Page 24 of Confession
Vitali is blocking my exit. He’s fixed his clothes and looks exactly as he did before I blew him. Well, maybe not exactly. He looks … worried.
I can’t fucking deal with that, so I brush past him saying, “My throat’s been used harder than that.” Shit, my voice is wrecked.
That was an asshole thing to say, I know, but it pisses him off enough that he doesn’t come after me as I walk to the office door and escape into the noise and chaos of the club.
TEN
Vitali
It takes me a while to cool down as I sit on the couch in my office, my head resting back. I had no idea that Quinn could give me an out-of-body experience then piss me off in such quick succession.
Fuck, he took me deep. Watching him handle that then watching him come with my cock rammed down his throat? I start getting hard again just thinking about it.
But then he was such a dick.
He’s not going to get away with it. I’ll give him a minute because I need a minute too. Hell, I’ll give him until we get home because I’d rather deal with shit there. But wearedealing with it.
When I’m capable of being civil, I get up from the couch and go retrieve my phone from the desk. I send Sasha a text, then I get everything shut down in my office and gather my shit. When I hear back from Sasha, I grab Quinn’s jacket and gun, then I head out, locking my office behind me.
I find Quinn at the mezzanine railing. He’s leaning down with his forearms resting on it as though he’s listening to the music, even though I know he hates hip-hop. He doesn’t play music often at home, but on the occasions that I hear it through his door, it’s always really grim and depressing.
For once, everyone is leaving him alone. His body language is forbidding.
He straightens at my approach. I hand him his jacket with his gun concealed inside. His face is blank. No, not blank. Stony. He’s got his defenses up.
Quinn follows me across the mezzanine to the stairs. We descend then weave through the crowd on the main floor to the side exit. I open the door, revealing the running Jag. Sasha’s in the driver’s seat. I get in the front passenger seat and Quinn gets in the back. He sits directly behind me so I can’t see him.
It’s another tensely silent car ride. I don’t know what Sasha suspects. Definitely something, but she doesn’t say a word. I busy myself with my phone.
When we reach the house and park in the garage, Sasha says she’ll do the security check. Quinn offers a brusque thanks because it means he doesn’t have to do it, but the fact that he doesn’t look at her and so quickly escapes tells me that he doesn’t like that she’s noticed … whatever she’s noticed.
I abruptly realize something that’s always been kind of obvious: Quinn doesn’t like being noticed.
Well, that’s too fucking bad.
But I let him think he’s getting away. I give him a head start, hanging back until I’m sure he’s in his room, which is on the basement level—his choice—far away from all the other bedrooms. I wait outside his door until I hear the shower. Then I go in.
There’s a bedside lamp on, illuminating the king-size bed and old brick walls. Sasha refers to this room as the dungeon, but I can see why Quinn likes it. It was the original kitchen, back when the house was fully staffed. The old harvest table is still here and a sort of minikitchen. There’s a door to the outside patio that was once the kitchen yard.
I wouldn’t say I snoop, but I do look around and I don’t really like what I see. Quinn’s been here for two years, but there’s very little that’s personal in this room. There’s the stereo and alaptop, an old-fashioned wardrobe that came with the room and an old green leather couch that also came with the room. The room itself has character, so Quinn must like that, but there’s no artwork, nostuff. Anyone could be living here.
I go to sit at the table, divesting myself of my jacket, gun, and phone. I wait.
Quinn’s not vain like me, so it doesn’t take long for him to emerge from the bathroom with a blue towel wrapped around my waist. He stops dead at the sight of me, which gives me a moment to really look at him.
He’s beautiful with that broad, ruggedly handsome face. His brown hair is darker than usual because it’s damp. It’s simple, unfussy. It looks really good on him, but I can tell he doesn’t do anything with it.
His body, however, he spends time on.
This is the first time I’ve seen him shirtless since realizing—no, accepting—that I’m attracted to him and I make no secret of checking him out: the heavy chest and shoulders, the thickly muscled abdomen, the pronounced bulge of his cock against the towel.
I don’t like, however, the wound closure tape where he got cut the other night. I don’t like all the scars. He’s lived a very rough life, a dangerous one.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice rasping because of what I did to his throat.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Just a second,” he tells me and walks over to the big, old-fashioned wardrobe. It has a mirrored door, and I see him watching me in it. Then he opens the door and grabs something from a shelf. He drops his towel, baring his ass.
