27. Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Seven
Quinn
As soon as I say the words, Vince’s expert hands make short work of divesting me of my lingerie—the last barrier between us. His hands grasp my waist as he rolls, pulling me on top of him.
I instinctively sit up, feeling his muscles bunch beneath me as he scoots me farther down his body. I bend forward to kiss him, my long red hair creating a curtain around us. As soon as the kiss is over, my hands push against his chest as I sit back up. I feel his hands cover my breasts, and I arch my back, pressing into his warm palms.
His hands gradually leave my breasts and travel to my hips. He powerfully helps lift me above him, and I position myself over his hard cock. As I slowly lower myself onto him, taking him inside me, I gasp at the full sensation of him—filling me. I give a small moan as I start to move and hear his answering growl as I do that little swirl that I know drives him wild. Vince’s hands instinctively tighten around my hips with a force I know will leave a mark. I don’t care. This feels too good, and I swirl my hips again with a womanly smile.
As I increase the tempo, I throw back my head, feeling my long hair cascade down my back. I’m lost in the rhythm, in the feel of him, and I close my eyes to savor the sensation—the ride. When I open my eyes a few minutes later and glance down at Vince, the intensity of his green gaze takes my breath. His face is hard—stony with desire—hot lust shimmers in his eyes.
Without warning, my body clenches down on him—hard—and I orgasm, shouting his name. I hear his answering guttural shout as he follows me over that sharp cliff. It takes a few moments for us to recover as I lay draped over his chest, waiting for our heartbeats to slow. I feel his calloused fingers as they move lightly up and down my spine, caressing my back. It feels wonderful, and I don’t move a muscle as he continues the soothing motion.
“Damn, that was good,” Vince murmurs against my hair.
I smirk. “Only good?” I quip, repeating a phrase I’ve heard him use before.
He gives a slight chuckle, his chest rumbling beneath me with amusement. I shift to the side, leaning up on one elbow to give him a serious look. “Vince—“
His humorous groan interrupts me. “What? Now you want to talk?” He suddenly shifts, and I’m flat on my back, staring up at him. “I think whatever we have to say can wait until morning.”
His lips cover mine, and when he deepens the kiss, I sigh, “Yes, whatever we have to say can wait.” And I lose myself in this touch.
The late morning light streams through the gap in the hotel curtains, painting a warm stripe across the tangled sheets. I blink awake slowly, feeling pleasantly sore and utterly content. Vince’s arm is heavy across my waist, his breath warm against my shoulder.
For a moment, I just let myself enjoy this—the rare peace of waking up beside him with nowhere to be. No baby demanding attention, no work calls, no social media posts to schedule—it’s just us.
I study his face in repose, which is so different from the stage version of Vince Savage. His dark hair deliciously tousled, his unfairly long lashes resting against his chiseled cheeks, he looks even more irresistibly handsome than normal. The stubble along his jaw tickles my fingertips as I trace the line of it, unable to resist touching him even in sleep.
With my mind clear, last night’s postponed conversation resurfaces. We need to talk. Really talk, not just skirt around the issues or get distracted by the physical chemistry that seems to short-circuit our communication.
As if sensing the shift in my thoughts, Vince stirs, his arm tightening around me before his eyes open, revealing that piercing green gaze.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. He leans in to kiss me, his hand sliding up my bare back, but I place a palm on his chest, stopping him.
“We should talk,” I say softly but firmly. “For real this time.”
He sighs, rolling onto his back, the sheet slipping dangerously low on his hips. “Yeah, I know.”
I prop myself up on one elbow, my red hair falling around us. “I need to know where we stand, Vince. What happened with Davis that night—I’ll be honest—it scared me.”
His fingers find a lock of my hair, twirling it absently. “I know,” he says again, his gaze now focused on me. “It scared me too.” He reaches up to trace the scattering of freckles on my cheek. “Not because anything happened, but because of how easy it would have been to fall back into my old patterns.”
I feel a cold knot form in my stomach. “And is that what you want? To go back to that life?”
“No.” His answer is immediate and forceful. “God, no. That’s what scared me, Quinn. I walked into that club feeling like I had to prove something—to Davis or to myself, I don’t know. But the minute I sat down, all I could think of was that I didn’t belong there anymore.”
The knot loosens slightly. “Then why go at all?”
Vince is quiet for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “I think... I think part of me needed to face it. To look my old life in the eye and choose to walk away.”
I nod slowly, the sheet slipping a bit as I shift. Vince’s gaze drops momentarily before returning to my face, a reminder of the sensual electricity that still hums between us, even during serious conversations. “I can understand that. I just wish you’d told me before those photos hit the internet.”
