Chapter 11 - Quinn
I'm still kneeling on the floor of my bedroom with tears drying on my cheeks, looking at this man who just held me while I cried about the most painful thing I've ever experienced and didn't flinch, didn't pull away, didn't tell me I was being too emotional the way my father always did when I dared to complain about anything.
He didn't see me differently. Didn't decide I was broken or less than or not worth the trouble.
He called me family.
This could really lead somewhere: to a relationship, to my own family, to everything I thought I'd lost when that doctor told me my body had betrayed me in the most fundamental way.
And if there's even a tiny chance of that, if there's even the smallest possibility that this man and his daughter could be mine in all the ways that matter, I'll put everything I have on the line for it.
We're still kneeling when Dean reaches up, tucks strands of hair behind my ear again, but this time he doesn't stop there. This time he leans in and kisses me, his hand coming up to cup my face, so large it covers my whole cheek and jaw.
I lean into his touch and something in my chest cracks wide open, because when was the last time I felt a man's hand on my face, and it wasn't to hit me? When was the last time touch meant safety instead of pain? Did that ever happen? I can't remember it if it did.
I've been kissed before, sure. Had boyfriends, had lovers, had the guy three years ago who cheated and taught me that leaving immediately was the only self-respect I had left.
But I've never been kissed like this, like Dean's pouring everything he feels into it, like this kiss means something beyond just lust, like he's claiming me and offering himself all at once.
We get up somehow, still kissing, stumbling toward the bed.
My back hits the mattress and he follows me down, his weight settling over me in a way that should feel confining but doesn't. His hands find my hips first, gripping hard enough that I feel the strength in his fingers, then slide to my thighs, touching me through my sweatpants like he's trying to memorize every curve, every inch.
"You have no idea how badly I've wanted to touch you," he breathes against my mouth. "Since the moment you opened my door in those fucking pigtails looking so beautiful and harmless."
"Then touch me," I tell him. "Don't hold back, Dean. I want everything."
His hands tighten on my thighs, and he grinds his hips against mine, letting me feel exactly how hard he is through our clothes. "Everything?"
"Everything."
My hands go to his shoulders, his back, feeling muscle shift under skin as he moves against me. I want more. Need more. Need to touch his actual skin instead of just cotton.
I pull at his shirt and he helps me, sitting back just long enough to yank it over his head and toss it aside.
Fuck, he's hot.
Lean and toned, chest defined without being bulky, six-pack abs that flex as he breathes hard above me. There are scars scattered across his torso. One along his ribs that looks old, another across his collarbone that's more recent. Evidence of a life lived hard, of violence survived.
I run my fingers down from his collarbone to his sternum, tracing the lines of muscle, the ridges of scar tissue. Down further to his navel, feeling his abs contract under my touch, and I want to do so much more than just look.
"You're staring," Dean says, voice rough with amusement.
"You're worth staring at."
I pull him to my side and use the momentum to roll, straddling him before he can react. Now I'm on top, looking down at his handsome face flushed with arousal, his gray eyes dark with need, his hair messy from my fingers.
"What are you doing?" he mutters, voice low and dangerous.
"Making it up to you for being such a gentle man," I tell him, and run my hand down his stomach again, lower this time, until I reach the obvious bulge straining against his sweatpants.
I palm him through the fabric, and he bucks up into my hand with a groan.
"For holding me while I cried. For not seeing me as broken. For making me feel like I matter."
"You do matter," he says fiercely. "Quinn—"
I squeeze him gently and his words cut off with a sharp inhale. "Let me do this. Let me show you how much I want you."
He makes a sound that's pure surrender.
I climb off him and move to the edge of the bed, positioning myself between his legs. My hand grips his cock through the fabric, stroking slowly, feeling it throb and pulse under my palm.
"I want to see what you're hiding," I tell him, looking up at his face. "I want to taste you, Dean. Want to make you feel as good as you make me feel."
He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't make me ask twice. He lifts his hips and starts pushing his sweatpants down, eager and unashamed, and I love that. I love a man who's not afraid to show how badly he wants something, who doesn't play games or pretend to be unaffected.
I help him, tossing his sweatpants aside, and then there's just his boxers between me and what I want. The outline of his cock is clear through the thin fabric: thick, long, straining toward me like it has its own agenda.
