11. Quinn
QUINN
His bedroom is quiet in a way the rest of the house isn’t.
The rest of the house hums. There’s always something happening. The distant sound of men talking outside in voices too low to make out. Ms. Beaumont moving around the place, always busy. But in here, with the door closed, it’s just the clock on the nightstand and my own breathing.
I pulled a shirt out of his drawer ten minutes ago—dark, soft from washing.
It smells like him even when it’s clean.
I put it on because it felt like the right thing to wear while waiting for a man in his own bedroom.
I’m sitting on the bed, hands clasped between my bare knees, and I’m waiting for him.
But exactly what am I waiting for? That’s the problem. I’m trying very hard to make it look like I belong here. I’m also chewing the inside of my cheek, because there is a war happening in my head and neither side is winning.
Because the thing is, I’m not stupid.
I keep telling myself that, like a mantra. Like if I say it long enough, it’ll start working. I’m not stupid. I notice things. I’ve been noticing them for weeks—months, really, if I’m honest with myself. The guards. The way they’ve multiplied. New faces that appear without explanation.
The phone calls Dorian takes in the other room with the door closed. The way he comes back from them wearing a different face.
The way Tristan materializes out of nowhere, and Dorian’s whole body changes.
I’ve noticed all of it, and I’ve explained it away, only every explanation feels thinner than the one before it. Like a sweater that’s been washed too many times. I can see through it now, but I keep wearing it because the alternative is being cold.
I should ask him, shouldn’t I?
The thought sits in my lap like a live thing, demanding attention.
Just ask him. Open your mouth and form the words, you idiot.
Say, Dorian, what do you actually do? Or better yet: Dorian, why are there nine men on the lawn when there used to be two?
Why does Tristan carry a gun? Why does everyone in this house look at me like I’m the only person who doesn’t know the punchline?
I could ask. I should ask. He expects me to live here and share his bed, and I think that means I’m allowed to ask questions. I think it means I deserve answers.
But here’s the part I can’t get past: what if the answer is a dealbreaker?
I’ve been building whatever this is for months, brick by brick. I went from calling him Mr. Moretti to calling him Dorian to sleeping in his bed and waking up next to him. Every single one of those steps felt like walking further onto a bridge I couldn’t see the end of.
And now I’m out here, and the bridge is beautiful, the view is insane, and I’m afraid to look down. If I ask, it will mean looking down.
If I ask, and the answer is something I can’t live with, this is over. It would mean losing him and losing Lillie.
So I don’t ask. I sit on his bed and argue with myself, and I hate that I’m the kind of person who is choosing comfort over truth.
But I also know comfort is underselling it.
This isn’t comfort. This is something I didn’t know I was looking for until I found it, and I guess I’d rather hold it with my eyes half-closed than open them all the way and watch it disappear.
“Tomorrow,” I whisper to the empty room.
The door opens, and he steps in. He closes it behind him, the lock clicks, and the sound of it does something to my pulse that should probably be studied by medical professionals.
He stops when he sees me. The way a man stops when he rounds a corner and finds something he wasn’t expecting.
His gaze moves from my face to his shirt to my bare legs folded on his bed.
Something shifts behind his eyes. Something that was already there, simmering under the conversation he just had with Tristan, but is now fully, unmistakably present.
He’s looking at me the way a man looks at a meal after a very long day. And just like that, my entire argument evaporates like steam. Every single thought I was having is replaced by one: he’s looking at me.
“Hi,” I say. My voice is smaller than I mean it to be.
He doesn’t answer right away. He walks toward the bed.
Slow, deliberate. I really wish he wouldn’t look at me the way he’s looking at me right now.
Not because it makes me uncomfortable in any way.
Because every second that passes makes my body feel a little warmer, and my resolve feel a little softer.
Right now, it’s the texture of room-temperature butter and is on its way to melting.
“That’s my shirt,” he growls.
“I know.”
“It looks better on you.”
“Ithought so, too.” The corner of his mouth twitches before his hand comes up so he can slide his fingers into my hair. He tilts my face until it lines up with his, and the questions I was going to ask him dissolve into a feeling I can’t name.