“I should have,” he admits, running a hand through his dark hair. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. Davis caught me off guard, and I made a snap decision. It was stupid, and I’m sorry.”
“I understand,” I say, because I do. “But Vince, this can’t happen again. I don’t mean the going out part—you’re allowed to have a life—but you should have mentioned it. I felt blind-sided.”
He reaches for my hand, bringing it to his lips. “You’re right. I promised you honesty when you agreed to be more than just my social media manager, and I failed.” His thumb traces circles on my wrist. “But I swear to you, Quinn, I want this to work.”
The sincerity in his eyes makes my heart catch. But before I can respond, he takes a deep breath.
“Speaking of honesty... there’s something else I need to tell you.”
The serious tone in his voice sends a ripple of unease through me. “What is it?”
“I think I saw Daisy,” he says, the name hanging in the air between us. “That same night during and after the performance.”
I sit up straighter, pulling the sheet around me. “What? When?”
“First, while we were performing, I caught a glimpse of her in the crowd. Later, when I was heading back to the bus after I left Davis with those girls, I turned around and saw a blonde in a flowered skirt exiting the club.” He sits up, too, the muscles in his back tensing. “At least, I think it was her. The flowers on her skirt were daisies.”
“Did she see you? Did she say anything?” My mind is racing with implications—Daisy, who abandoned a helpless six-month-old with nothing but a terse note.
“No, she was gone before I could reach her,” Vince says. “But I called my lawyer right away. He’s looking into it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
He sighs. “I wasn’t sure it was her,” he explains, his fingers absently tracing patterns on my shoulder. “And I didn’t want to worry you over what might have been nothing. But that’s one of the reasons I didn’t mention Davis and those girls. I kept replaying the scene afterward, wondering if it was Daisy, and if so—what does she want?”
I absorb this, trying to process what it might mean. “Do you think she wants Jasmine back?” The question is barely a whisper, voicing the fear that both of us are feeling.
Vince shakes his head. “I don’t know what she wants. The note said she’d contact me when she was ready—maybe this is her way of doing that.” His hand finds mine, interlacing our fingers. “But I need you to know, Quinn, nothing changes between us or with Jasmine, no matter what Daisy might want.”
“You can’t promise that,” I say, trying to be pragmatic even as emotion threatens to overwhelm me. “She’s Jasmine’s mother.”
“Biologically, yes,” he concedes. “But she’s not the one Jasmine reaches for when she wakes up from her nap. She’s not the one who knows exactly how she likes her bottle and which stuffed animal she needs beside her to fall asleep.” His eyes, so like Jasmine’s, hold mine, and there’s a hardness in them. “She’s the one that abandoned her daughter.”
I lean into him, drawn by his warmth and the certainty in his voice. “Thank you for telling me,” I say as his arm comes around me. “Even though it scares me, I’d rather know.”
“No more secrets,” he promises, his lips brushing my temple. “Not about Daisy, not about anything.” He pulls back slightly, making sure I’m looking at him. “I’m trying to make this work, Quinn. I can’t promise I won’t screw up—God knows my track record isn’t great—but I can promise I’ll try. For you. For Jasmine. For whatever this is between us.”
It’s not a declaration of love—I know Vince well enough by now to understand he’s still guarded with his heart—but it’s honest. It’s real. And right now, it’s enough.
“I want that too,” I tell him, reaching up to trail my fingers over his lips. “I have for a while now.”
His smile is slow and genuine, nothing like the practiced smirk he gives the fans and photographers. “Even though I was a complete disaster when you met me—and afterward when I was totally out of my depth not knowing how to care for a baby?”
“Especially then,” I admit with a small laugh. “Watching you try to figure out how to change a diaper while trying to keep Jasmine from crying... that’s when I knew there was more to Vince Savage than the tabloids suggested.”
He catches my hand and brings it to his lips again. “I’m still figuring it out, Red,” he says. “Being a dad, being... with you. I can’t promise I’ll always get it right.”
“I don’t need perfect,” I say, meaning it. “I just need you to always be honest with me—for you to be real.”
“Honesty and real, I can do,” he replies, his other hand slipping beneath the sheet to find the curve of my waist. “Starting with how I honestly, really want to kiss you right now.”
I smile, tilting my face up to his. “I think we can manage that.”
As his lips meet mine, soft and insistent, I know there are still unanswered questions. About Daisy, about how we’ll balance our work and personal relationships. But for now, this is enough—this honesty, this promise to try.
I happen to believe that what we’re building is worth the risk.
Vince deepens the kiss, his hand traveling up my back to tangle in my hair, and conversation gives way to a different kind of communication—one where actions speak louder than words, and promises are written on skin instead of paper.
Whatever comes next, we’ll face it together. And for now, that’s enough.