I lean down and kiss the outline through the fabric, feeling it throb against my lips. Dean's hand comes to my hair, not pushing, just holding, threading through the strands like he needs to touch me.
"Quinn," he breathes. "Fuck, you're going to kill me."
I look up at him through my lashes. "That's the plan."
I hook my fingers into his boxers and pull them down slowly, revealing him inch by inch. His cock springs free, thick and hard, a bead of precum glistening at the tip.
"Jesus Christ," I whisper, wrapping my hand around the base. My fingers don't quite meet. "You're bigger than I thought."
"Is that a problem?" There's uncertainty in his voice, like he's actually worried I might not want this.
"Not even close." I stroke him once, root to tip, and watch his eyes roll back slightly. "I fucking love it."
I lean down and lick the bead of precum from his tip, tasting salt and musk. Dean groans, his hand tightening in my hair.
"More," he says. "Please, Quinn. More."
I take just the tip into my mouth, sucking gently, swirling my tongue around the head while my hand works his shaft. He's so thick I have to open so wide I can feel my jaw stretching.
"That's it," Dean encourages, voice strained. "Just like that. Fuck, your mouth feels incredible."
I slide down further, taking more of him, inch by inch until he hits the back of my throat. I gag slightly. He's thick enough it's a challenge, but I breathe through my nose and push past it, taking him deeper.
"Holy shit," Dean gasps. "Quinn, you don't have to—oh fuck—"
I pull back just long enough to say, "I want to," and then I'm deepthroating him properly, nose pressed to his pelvis, saliva starting to dribble down the corners of my mouth.
Dean's other hand joins the first in my hair, both of them gripping now but still not forcing, just holding on like I'm the only stable thing in his world. His hips start to move, small shallow thrusts that drive his cock deeper into my throat.
"You're taking me so well," he pants. "So fucking well. Look at you, choking on my cock like you were made for it."
The dirty talk sends heat straight between my legs. I'm soaked already, have been since I watched him fight those Vipers this morning, which feels wrong, getting wet from violence, but he was protecting me, protecting his daughter, being exactly the kind of man I've spent my whole life looking for.
I pull off with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting my lips to his cock, and look up at him. His pupils are blown wide, his chest heaving, his hands still tangled in my hair.
"I've been wet all day," I tell him. "Since I watched you take down those men. Since I saw what you're capable of when someone threatens what's yours."
"You liked that? Watching me fight?"
"I loved it. Loved seeing you protect your family. Loved seeing how strong you are, how controlled even in violence." I stroke him slowly, base to tip. "It made me want you so badly I could barely think straight."
"Fuck, Quinn—"
I hop off the bed before he can finish, and his eyes track my movement. I pull my shirt over my head slowly, letting him watch, then shimmy out of my sweatpants, leaving me in just my bra and panties.
"Come back here," Dean says, voice rough with command.
"In a minute." I climb back onto the bed but this time I position myself differently, on my hands and knees, back arched, giving him the perfect view of my ass while I take his cock in my mouth again.
I want him to see what he could have. Want him to imagine fucking me from behind, hands gripping my hips while he pounds into me hard enough to leave bruises.
"Jesus Christ," Dean breathes behind me. "Quinn, your ass…"
I take him deep again, moaning around his cock, and the vibration makes him curse. His hands come to my hips, not pulling me toward him but just touching, gripping, claiming.
I work him with everything I've got. Tongue, lips, throat, no hesitation, no holding back. I bob up and down on his cock, taking him deeper each time, gagging and drooling and loving every second of it.
"Quinn," Dean groans, hips starting to thrust up to meet my mouth. "Fuck, I need to fuck you or I'm going to explode in your mouth right now."
I pull off again, look back at him over my shoulder, still on my hands and knees with my ass in the air. "That wouldn't be a problem. I'd take every last drop, swallow everything you give me."
"Fuck—"
"But," I continue, crawling up his body until we're face to face, "I really want you inside me. Want to feel this thick cock stretching me open, filling me so full I can't think straight."
He flips us, and suddenly he's on top, both muscular arms planted on either side of my head like pillars, caging me in but not trapping me. His cock presses against my thigh, hard and slick with my saliva.