Chapter 8
Quinn
WHATEVER YOU SAY, DADDY
Before I even realize what I’m doing, my feet are moving. I grab his wrist and pull his hand up to inspect his bloodied knuckles. They look painful. Like this isn’t the first time they’ve been split. Rough callouses surround the new cuts.
They say never bring a man home after ten o’clock unless you plan on sleeping with him, and after the long day I’ve had, I really need to walk away.
I need to close my apartment door and let this grown man go to whatever floor he lives on and handle his own wounds.
But I can’t. I’m not built that way. He’s hurt, and I can’t leave him.
As I tug on his darkly inked wrist, his gaze bores into me for a beat before he gives in and follows me. He pauses and locks the deadbolt, leaving us alone in the dim space, which feels so much smaller with him in it. The man could swallow up a room with his commanding presence.
“Did you kill someone tonight?” I ask quietly, leading him into my tiny bathroom.
Bad idea. So, so bad.
We’re so close, his body heat is radiating from him into me, the rich woodsy scent of his cologne tingling my nose and sending little bursts of arousal straight to my clit.
Shit. What am I doing? He’s hurt. And I’m standing here thinking about how much of his body is covered in tattoos. How old is he? Is it messed up that I like him even more knowing he’s older than me by a significant number of years?
“You brought me into your apartment, even though you think I might have killed someone tonight?” He puts his hands on either side of the sink, caging me in as we face the mirror, looking at each other’s reflection.
When his arms press against my sides, I suck in a breath, unable to let it go as I wait for him to speak again.
Somehow, I know that Xander isn’t done talking.
And by the look on his face and tight jaw, I don’t think he's very happy.
“From now on, don’t ever bring a man into your house unless you know and trust them. You don’t know what kind of danger is out there, sunshine. Do you understand me?”
I swallow and stare at our reflection, my mouth dry as the desert surrounding our city. “Um, I’ve never brought a man here other than when I lived with my ex. And I trust you.”
Xander makes a growl in the back of his throat as his eyes darken and his Adam’s apple bobs. “You shouldn’t.”
Probably not. But I’ve seen enough bad people in my life to know Xander isn’t dangerous. Not to me, anyway. I don’t think the rest of the world is that lucky.
I open the top drawer and pull out several first-aid items, trying to ignore the way his body feels against mine. His touch is featherlight, but it almost feels like a weighted blanket of safety wrapped around me.
When I take a step back so I can turn around, my ass brushes against him, and I swear something hard presses into my lower back. I let my head fall back so I can look up at the tortured man in front of me. “Sit on the toilet lid.”
He takes a deep breath, his eyes trained on me in the most unsettling way. Like he’s trying to figure me out. What I want to tell him is to stop because if he looks too deeply, he’s not going to like what he sees.
Slowly, he shifts and lowers himself silently as I move in front of him and inwardly wince when I realize my tits are right at his eye level. That’s probably the last thing he wants in his face. I’m sure he’s used to models with beautiful, tiny bodies and minimal flaws.
It doesn’t matter. I’m just going to clean up his knuckles, then send him on his way. It’s the neighborly thing to do, considering he brought me my misdelivered mail.
Neither of us says anything as I gently move his hand under the faucet, letting the cool water wash away the dried and fresh blood from his knuckles.
“You punch things a lot,” I say softly, using a clean towel to pat his skin dry before I apply ointment and bandages. “You have callouses from this hand healing and being split open over and over.”
He doesn’t make a sound, but I feel his agreement. It’s in his eyes as he watches my face. “You look different from the other day.”
Heat spreads over my chest, up my neck, and to my cheeks. I try to concentrate on my task, but he’s making it difficult to even breathe.
“This is my work persona. It helps with tips.” I smile. “And I feel pretty good when I’m all done up like this.”
It’s silent for a second, and panic starts to edge its way in. Does he think I’m terrible because I push up my tits to help make more money?
“You look perfect both ways,” he eventually replies.
