Chapter 27 – QUINN
QUINN
Sorel and Nolan pick us up. Crew catches a ride from a friend since he lives on the other side of the city, but Mason is on the top end of Beacon Hill, technically straddling Back Bay.
I talk them into letting me off at the top of Beacon Street by their building since driving me home will add an extra ten minutes, even if it’s less than a mile, and since it’s already late for Nolan, they comply.
Anticipation wracks through me as I wind my way down the hill.
Russel didn’t text me back until I got off the plane and into the car.
He asked if we could talk in person and wanted to know what I was doing tonight.
Answering your father is probably not the right move, but honestly, I don’t have much to say to him. I was clear about where I stand.
Whether he was serious about this friends thing or not, it doesn’t matter.
I have no clue why Rhett gave me his key. I would have come over after he got home. But when I get to his place, I feel weird using it. I ring his bell twice, and when he doesn’t answer, I let myself in. I was here for breakfast that morning, but that’s been it.
It’s pleasantly clean and smells like him.
I need a shower since I didn’t take one after the game, and because he told me to come here, I walk upstairs and navigate my way to his bedroom.
It’s a sprawling space of light wood and dark linens.
Very masculine. I don’t snoop, though the temptation is real.
Does he have condoms in his nightstand? Lube? Sex toys?
I laugh a bit at that last one. I’ve never known a man to keep those in their nightstand. Not the way women do. If he opened my nightstand drawer, he’d see the funhouse I have inside. A shiver runs through me at the thought of him finding them and using them.
He told me last night that he hasn’t been with anyone since me all those months ago, and I believe him. I wouldn’t have gone bare with him if I didn’t. I trust him. And he clearly trusts me since I’m alone in his house.
I strip out of my clothes, weed through his dresser drawers until I find what I need, and go straight into his bathroom, which is as clean and organized as the rest of his house.
If he finds me here, great. If not, that works too.
I turn on his shower and step in, using his shampoo and body wash to get myself clean.
Typical male, he doesn’t have separate conditioner, just two-in-one stuff, but I make it work.
I don’t linger. It seems almost a little too pornish for him to come home and find me in here.
I recite the steps for a rotator cuff repair to calm my nerves and quickly finish up.
Stepping out, I wrap myself up in a towel and comb through my hair as best I can.
I get dressed in his clothes—an old college T-shirt, sweatpants that I have to roll four times at my waist but still sag on me, and a hoodie. No undies and no bra.
When I come out of the bathroom, I hitch back a step, finding Rhett standing at the threshold of his bedroom.
His hands grip the top of the doorframe as he fills it.
He’s still in his Rebels T-shirt and track pants that he wore to the postgame conference, his tattoos and bulging arm muscles on full display.
He pushes the brim of his glasses up his nose before he replaces his hand on the frame, and I might have just come a little from that move.
“This is what you get for giving me a key.”
“I have no complaints. If this is what I come home to, I may have to have you move in.” He crosses the room and buries his face in my neck, taking a deep inhale of me.
He groans, clearly smelling his soap and shampoo on me.
Hot, wet kisses rain against my skin, and I moan, leaning into him. “Dinner?”
Dinner? He pulls away, and I narrow my eyes and tilt my head, the word not computing.
His lips twitch with amusement. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Um.” How do I answer that without sounding like the desperate little hussy I clearly am?
“Come on.” He waves a hand over his shoulder as he heads back toward the bedroom door. “I promised to cook for you.”
“You’ve done that for me before,” I call after him. “No mystery.”
He chuckles, the sound growing distant and muffled by his heavy footsteps on the stairs.
Did he legit just walk out of this bedroom in the name of food over sex?
I blink, having no clue what to do with that. Other than follow him, I guess. Fine, if he can be an adult and play it cool, so can I. Ha, who are you kidding? My nipples are so hard they could cut glass, and my pussy is already wet and uncomfortable since I have no panties on.
“Did you not take your Viagra yet, old man?” I yell out to him. “Is that why you need to eat first? To give it time to kick in?”
In a beat, I hear him jogging back up the steps, and I smile and nibble on the corner of my lip. He comes in, fire in his eyes, and in a flash, I’m hauled against him. Against his very large, hard dick.
He bites my earlobe in warning. “Careful, baby girl.”
“Or what?”
He smirks against me. “Or I’ll show you just how much of a man I am and what I do to little brats who don’t listen.”
“Brat—” The word morphs into a scream as he picks me up and hauls me over his shoulder. I land with an oomph and a fresh yelp while my ass gets a good spanking. I kick my legs and earn another spanking, proving his point. It makes me smile wickedly, knowing he can’t see it.
“But Daddy, what if I don’t want to behave?”
He hisses out a curse and jerks the sweatpants over my ass. He bites into one cheek, and I cry out as he gives the other cheek a good, hard spanking that makes my clit pulse.
He carries me out of his bedroom, and I shift around on his shoulder, fear striking a path through me. “Oh my god! Rhett, put me down. You can’t carry me down the stairs.”
“I can and I will. Don’t squirm or you’ll kill us both.”