Tomorrow, I think, as his mouth finds mine. I’ll definitely ask tomorrow.
His other hand finds the hem of the shirt, and his fingers brush the bare skin of my thigh. The touch sends electricity through me so sharp I gasp against his lips.
“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he murmurs against my mouth in a voice that’s low and rough.
One of his hands brushes my breast. It makes me tremble while my nipple tightens almost painfully.
“Sitting downstairs earlier. Talking to Tristan just now. Going through the motions. All I could think about was you, waiting for me in here.”
Lord help me, but I have become a complete sex maniac or something, because the next thing out of my mouth is, “And what were you thinking about? I would like to hear about it.”
“I think it would be more fun to show you.” This time his thumb circles my nipple through the shirt, making me gasp. “Though there might be something we should discuss first.”
Oh. That has a different ring to it. My eyes open all the way, and I can almost forget the sensations his fingers stirred up. “What is it?” Tell me he’s not going to change his mind about me living here.
The desire in his eyes hasn’t changed, which seems like it should be a good sign.
“I want all of you. Every inch. Every part.” He straightens up a little until he’s standing upright, looking me up and down.
The way his gaze crawls over my body makes goosebumps erupt until they cover my skin. “Including your ass.”
Oh. Okay. I’m not sure I could’ve come up with that if I’d thought about it all night.
He must take my silence for disagreement because he frowns. “Not that I ever want to make you do something you don’t want to.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just… I’m a little…”
He stands between my legs, and his hands graze my thighs with a touch that is both light and tantalizing. Every brush of his fingers leaves me fighting the impulse to spread my legs wider, to lie back and welcome him inside.
“Just be careful with me,” I whisper. Looking up at him, locked in his gaze, I’m pretty sure I would agree to anything. Probably not something I should ever brag about, but I can’t help it. He’s hypnotic.
And he definitely knew what he was doing last night.
“Okay,” I whisper. His eyes light up and a slow smile starts to spread as he leans down, giving me no choice but to lie back.
“First, let’s make sure you’re ready.” And then his hands are on me again, and my eyes are closed, and I’m arching my back to meet his touch. His hands slide under the shirt, touching bare skin, until finally I sit up a little so we can take it off and get rid of it.
The sight of him taking in the sight of me makes my pussy ache in the best way.
He looks as if he just unwrapped the best gift he’s ever had in his whole life before he lowers his head and starts to paint my skin with his lips and his tongue.
My fingers run through his hair, and I moan something wordless, something dark and needy, while his tongue circles my nipples—one, then the other—before he takes them between his lips and sucks.
I’m already so far gone, it barely takes a brush of his fingers against the crotch of my thong before my legs squeeze tight around him and an orgasm slams into me from out of nowhere.
He looks surprised, pulling his head back and staring at me with wide eyes while I tremble in the aftermath. “Fuck, I could do this all night,” he whispers once I start to come down from my high.
“Is it weird? That I came so easily?” I have to know.
“You never, ever have to apologize for coming,” he whispers in my ear before his teeth graze the lobe and make me shiver. While he whispers, he tugs at the waistband of my thong, and we work together to peel it away. It’s soaked with my juices. That’s what he does to me.
He lifts it to his nose, and my body flushes hot when I watch him inhale my scent. “Perfect.”
Then he rolls me onto my stomach, my breath catches, and my body tenses before I can help myself. “Relax,” he murmurs, running his hands over my cheeks.
“What else should I do?” I ask. This is all new. The only thing I’m sure of is being glad it’s with him.
“Just breathe—and tell me if you need me to stop.” While he speaks, his fingers move between my lips, where I’m still sopping wet. I can hear him stroking me, can hear the wet sounds as the sensations moving through me get more intense. “It’s important that you relax.”
He lets his fingers creep a little higher, a little higher, until he’s not just stroking my pussy anymore.
He is officially playing with my ass, dragging his finger in circles around my puckered hole.
He wants a ride down the Hershey Highway.
I never imagined doing this, but then I never could’ve imagined him.
“Does that feel good?” He plants soft kisses along my neck and my shoulders before letting his lips trail down my back. All the while, he plays with my hole, smearing my juices through my crack.
