Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Quinton
I woke up feeling like I had been hit by a truck.
Because that was exactly what happened.
My head was pounding. My mouth tasted like something had died in it. And my jaw... I touched my jaw and immediately regretted it. “Fuck,” I muttered, wincing.
Right. Colton’s fist. My face. The beginning of what would probably be a spectacular bruise.
I opened my eyes as sunlight streamed through the windows of my living room, which was confusing because I was pretty sure I had gone to bed in my bedroom last night.
Except I was on my couch. Still wearing yesterday’s jeans. No shirt. One sock.
Classy, Quinton. Very classy.
I sat up slowly, my head protesting the movement, and tried to piece together how I ended up here. I knew Vivian had driven me home. We stumbled into my apartment and I’d kissed her.
She’d kissed me back and then— “Good morning, sunshine.”
I looked up to find Vivian sitting on the other end of the couch, legs tucked under her, holding a mug of coffee and grinning at me like she’d just won the lottery.
She was wearing one of my old college T-shirts.
A faded Foo Fighters tee that was at least two sizes too big on her, and nothing else that I could see.
Her hair was messy. Her eyes were bright.
And she looked absolutely fucking perfect.
“You’re awake,” I said stupidly.
“I am,” she confirmed. “You, on the other hand, look like death.”
“I feel like death.”
“Good. You deserve it.”
I rubbed my face, careful to avoid my jaw. “What time is it?”
“Nine-thirty.”
“Jesus.”
“You snore, by the way.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do. Like a congested bear.”
I glared at her. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” She took a sip of her coffee, still grinning. “You love me. You said so last night. Multiple times. Very loudly.”
“I was drunk.”
“You were also in jail.”
“Also drunk.”
“And you punched my ex-boyfriend.”
“He punched me first.”
“And then you tackled him.”
“He called you boring.”
Vivian’s grin softened. “Yeah. He did.”
We looked at each other for a moment.
Then she said, “Your jaw looks terrible.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it. It’s all purple and swollen. Very attractive.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying this.”
“Oh, I am.” She set her coffee down on the side table and shifted closer. “Does it hurt?”
“Only when I move my face.”
“So... all the time?”
“Pretty much.”
She was right next to me now, her eyes scanning my jaw with what looked like genuine concern beneath the teasing. “You’re an idiot,” she said softly.
“I know.”
“You got arrested.”
“I know.”
“For me.”
“I know.”
She reached out and gently touched the bruise, her fingers feather-light against my skin.
I winced.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. You’re hurt.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That doesn’t make it better, Quinton.”
I looked at her. “He called you boring. And a cold fish. What was I supposed to do?”
“Not get arrested?”
“That wasn’t really an option at the time.”
She smiled. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You like it.”
“I really do.”
And then she was straddling me. One second, she was sitting next to me, and the next she was in my lap, her thighs bracketing mine, her hands on my shoulders.
I blinked. “What are you—”
“Shh.” She leaned in, her breath warm against my skin. “I’m going to kiss your boo-boo and make it better.”
“My boo-boo?”
“Your boo-boo.”
“Vivian, I’m thirty-two years old. I don’t have boo-boos.”
“You have a boo-boo,” she said firmly. “And I’m going to kiss it.”
And then she did. Her lips brushed against my jaw, soft, gentle, barely there, and I forgot how to breathe. She kissed the bruise once. Twice. Her mouth moved slowly across the tender skin. “Better?” she whispered.
“Getting there,” I managed.
She kissed my jaw again. Then my cheek. Then the corner of my mouth as my hands found her hips automatically, fingers digging into the soft fabric of my T-shirt.
My T-shirt. On her. Fuck! “Vivian.”
“Shh,” she said again, and kissed me properly this time. Her mouth was warm and soft and tasted like coffee, and I was pretty sure this was the best hangover cure ever invented.
I kissed her back, my hands sliding from her hips to her ass, pulling her closer as she made a small sound. A half-laugh, half-moan before she ground down against me.
And just like that, I was hard.
Painfully, achingly hard.
She felt it too, because she grinned against my mouth and shifted again, rolling her hips in a slow, deliberate grind that made me see stars.
“Fuck,” I breathed.
“That’s the idea,” she murmured, and kissed me again as her hands ran through my hair, tugging gently as she deepened the kiss. My hands were under the T-shirt, sliding up her bare thighs, her hips, her waist.
No underwear.
Of course no underwear. “You’re trying to kill me,” I said against her mouth.