It’s only five words. Nothing over the top or coated with sugar and chocolate. But that feeling settles in my gut again, one that tells me those words are monumental coming from Xander. He means everything he says, all the way down to his core. I’ll take that any day over a sleazy liar.
After I finish adding the last bit of tape, I take a step back. “So really… Did you kill someone?”
His jaw tightens as his gaze travels up to meet mine, pinning me with his stare in the mirror. “I didn’t kill anyone tonight.”
Tonight? Does that mean he’s killed people on other nights?
Don’t say it, Quinn. Don’t ask.
“What about other nights?”
Oh, God. What the hell is wrong with me?
Xander rises, and I try to step back again, but I hit the wall instead. Stupid small bathroom.
Slowly, he reaches out and wraps a strand of my hair around his index finger while watching me closely. My heart races, and my clit throbs with need when he crowds me, making me feel small in comparison.
“I’ll never lie to you, sunshine, so make sure you really want the answers to your questions.”
How does a girl even respond to that?
“Come,” he says, gently grabbing my wrist.
Whatever you say, Daddy.
Rolling my lips in, I follow him across the hall and into my bedroom, but we’re already all the way in by the time I snap back to reality.
Oh my God. Did he bring me in here to have sex?
I mean, I wouldn’t say no, but does he have a condom?
Do I have condoms? Of course I don’t. I did shave this morning, so that’s good, but I’ve been working all day, so a shower first would be good.
But if it’s just a one-night stand, then should I care if I smell like body odor and alcohol?
“Jesus Christ, sunshine, I can practically hear you thinking. This is the only furniture you have. Unless you’d prefer the floor, sit with your back against the headboard. Take your shoes off and put a pillow under your feet.”
Huh?
I look down at my feet and blink, my tired eyes going blurry. They’re so numb that I forgot about how much they actually hurt. They do need to be propped up.
Glancing up at Xander, I bite my bottom lip, unsure whether this is a good idea or not.
My guess is it’s probably not. But then again, I trust Xander.
He won’t harm me. I didn’t learn good things growing up, but one of the things I quickly figured out was to trust my gut when it came to people.
It’s only fooled me once, but I was so desperate that I didn’t care at the time.
It was a better option than where I was.
Slowly, I toe off my flip-flops and move some of my pillows around, glad I’m wearing my best pair of black skinny jeans that smooth out all my lumps and bumps and make my ass look fantastic.
At least, that is according to the group of idiots I served earlier.
They didn’t say it to my face, but they certainly weren’t quiet about their interest in my ass.
They finally left to go to another bar after Josh cut three of them off.
I wish I had known where they were going.
I could have called the female servers there and warned them.
Xander watches me, silently, tracking my every move as I set a pillow under my ankles. I’m thankful for the table lamp I left on. It gives just enough light for us to see each other, but it’s also dim enough that he can’t see the way my stomach squishes into a soft roll.
I’m about to open my mouth to thank him for suggesting this, since I’m sure he’s dying to get out of here and go home, but I don’t get the chance. He sits on the edge of my bed toward the end and bends a knee before turning to face me.
Something flutters low in my belly, and I fight the urge to giggle because what the fuck is actually happening to me right now? This god of a man is in my tiny freaking apartment, sitting on my bed, in the middle of the night.
Then he takes one of my feet in his hands and presses his thumbs into the arch, and I melt.
“Oh my God,” I mutter as my eyes roll back and my head rests against the pillows stacked behind me. “You don’t have to do that.”
He ignores me and continues pressing on different spots, and it’s the most amazing pleasure I think I’ve ever experienced. Jason would never rub my feet. Or my back. Or anything unless it ended up with him getting to come.
“Close your eyes and enjoy it, sunshine.”
I want to argue with him. He’s obviously had a rough night, too. He’s got to be tired. Worn out. Possibly hurt in other parts of his body. But the gentle command in his voice is too easy to obey, and before I know it, I’m fading into the soft world of my dreams.