Chapter 16 Quentin #2
Her grin turned wicked, wild, the kind that promised damage. Mischief sparked in her gaze like she was already planning it. “So you’re into verbal abuse and financial submission? One leash away from a very different kind of nightlife.”
He didn’t blink. Didn’t retreat. He held her stare like a challenge. “Only if you’re the one pulling it.”
That did it. A low, sultry laugh slipped from her, lingering and slow, and she reached out to pat his chest, her nails dragging just enough to tease. “Careful, Hollywood. You’re starting to sound like fun.”
“Fun,” he echoed, voice dropping an octave, leaning into her touch with a slow smile. “Is exactly what I’m offering.”
“So if I call you a walking red flag with a god complex, do I get the platinum card or the routing number to your bank account?”
“Hm,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to her mouth, lingering there like it was already his. “Depends on how well you can berate me.”
“Oh, I can berate you all night,” she purred, dragging her nails down the front of his shirt before letting her touch fall away. The loss hit him immediately, sharp and visceral, like she’d taken something with her. “You’d be on your knees by midnight, begging me to stop.”
“Sweetheart,” he rasped, voice thick with heat, “I’d drop to my knees for you without a second thought.” He leaned in close, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. “And by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be the one begging me.”
Her brow lifted—cool, controlled, unimpressed if you didn’t know what to look for. But he saw it. The flutter of her lashes. The way her breath caught, just for a second. The way her body leaned into his like it didn’t care what her mouth said.
“The only thing I’ll be begging for,” she drawled, her eyes lingering on his mouth, “is for you to shut that pretty mouth and walk away.”
Then she looked past him, disengaging, scanning the room like he’d already lost her interest. “So,” she added casually, “where’s your handler, Hollywood? They really let you roam free like this?”
She flicked her chin toward the bouncer in the corner, who looked more invested in his nachos than the safety of anyone famous.
“I’ll risk it,” Quentin said smoothly. “But it’s cute that you’re worried.”
“I’m worried about getting trampled by a mob of your stans.”
He leaned in just enough to test her space, voice dropping. “You’ll be fine.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “Because you’ll be the one leading them.”
She snorted. “In your dreams.”
She had been, lately. Night after night, slipping into his fantasies like a bad habit—bare skin, breathy moans, that mouth dragging his name out like a prayer and a threat all at once.
“Are you seriously wearing that hat off set?”
Quentin tilted the brim down with a cocky flick, eyes catching the low light. “Why? Turning you on?”
“Yeah, nothing revs my engine like method acting. Ease up, Yellowstone, no one’s handing out belt buckles tonight.”
Quentin chuckled, low and easy. If only she knew. He wasn’t playing cowboy, he was one. Grew up mucking stalls, fixing fences, breaking wild colts before breakfast. The hat wasn’t a costume, it was standard issue. The boots had actual cow shit on them.
He leaned against the bar, elbow propped, letting his gaze travel from the toes of her cowboy boots to the curve of her hip, the tilt of her chin, the spark in her eyes.
“You’re one to talk, Miss San Diego,” he said, nodding toward her boots. “What’s the story? First rodeo, or do you dust those off every time it drops below seventy?”
“For your information, these are vintage,” she sniffed, chin lifting. “Not whatever costume department handed you.”
“That so? Because you’re giving strong Stevie Nicks fangirl energy.”
“Funny,” she shot back, lifting her drink, “coming from a John Wayne cosplayer.”
“Cosplay, huh? Well, if this is a costume, I’m wearing it damn well. You, on the other hand, are one two-step away from convincing yourself you’re a real cowgirl.”
“Keep talking,” she said, voice just above a whisper. “And I might just ask you to prove you know how to two-step.”
“I’ll dance you dizzy,” Quentin drawled, voice dropping to something thick and velvet-dark, “Question is… can you keep up?”
Her eyes burned into his, fingers tightening on her glass like she couldn’t decide whether to toss it at his chest or drag him somewhere private. Quentin smiled. He had a pretty good idea which one she was leaning toward.
Before she could answer, someone cleared their throat. A loud, pointed kind of throat-clearing, the universal sound of hey, you’re not alone, maybe stop eye-banging each other for a second?
Quentin turned his head, right into the amused expression of a guy sitting just past Sadie.
Shit. How had he forgotten Reggie was still there?
The guy gave a friendly nod. Quentin had the immediate, almost primal urge to shove him off his stool and into the void. Instead, he flexed every ounce of self-restraint, slapped on a polite smile, and extended his hand.
“Hey man, I’m Quentin.” His voice came out smooth, casual. No need to go full caveman, even if every cell in his body was chanting, Back off, bro.
“Reggie,” the guy replied, shaking his hand with a knowing grin. “I’m a big fan, by the way.”
Quentin’s smirk returned instantly. He shot a glance at Sadie. “See? Some people like me.”
Sadie didn’t even hesitate. “That’s because he doesn’t know you. You’re an actor, Quentin. When people say they’re fans, they’re fans of your acting, not you.”
“Harsh,” he muttered. Before she could react, he plucked the glass right out of her hand and took a slow sip.
Sadie froze, eyes widening just slightly. Her lips parted like she was about to protest, but no words came out.
He could taste the tang of tequila immediately, familiar and sharp. He shot her a lazy grin.
“Tequila?” he asked, holding her gaze. “My kind of girl.”
As he licked his lower lip, savoring the taste, he noticed her eyes follow the motion, lingering just a little too long.
He placed the glass back in her hand, his fingers brushing hers briefly. The light touch sent a heat straight through him, and he had to resist the urge to keep his hand there.
A fast-paced country song blared from the speakers, the kind of twangy nonsense that made people want to stomp their boots and spill their drinks. Quentin leaned in with a mischievous grin.
“So, you talk a big game,” he murmured, “but can you actually dance, or are you all mouth?”
Her eyes narrowed, but the glint behind them was pure fire. She raised the glass to her lips, drank from the exact spot he had, and threw back the rest in one smooth motion.
Quentin’s breath hitched. The way her throat worked as she swallowed, the subtle arch of her neck, the shimmer of her lips afterward. Christ. He wanted to ruin her lipstick with his mouth.
“Let’s find out,” she said, as she set the glass down and grabbed his shirt, fingers curling just enough to make his pulse stutter before pulling him toward the dance floor.
Electricity surged through him, hot and fast, settling low and tight. He tried to keep it cool, but he couldn’t stop his grin.
“You ever danced a country swing before?” he asked, stepping in close, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin, their bodies separated by a whisper.
Sadie tilted her chin, lips brushing his cheek as she leaned in to answer, her voice a sultry murmur right at his ear. “Not yet.”
His hands found her waist, fingers sliding over the dip of her lower back, and he exhaled a laugh that sounded a lot more like a groan.
“Then hold on tight, Fosforito.”