Page 61 of Parker

“So maybe you liked me a little when you thought you hated me.”

“So maybe I did,” I tell him, biting my lower lip and wishing he’d leap over this damn table and kiss me again. There’s an overhead announcement about the convention room doors about to open. “Now, get outta here. I’m working!”

I love you, he mouths, pantomiming a heart with his fingers, and though I roll my eyes again, I’m happy. Lord help me, I’ve never been this happy in my entire life.

***

We manage to sneak in a bite together at lunchtime and a long, hot kiss in a defunct, old-fashioned telephone booth off to the side of the food court. We raise a glass of champagne with everyone else at the convention at four o’clock when it’s officially over, pack up our tables, and walk to the elevator hand in hand at the end of the day.

He leans down and kisses my cheek when the doors open at his floor.

“See you at six,” he says.

“See you then,” I say, watching him walk away.

Because I leave for the airport at noon tomorrow and don’t want to worry about packing up later tonight, I make sure that everything Idon’tneed is packed up neatly and ready to go before I take a shower. When I do, I shave my legs, and my underarms, and around my cooch. It’s been a while since I wanted that smooth, soft, barely-there effect, and I still don’t know what’s going to happen between me and Quinn tonight…but I want to leave my options open. I dress in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt that reads,What Happens In Vegas, Stays In Vegas, then pull my hair into a cute, sloppy bun. At five-forty-five, I pull a bottle of white wine from the wet bar and pour two glasses, sipping on mine as I wait for Quinn to arrive.

Knock, knock.

My heart leaps.

I cross the room and open the door, finding Quinn in the hallway, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but also barefoot, which I fucking love. From his finger dangles the little white bag I threw at him a few nights ago.

“Special delivery,” he says with a goofy grin.

As I take the bag, I nudge the door open wider with my hip to let him in.

“I love this charm,” I tell him, taking the box out of the bag and the charm from the box. I’m wearing the snowflake charm I was wearing last night, but I unclasp the chain so I can add the pink and silver turtle. “Thanks for getting it for me.”

He looks at the charm against my skin, then raises his gaze to my eyes. “Looks fine on you, baby.”

“Baby?” I put my hands on my hips, pretending to be tough. “Who said you could call mebaby?”

He shrugs, stepping toward me. His hands land on top of mine, and he pulls me against his chest. His voice is low, almostgritty, when he asks, “Is that okay with you, Miss Stewart, ma’am?”

“Yeah,” I murmur, winding my arms around his neck. “It’s okay with me.”

His lips crash into mine, his hands sliding to my ass, which he cups. I give a small hop, and suddenly he’s holding me in his arms, my legs wrapped around his waist, my ankles locked against his lower back.

We kiss like the world’s ending as he walks us to the couch, where he plops down, still holding me in his arms. I straddle his lap, my knees digging into the plush cushions, my mouth utterly pillaged. His tongue strokes and glides, licking and laving mine as my stomach swirls with something a lot like the drinking spins, that glorious dizzy feeling that, if you just close your eyes and lean into it, can feel like actual heaven.

His hands slide under my T-shirt, running up my back, then pausing when they don’t come into contact with a bra clasp.Why? Because I’m not wearing one. I didn’t feel like it. He’s sitting against the cushions of the couch, relaxing, but now, he surges forward, closer to me, his body flush with mine. His hands run up and down the length of my back, and in the junction of my thighs, I feel his erection straining against the zipper of his jeans. I roll my hips against it, and he groans into my mouth.

And though I want to keep going—Lord knows I do—I break off our kiss and lay my forehead on his shoulder.

Yes, I’ve known Quinn all my life.

Yes, I’m more turned on than I’ve ever been.

Yes, I like him, or love him, or something in between.

But this is still so very, very new, which makes it overwhelming, and I’m just not ready to sleep with him…yet. I want to slow down. I want to have dinner and watch a movie. I don’t want everything all at once.

He’s panting in quick, shallow breaths, his chest pressing into mine.

“Could we have dinner and watch a movie? Like we planned?” I ask in a whisper. “Would that be okay?”

“Baby,” he says with a sigh, sitting back against the cushions, but still holding on to me, “that would be perfect.”

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