“Is it working?”
“Absolutely.”
She laughed and kissed me harder, her tongue sliding against mine as she rocked against me, and I groaned, my hips bucking up involuntarily.
This was insane. I was hungover. My jaw hurt.
I was pretty sure I still smelled like jail, and I didn’t care.
Not even a little bit. Because Vivian was in my lap, wearing my shirt, kissing me like she wanted to devour me, and I was going to let her.
Besides, if Julien was going to kill me anyway, I might as well make the most of the weekend while I was still breathing.
My hands slid higher, pushing the T-shirt up and over her head as she lifted her arms, letting me pull it off, and then she was naked, her skin flushed and warm in the morning light streaming through the windows.
“Jesus,” I breathed.
Her breasts were perfect. Full and soft, nipples already hard from arousal. I could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest, her breathing as ragged as mine.
“Like what you see?”
“You know I do.”
She grinned and leaned in, her breasts pressing against my chest as she kissed me again.
The sensation of her bare skin against mine sent electricity straight down my spine.
I could feel the heat radiating off her body, smell the faint scent of my shampoo in her hair mixed with something uniquely her.
I cupped her breasts, my thumbs brushing over her nipples, and she gasped into my mouth, a sharp, needy sound that made my cock throb painfully against the confines of my jeans.
“Quinton.”
“Yeah?”
“Touch me.”
“I am touching you.”
“More.”
I didn’t need to be told twice as my hands moved lower, sliding between her thighs, and she was already wet. Soaked, actually. I could feel the slickness coating my fingers the moment I touched her wet pussy, hot and slippery and absolutely perfect.
Fuck.
“You’re—”
“I know,” she said, her voice breathless and shaky. “I’ve been thinking about this since I woke up.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I slid a finger inside her warm cunt, and she moaned, a low, desperate sound that went straight to my cock. Her inner walls clenched around my finger, hot and tight and absolutely perfect. She was trembling already, her thighs shaking against mine.
“Quinton.”
“I’ve got you.” I whispered as I added another finger, curling them just right to hit that spot that made her see stars, and she rocked against my hand, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
Her hips moved in a rhythm that was both deliberate and frantic, grinding down on my fingers as I worked her open.
“God, yes! Just like that!”
I kissed her neck, her collarbone, her breasts, my fingers moving in a steady rhythm as she rode my hand.
I could feel her getting wetter with every stroke, her arousal coating my palm.
The sounds she was making. Breathy moans and gasps, and my name falling from her lips like a prayer, were going to be the death of me.
My thumb found her clit, and she keened, her whole-body jerking against me.
“Fuck, Quinton!”
She was close. I could feel it in the way her thighs trembled, the way her breath hitched, the way her inner walls started fluttering around my fingers. Her nails dug into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks, and I didn’t care. I wanted her marks on me. Wanted proof that this was real.
“Come for me,” I murmured against her skin, my voice rough. “Let me feel it.”
And she did as her whole body tensed, every muscle going taut as she came with a cry that was probably loud enough to wake the neighbors.
I felt her clench around my fingers, rhythmic pulses that seemed to go on forever as I worked her through it.
Her head fell back, exposing the long line of her throat, and I watched her come apart in my lap like it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Because it was.
I didn’t care and held her through it, my fingers still moving, drawing out every last shudder and aftershock until she collapsed against me, boneless and satisfied and trembling. “Holy shit,” she breathed against my neck.
“Yeah.”
She lifted her head, her eyes dark and satisfied and still hungry. “Your turn.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” She smirked as she slid off my lap and onto her knees between my legs, her hands already working at my belt with an efficiency that suggested she had been thinking about this for a while.
“Vivian.”
“Shh.”
She pulled my jeans down, my boxers with them, and then my cock sprang free. Hard and aching and already leaking. Her hand wrapped around me, and I forgot how to form words.
“Fuck.”
Her grip was firm and perfect. Her hand was warm as she stroked me once, twice, from base to tip.
I could feel every ridge of her palm, every squeeze of her fingers.
My hips bucked involuntarily, and she grinned up at me, that wicked, knowing grin that told me she knew exactly what she was doing to me.
And then her mouth was on me, and I was pretty sure I had died and gone to heaven.
Her tongue swirled around the head of my cock, lapping up the pre-cum that had been steadily leaking, and the sensation was so intense I had to grip the couch cushions to keep from coming immediately. She hummed, a low, satisfied sound, and the vibration traveled straight through me.