Page 151 of Beautiful Liar

37

BLUR

Icould come up with a million excuses. But the truth is I want this precious time with Quinn. So I say nothing. And I nod.

He exhales.

And we wait for the manager to return with the keys.

He takes my hand as we’re escorted upstairs.

The room is charming, with flowery bedspreads and cute paintings of mountains I can’t imagine the Quinn I know now, loving. But as I look around at the rocking chair in the corner and the log fireplace, I realize it wasn’t the place that held meaning for him, it was the person he was here with.

I turn from the window and look at him.

He’s staring at the bed on the right, his gaze shadowed again. The manager retreats silently, and I go to stand next to him.

“Do you want to take that bed?” I murmur softly.

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’ll go and wash up.”

He catches my arm before I can leave. “It wasn’t you, Elyse. Earlier, when you tried to hug me. It was me. I don’t like to be hugged. The last person to hug me was my mother.”

My heart staggers with pain for him. “It’s okay. Really.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s not. She knew she was going to die. It was her way of saying goodbye. I loved her, but I absolutely hate her for it.”

My insides shudder hard. “Oh, Quinn—”

He turns abruptly and shackles me with his arms. “Give it to me, Elyse. The relief. Please. I need it.”

The internal conflict that churns lasts all of five seconds. I know somewhere along the line, guilt and shame for not keeping my promise to Q will sting, but right in this moment, I can think of nothing I want more than to give myself to Quinn. So I don’t protest when he pulls me tighter into his hard, lean body.

Our kisses over the last week have grown progressively more frenzied, our mouths attempting to sate what our bodies need. This time, the kiss is pure, heavenly foreplay, tinged with the desperation and desolation raging through Quinn.

My hands slide up his neck. He picks me up and walks me to the bed. He lets go for a minute, and I lean back, stare at the god before me.

Without taking his eyes off me, he sinks down and tugs my boots off, then his own. Feverish eyes rake over me as he joins me on the bed, and takes my mouth again. We tumble back against the pillows. His tongue flicks against mine and I moan. He goes deeper, his caresses growing more intense with each passing second. Firm hands slide under my sweater, fingers stroke my skin. I’m furnace-hot, melting from the inside.

After an eternity of kissing, his mouth leaves mine, trails to my jaw, my earlobe, my pulse. I go on an exploration trip of my own. Quinn’s body is unbelievably honed. Tight muscles jump beneath my touch as I pull his shirt free of his pants and glide my hands up his back.

His weight on me feels solid, even a touch familiar. I realize that before Q, I never voluntarily explored a man’s body, so I wonder if all men who take care of their bodies feel the same.

I look up at him. He’s staring at me, his gaze probing in watchful, almost dreading silence. I shut out my conflicting thoughts against comparing the two men I’ve interacted with recently, and revel in the fact that I’m here, in this place and time, with Quinn Blackwood.

I smile.

He exhales. His hands trail up my midriff, then with impatient movements, he rears up and pulls my thick sweater over my head. His jaw drops at the sight of my braless breasts.

When he looks up, there’s a dangerous light in his eyes. “You always go out without a bra, Elyse?” he croaks.

I shake my head. “We…you looked like you needed to leave in a hurry.”

One finger trails from my collarbone to the top of one breast. My nipple puckers, the areola breaking out in goose bumps.

He cups one mound and groans. “So fucking soft. So responsive. Need to taste you.” His mouth closes over one peak, pulls it hard into his mouth before swirling his tongue around it.

---