Chapter 37 Sadie #2
His thumb traced her jaw like he was definitely not taking her threats seriously. “Admit it. You’re obsessed. You love the movies.”
“Fine,” she muttered, breath already catching. “I love the stupid movies. You’re so unfairly hot it should be illegal. I’ve had actual dreams about your stupid tactical vest. There. You happy?”
“Oh, so happy,” he murmured, then he leaned in and kissed her.
His mouth moved over hers like he had all the time in the world, tongue flicking just enough to make her whimper and arch closer.
His hands slid beneath the hem of her shirt, warm palms against her bare skin, thumbs teasing at the edges of her sleep shorts.
He groaned softly when her legs parted beneath him.
“Quentin,” she whispered, tugging at his shirt, dragging him down against her. He kissed along her neck, biting just enough to make her gasp. He kissed her again, hot and hungry, hand sliding up her thigh— Then he stopped. Dead still.
She blinked up at him, flushed, dazed, and perilously close to committing a felony. “What. Why.”
He brushed his lips across her jaw, and whispered, “You haven’t eaten today.”
“What?”
He shifted off her just enough to ruin everything. “You think I didn’t notice? You’ve been running on caffeine and pure chaos since noon. So food first.”
Sadie let out a strangled sound and dragged a hand down her face. Quentin kissed the corner of her mouth, infuriatingly calm.
“I could kill you.”
“Great,” he said, completely unfazed. “Murder me after the Pad Thai.”
She flopped back on the couch with a dramatic groan. “You are the worst man alive.”
He reached for the takeout container on the table. “Extra spring rolls, right?”
Sadie rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at her lips. “Obviously. Don’t insult me.”
They sank onto the couch, arranging the food between them like it was a high-stakes game of Tetris.
They ate curled together on the couch, knees bumping, shoulders pressed close, conversation tumbling easily from work gossip to movie debates to dramatic arguments about which rom-com deserved eternal supremacy.
“You’re telling me Notting Hill isn’t in your top five?” Quentin asked.
“It’s fine. But come on, 10 Things I Hate About You is superior.” She punctuated her point by stabbing the air with her chopstick.
“Superior? Fine?” He shook his head like he was mourning their relationship. “Wow. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
“Heath Ledger singing in the bleachers? That scene raised the bar for men everywhere.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that,” he admitted.
She grinned, victorious, and took a sip of her strawberry lemonade, feeling lighter than she had all week.
It was always so effortless with Quentin—the way their conversations flowed, meandering from everything to nothing, like they’d been doing this for years.
She glanced across the couch at him, watching as he stuffed an entire spring roll into his mouth with all the grace of a human vacuum, and still, her chest fluttered. She didn’t want the night to end. She never did when he was near.
When they finished eating, he collected their plates without a word. Sadie followed behind him, fingers grazing the fridge door as she stuffed the leftovers inside.
His eyes suddenly found hers in the dim kitchen light. That look slid down her spine like molten electricity, leaving her toes curling against the hardwood floor beneath her.
“God, you’re so fucking sexy,” he muttered, voice raw and threaded with frustration, like it physically pained him to keep his hands off her.
Her hair was a mess, her skin bare of makeup, and she was standing in cartoon pajamas but the way he looked at her made her feel stripped down to something elemental. Something wanted. Something his.
Heart hammering, she stepped closer, until her bare feet landed on top of his. His hands twitched at her waist like he was fighting not to grab her and drag her in. A low, guttural sound escaped him, half groan, half curse.
"You've been making me crazy all week," she whispered against his mouth, threading her fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch. His hands finally gave in, palms spreading wide, holding her tight against him.
“Pretending that I don’t want you,” she breathed, voice shaking, “when it’s the only thing I think about.”
His forehead dropped to hers, his breath sharp and ragged against her skin.
“You’ve been in my head nonstop,” he admitted, breath warm against her cheek. “I wake up thinking about you. I go to sleep replaying things you said like they were lines I forgot to memorize.” A quiet laugh escaped him. “I’ve never wanted someone so much it made me stupid.”
His mouth crashed to hers, teeth and tongue. His kiss wasn’t sweet—it was brutal, claiming, every fierce sweep of his tongue a demand. Her stomach twisted in freefall, butterflies turning into something wilder, hungrier.
