Page 52 of Westin

His brow crooks. “Mr. Quinn? That’s Westin to you.”

“Or sir,” I say daringly. “I can tell you like when I call you that.”

I expected him to take my teasing the way he did a moment ago. Instead, he reaches down, taking me by the hair and lifting me to my feet. It doesn’t hurt, the way he does it with his fist up against my scalp. I go willingly, too shocked to resist.

Between my legs is a raw heartbeat.

His hand slides down and cradles my head. His mouth brushes mine. I’m frozen, barely breathing.

How is he so gentle and stern all at once?

“I like when you call me sir,” he says. “Because you are my business.”

“I’m not yours, though,” I whisper.

“Diane, I will brand my name onto your ass if I need to. Good luck being anyone’s business but mine after that.”

What the fuck is wrong with him?

What’s wrong with me for not running?

I can’t answer. The air between us is thick as a thunderstorm. He drags me even closer, hand on my neck, and he kisses me, but this time it’s different. It’s scorching hot and tastes like falling hard and hitting the ground fast.

A thunderclap. Heat like lightning in my veins. A storm I can’t escape.

My lips open because he forces them, and his tongue swipes over mine. Then, it comes back for more. When he pulls away, the world spins.

“Let me have you,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“You have,” I gasp.

His eyes narrow. “No, I want all of you. No pulling out, no condoms, no leaving when it’s done.”

“I don’t want—”

“I’m fine with it if you get pregnant.” His eyes glitter, narrowed. “I’ll take care of you. You come live with me at Sovereign Mountain.”

It’s not a question. My heart slows. Did he just say that? I shudder in his arms. I’m used to being ignored. I don’t know how to be the center of anyone’s attention.

But I can’t hide from my feelings anymore. My heart is going soft for him. It scares me, even if it’s what I want.

“Westin,” I stammer. “I’m only twenty-one.”

His jaw works. His gaze flicks up and focuses on something far away. He’s thinking hard.

“If I leave, you’ll end up in some other man’s bed,” he says grimly. “Either I stake my claim on you, or I lose you. I won’t lose you.”

My fingers flex. I’m gripping his wrist, although I’m not sure when that happened. My nails dig into his skin. He doesn’t react.

I don’t know if I can say what I want to say.

Or if I should just be quiet.

Fuck it, I’ve never been good at keeping my mouth shut. His hand is on my neck, holding me in the water. His rough thumb is dragging over my nipple and making it hard to think. I’m acutely aware of how my body reacts to his absentminded touch.

“You’re a bad man,” I whisper.

It sounds childish when I say it like that, but it’s the kindest way to say what I’m thinking.

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