“Yes…” I whisper, fists tightening, tugging at the sheets. “It feels amazing.”
“I want to show you everything your body is capable of.” His tongue grazes a particularly sensitive spot at the base of my spine, and I moan into the mattress.
It’s almost too much, too good, and I’m torn between wanting to make him stop and hoping he never, ever does.
“You are wet, but just in case, we’re going to use some lube as well,” he announces before grabbing something from the nightstand.
Once he drips some of the cool liquid onto my ass, he continues kissing my back, moving lower until he’s walking the line between licking my cheeks and going deeper.
The little electric tingles, and the desire heating my core are nothing compared to his soft groan, like he likes this, like he can’t wait for more.
When his fingers probe my hole, I moan and lift my hips to offer him more.
And he takes it.
It’s the weirdest feeling of fullness. “That’s right,” he murmurs, coaching me through it. “Breathe. Relax your muscles. I’m gonna work my finger deeper now.”
“Yes…” I moan. “Yes, do it.”
“Fuck, Quinn…” He groans, and I hear his zipper behind me.
When I look over my shoulder, he’s pulling himself from his slacks, stroking himself while he stares down at my ass.
The sight of that, and the sound of him, the feeling of one, then two fingers working my ass has me gripping the sheets tighter and tighter as tension builds in my core. I can’t think. I can only feel.
“I’m going to fill your ass now,” he grunts, once he’s worked his fingers inside me, moving them in and out until there’s nothing but pleasure. The thought of it being so dirty only makes it hotter.
“Be gentle,” I beg, while he takes me by the hips and pulls them back so my ass is in the air. Air that is cool against my heated flesh, making me shiver even while the heat deep inside me rages like an inferno.
“Always,” he promises. I believe him, too. I believe him as he kneels behind me, and I feel the pressure from his wide head. I squeeze my eyes shut, fists getting tighter, until I remember I need to relax. Once I take a few deep breaths, he hums like he approves—then he works his way inside me.
Full. So full. Stars dance behind my eyelids, and I’m caught between the feeling he’s going to split me open and feeling that I’m about to explode with pure joy, because oh, sweet Lord, does that feel incredible.
Once the newness passes, there’s nothing but the delicious friction, and the sound of his satisfied grunts as he takes me slowly, so slowly, while his hands roam over my ass.
“That’s right,” he whispers as he moves. “This ass is mine. Your pussy is mine. Say it.”
A ripple of pure, dark pleasure races through me, lighting me up. “Yes. Yes, yours,” I moan, moving against him.
“That’s right,” he grunts. One of his arms snakes around me so his fingers can find my clit and work it in time with his strokes.
“Yes!” I whimper, bearing down on his fingers, willing myself to come again. “Yes, yes, Dorian, do that, keep doing that…”
“You’re gonna come for me again?” he asks with a dark chuckle. “Are you going to come while I’m fucking your ass? Is that what you’re going to do?”
“Yes!” I cry, suspended in almost agonizing pleasure, right on the edge. “Make me come! Please!”
“Fuck…” His strokes get deeper, stronger, while his fingers flick my clit faster, faster, until there is nothing but the all-consuming, glorious relief that hits and leaves me almost screaming, one fist in my mouth.
“Fuck… fuck, Quinn…” he whispers before driving himself deep. A rush of heat fills me back there, and he groans, and the sound of his satisfaction makes me smile, knowing I made him feel that way.
He lands next to me, and for a little while, it’s enough to lie side by side, catching our breath, catching up to what just happened. “Are you all right?” he asks. His hand finds my back and starts to move up and down in long, slow strokes. “Do you need anything? What can I do?”
“Keep doing that,” I mumble, and the sound is half muffled by the mattress under my face. “That’s nice.” I roll onto my side, and he pulls me against him, the big spoon to my little spoon. I am boneless and breathing hard, but I’m safe, tucked against him.
“You know I’m not going anywhere, right?” I whisper. I’m not even sure where it came from. It just feels like the right thing to say in this moment.
I’m pretty sure he stops breathing for a few seconds before the sound picks up again. “I know,” he murmurs.
My eyes slowly close, and his arm tightens around me, and for right now, this moment, it’s enough. More than enough.