He marches down the stairs, and I bounce with every step. My eyes close and I hold on tight, hardly breathing. True to his word, he gets us to the bottom and allows me to slide down the front of him. He grabs my face in both of his large, rough hands and nails me with a hard, fast kiss.
“Behave.”
He releases me and walks ahead into the kitchen.
I hike back up his sweatpants that by some miracle didn’t fall all the way down and join him.
Rhett is moving around his kitchen, placing something into an air fryer, and he’s put music on—country music he’s humming along to, so we’re going to have to have a talk about that—while he takes things out of the fridge and removes a bottle of wine from a wine refrigerator under the counter.
“Can I help?”
“Sure. Uncork the wine and pour us each a glass. Lord knows I could use it, and I’m guessing you could too.”
Truth.
He has good taste in wine. It’s a Bordeaux that looks like it’s directly from France. I uncork it and pour us each a glass, sad that I’m not letting it breathe but not caring enough not to drink it.
“You’re a connoisseur?”
He laughs. “No. I bought it for you because I know you like wine, but I couldn’t remember what kind we ordered the first night I met you. The woman at the wine shop said this one is excellent.”
I pause. Wait a second. “When did you buy it?”
For a moment, I think he’s blushing, but he puts his back to me, so I’m not sure.
He keeps doing whatever it is he’s doing as he flippantly tries to respond with, “Uh, a few weeks ago.”
“A few weeks ago?” I’m incredulous.
He glances at me over his shoulder. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“No more than I already do.”
He snickers and goes back to the stove. “Fine. Fair. I bought it as wishful thinking. I didn’t anticipate getting the chance to open it with you, but I was passing the shop, and I had this fantasy. This very fantasy. So…”
So he went in and bought an expensive bottle of wine he thought I’d like, even if he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to open it for me. My hand covers my mouth as blood thrums in my ears and heats the back of my neck.
Oh my god. I’m going to get my heart so broken by this man.
I walk up to him and kiss the spot between his shoulder blades.
I’m not sure I can say anything to that.
I busy myself with the wine, my hands trembling. Finally, I manage to uncork it and pour us each some.
“What are you making? Here.” I slide his glass toward him since he’s now working at the island, lamb chops sitting open in paper while he works on chopping garlic and rosemary.
“Lamb chops, air-fried potato wedges, and broccoli. It’s nothing that fancy, but it’s fast, healthy, and good.”
“You know, you could have ordered in for us. I believe pizza is your favorite, and I never turn that down. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble after such a long day.”
I get a smirk. “There is nothing impressive about takeout, Quinn, even if I’m delighted you remember about pizza being my favorite.”
I hop up onto the counter and dangle my legs. “Are you trying to impress me?”
“Absolutely.” He turns on his gas stove and puts butter and olive oil, along with the rosemary and garlic, in a pan before he adds the lamb to sear.
“Cheers.” We clink glasses, and each takes a sip, and wow, yeah, he is trying to impress me.
I like that about him. Clearly, I’ve been dating the wrong guys.
But are we dating?
Is that even possible for us or is this exclusive fucking?
Maybe that’s crude, but I already know he’s not going to be seeing other women and I won’t be seeing other men.
But it’s not a real relationship either.
We won’t be going out to the movies or dinners together.
We won’t walk through the park together holding hands.
We won’t be seen in the light of day as a couple.
We’re a secret, and there is definitely something thrilling about that, but it’s not sustainable. Neither are we. This will be fun until we work it out of our systems or come to an impasse. The problem is, I’ll get hurt. He could too. I realize it’s not only me in this.
We have feelings beyond the physical.
He would have fucked me upstairs if this were only about that. That’s what this dinner is. It’s him showing me that I mean more to him than just sex. That he wants everything he said to me after his postgame conference.
He wants time with me.
Time with potential.
It’s honest. It’s not rose-tinted or manufactured.
It’s insanely refreshing, and it relaxes me.
Because it’s what I want with him too. Time to see if he’s the real deal. If this could be worth everything we’re up against. If he’s worth upending my life and becoming what Crew said. A balance.
“Come on, Coach. I’m sitting here on my ass. Give me some direction here. What else can I do to help?”
The meat is sizzling in the pan, the air filled with the most incredible aroma, and he walks over to me and pulls me to the edge of the counter so he can kiss me. His hands meet my hips, and he kisses me so deeply I feel it in my toenails. Our tongues swirl, but all too soon, he pulls back.
“You don’t always have to do something. You can just be.”
“I’ve never done that. Not ever. I’m always moving. Always the one doing.”
His fingers trickle along my cheek. “Then enjoy the opportunity to have someone do it for you.” Another kiss, this one soft, and he’s back to cooking.
For the next three days, I’m at the hospital for no less than twelve-hour shifts each day. No football. Only regular Quinn work. Next Saturday, I have a baby shower for Skylar at her grandparents’ compound, and Sunday, the Rebels have a home game.
Time. It’s such a funny thing. There’s never enough of it to go around.
So we’ll take it one moment at a time. I smile. I already know I’ll be borrowing minutes whenever I can.
“Alexa, play alternative radio.”
“Alternative radio?” he questions as she complies.
I shrug. “Welcome to Boston.”