
My nails rake his back, urging him closer, harder.
When he finally pushes into me, the breath is punched from my lungs, a cry caught in my throat.
The ache, the stretch, the sheer rightness of it is overwhelming.
“Quinn,” he groans, his forehead pressed to mine, his hips moving slow, deliberate, as though he wants me to feel every inch of him.
I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper. “Don’t hold back,” I whisper, because I don’t want restraint. I want all of him—every rough edge, every hidden feeling he won’t say out loud.
And he gives it to me.
His rhythm shifts—harder, faster—driving me higher with every thrust. My nails claw into his shoulders, my voice breaking on gasps of his name. He kisses me desperately, pouring every unsaid word into me through his mouth, his hands, his body.
Pleasure coils tight, burning, unbearable, until it snaps. I cry out, trembling around him, my body shattering in his arms. He follows with a guttural sound, burying himself deep as he loses himself in me.
For a long moment, we’re nothing but ragged breaths and pounding hearts, tangled in sweat and sheets, the world narrowed to this bed, this man, this impossible, dangerous thing between us.
I don’t want to move. I don’t want to think. I just want to stay in the afterglow of him—warm and raw and utterly undone.
He shifts, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his touch tender now, almost hesitant. His lips part, and I see it in his eyes—he’s about to say something, something real.
But before he can, I blurt the truth that’s been eating at me for years.
“Do you remember Landon’s birthday a few years back?” My voice cuts through the quiet like glass breaking.
Beck hums. “Sure. The big bonfire one. Why?”
I swallow hard, heat rising to my face. “That night… we… we slept together.”
The silence that follows is deafening. My stomach knots, memories flooding back whether I want them to or not—the smoke of the fire clinging to my hair, the taste of whiskey on his mouth, the way his laugh slurred as he pulled me away from the crowd.
He’d kissed me like a man unraveling, hands desperate, tugging me against him until I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began.
Clothes had come off in a blur, laughter turning into gasps, every second reckless and burning.
I remember the feel of his body, the way he said my name like he was drowning.
And then I remember him passing out, his head dropping against my shoulder, the weight of him heavy and still.
“You were drunk,” I whisper now, pulling back to look at him. “Drunker than me. I don’t think you even remembered it happened. But I did. I always have.”
His body stills against mine. The hand on my cheek drops away, fingers curling into the sheets instead. His eyes widen, searching mine, confusion flashing before it hardens into something unreadable.
“What?” The single word cuts sharper than a shout.
The warmth between us evaporates. The intimacy that felt unbreakable seconds ago shifts into a fragile silence, one wrong move away from shattering completely.
Beck pulls back, just enough that the absence of his body feels like a chasm. His jaw clenches, eyes shadowed. Whatever words he was about to give me, whatever confession I just stole, are gone.
And all I can do is lie there, staring at him, knowing I’ve ruined something I don’t even have a name for yet.