She pressed into him, addicted to the way he made her feel like the only thing that mattered. Her hands clutched his shirt, dragging it up, needing skin, needing more.
He grabbed her hips and lifted her without effort, her legs wrapping around his waist. She could feel him thick and hard, pressed right where she was already aching. The friction made her moan into his mouth.
His baseball cap hit the floor with a thud, but she barely noticed. She was too lost in the molten heat of his mouth, the rough scrape of his stubble against her skin.
His hand slipped beneath the thin cotton, palm gliding up her stomach, fingers spreading wide as they mapped every soft inch of her. He carried her into her bedroom and he laid her down, slow and careful. She reached for him, needy and impatient, but he just grinned, stepping back.
“Seriously?” she breathed, already aching.
He just smirked. That cocky, crooked smirk that made her clench and curse him under her breath.
He flicked the light on overhead, bathing the room in a golden glow.
Her skin prickled, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of herself, of the way her nipples peaked against the fabric, of the slick heat between her thighs.
“There’s no way I’m doing this in the dark,” he said, voice low and ragged. “I want to see all of it. Every fucking detail. I want to watch your face when I sink into you. When you come all over my cock.”
The words hit her like a blowtorch to the spine, hot, hard, and utterly dizzying. She probably should’ve felt self-conscious under the bright light. But the way he looked at her, like he hadn’t eaten in years and she was the only thing that could satisfy him. Yeah, shame didn’t stand a chance.
He crawled over her, his body a furnace pressing her into the mattress, the weight of him making her ache in places that had already gone slick with need. His biceps braced on either side of her head as he hovered, and when his knee nudged between her thighs, she opened for him with a whimper.
The drag of his jeans against the tender skin of her inner thighs was maddening. She arched into him, desperate for contact, for anything.
She reached up, her fingers brushing along the hard lines of his arms, tracing the tension vibrating beneath the surface. Her fingertips ghosted over his jaw, rough with stubble, then softer over his temples. His eyes fluttered closed, a low sound rumbling in his chest.
"You’re so beautiful," she whispered, unable to keep the words in.
His eyes snapped open, dark and burning. His jaw clenched, his fingers digging into her waist like she’d cracked something open inside him. Then he kissed her again, harder and deeper, stealing the breath from her lungs.
His hands roamed slowly, dragging over her ribs, her shoulders, before finding the straps of her tank top. He hooked a finger beneath them and tugged, baring her inch by inch. The tank top bunched at her waist. He paused, staring at her.
His breath came in ragged, shallow pulls, his eyes raking over her like he couldn’t believe she was real. Then he dropped his head, mouth hot and open against her collarbone, trailing lower, tongue and teeth drawing helpless gasps from her.
He closed his lips around one nipple, sucking hard enough to make her cry out. His other hand cupped her breast, thumb circling, teasing. She arched into him, chest heaving, lost to the sensation, moaning his name as she fisted his hair and held on.
The thin fabric of her pajama shorts was soaked through, clinging to her, frictionless and frustrating. She rolled her hips, grinding against his thigh, chasing relief, but it only made the ache worse.
A guttural groan rumbled from his chest. It vibrated through her skin and into her bones as he slid lower, kissing down her belly, teeth scraping at her waistband.
His fingers hooked into her shorts and pulled, slow and merciless, dragging them down her legs. He knelt between her thighs, jaw clenched, eyes molten.
"Fuck, look at you," he rasped, voice raw.
"What?" she whispered, dazed and dizzy with need.
"You’re perfect," he murmured against her thigh, his stubble scraping deliciously across her skin. His lips brushed lower, teasing, coaxing, driving her out of her mind.
"Mine," he growled and then he sealed his mouth over her clit.
She cried out, her hips arching off the bed as he sucked her deep, his tongue stroking relentless patterns against her. His hands splayed against her thighs, holding her open, owning every desperate, writhing gasp.
"Please," she whimpered, clawing at the sheets, the need coiling tighter and tighter inside her.
He groaned against her, the vibration shooting straight through her as he finally slid two fingers deep inside her, stretching her.