His (5 page)

“Nothing’s free. It’s not me they want, it’s the money. I prefer to be upfront about my intentions.”

“And your intentions are . . . ?” She looks me over, and I like the interest I see in her pretty hazel eyes.

“Sex. I’m not looking to be tied down. Companionship is good, but I don’t like expectations.”

She nods with understanding. “I can see that. And your work must keep you busy.”

“It does.”

I leave the dishes on the counter for Turner to see to tomorrow. Quinn is leaning against my large kitchen island, and I approach her, my blood pumping harder with every step.

“You are exceptionally beautiful,” I say, feeling a little like a high school kid with a crush.

She smiles, her perfect white teeth adding to her mystery. At some point, she obviously had braces and the best of dental care. It’s not just that, though. It’s also the set of her shoulders and the way she fearlessly holds my gaze. She could be wearing rags, and she’d still have an air of class.

“Thanks,” she says. “It’s just the hair and makeup Dawson’s stylist did for me.”

I step closer, shaking my head. “I have a feeling you’d be just as perfect straight out of the shower,” I say in a low tone. When I reach for her jawline and run my thumb across it, her eyes flutter closed for a split second.

I let my fingertips graze over the creamy skin of her long neck, brushing past her soft, golden waves. Her eyes open wide and she stiffens.

“What?” I ask softly, pulling my hand away. “You don’t like that?”

She swallows and looks up into my eyes. “It’s hard. This is . . . harder than I thought it would be.”

I step back, and she bites her lower lip and furrows her brow.

“My instinct is to react like you’re going to choke me,” she admits. “No one ever touches me there. Or anywhere. Except . . . one person. I only let one person touch me.”

A cloud of jealousy darkens over my field of vision. Who is this person who touches her, and how is he deserving? Clearly he doesn’t take care of her.

“You have a boyfriend,” I say, surprised by how much that disappoints me.

“No. I didn’t mean someone like that. It’s . . . my sibling.”

“Oh.”

I fold my arms over my chest and lean against the island next to her.

“Sorry,” she says softly. “I know I’m not doing this right.”

“Tell me more about your sibling,” I say. “Brother or sister?”

“I can’t.” She turns to face me, tilting her face up until our eyes meet. The swirl of gold and green and brown in her eyes is mesmerizing. “I might feel more comfortable if . . . instead of you touching me first, can I touch you?”

My lips part for just a second at the question. I feel a primal urge to reach for her hands and put them on me, to tell her that
fuck yes, she can touch me
. Anywhere. Everywhere. I want those slender fingers to explore the body I spend so much time honing in the gym.

But instead, I just nod, trying my best not to scare her off. I don’t even mind this excruciatingly slow seduction. In fact, I’m fully erect in my suit pants right now.

There are secrets in the depths of her eyes. I see pain and vulnerability there, laced with a strength that turns me on hard. Tonight, I get to show this intriguing, incredibly sexy woman that not everyone wants to hurt her.

Quinn

I reach out tentatively, my eyes locked on Andrew as my palm meets his chest. The soft fabric of his shirt covers a taut, muscled chest. My fingers trail up and down, sliding over ridges of muscle.

He’s strong. Fit. Masculine. All the things most twenty-one-year-old women find sexy in a man. And while I notice all this, am I turned on right now? Do I want him to whisk me off to the bedroom and rock my world?

No.

I’m out of my element, wearing these designer clothes and smelling like expensive perfume. How did I fall so low I’m selling my body to a stranger? What would my mom say if she could see me right now?

And Bethy. I’m worried sick about my sister. It’s some comfort that she’s warm and safe in a hotel room right now, but she’s still sick, and I’m not with her. We rarely leave each other’s side. And in the four-and-a-half years we’ve been on the streets, I’ve never spent a night apart from her.

Bean will take care of her. I know this. But still, I find it as impossible as ever to think about sex right now. Like so many other things, it’s a luxury that’s not part of my world.

“You look tense,” Andrew says. His voice, like the rest of him, is all man. It’s deep and commanding.

I shrug, sliding my hand from his abs around to his waist. “I’m fine.”

“When you said you’re inexperienced, how inexperienced did you mean?”

I pull my hand away and sigh deeply. “That’s kind of personal. I’m not asking for
your
full sexual history or anything.”

His brows arch slightly. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’m not trying to pry, but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable later. You’re not a virgin, are you?”

“So what if I am?”

He exhales his frustration through his nose. “Okay . . . well, I need to know what you’re comfortable with.”

I consider, still looking into his dark blue eyes. “Kissing. Touching . . . and blow jobs.”

The corners of his lips curl slightly. He’s trying not to laugh, I can tell.

“Look,” I say defensively. “Can we just do this? I’m ready.”

“I’m not laughing at you, Quinn,” he says, his expression turning serious. “It’s just that I can see how uncomfortable you are. Maybe this isn’t meant to be.” His eyes light up with an epiphany. “Hey, are you . . .
definitely
straight? If you’re not attracted to men, that would explain this.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, I’m attracted to men. I’m just not attracted to pretentious, arrogant ones.”

His amusement is back. “Me, arrogant?”

“Yes,
you
. Like the only way a woman wouldn’t want to screw you is because she’s gay. Look up arrogance in the dictionary, and you’ll see a picture of yourself with that shit-eating grin on your face.”

“Is arrogance before or after
uptight
in the dictionary?”

My hand instinctively wraps around the smooth handle of my knife. “Did you seriously just say that to me? Your game needs some serious work.”

“My game’s never been a problem with other women.”

“Other women are probably impressed by your money and swagger. I’ve lived a privileged life before. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

I hold his gaze, my chin tilted up, as I wait for his next comeback. But instead, he just studies me silently.

“Tell me what you want,” he finally says.

I want him to stop looking at me that way. Like what I want matters. Like this is a regular date or something. I want his leather and cologne scent not to smell so damn good. I want his eyes to be less blue and his shoulders not so broad. A man with nearly a foot and probably a hundred pounds on me should have me feeling more cautious than I do right now.

“I want to do whatever I need to so you’re . . . satisfied and I can leave.”

“Satisfied?” He pauses, his eyes still on mine, and I’m wondering how he can communicate such intensity without words. “I’m very intrigued by you, Quinn. What would satisfy me is to learn more about you over a bottle of good wine.”

“The deal was sex.”

He nods. “If you’d prefer that, let’s get started.” He reaches for his belt buckle and unfastens it, pulling on one end until it quickly snakes all the way through the loops on his pants. “Go ahead and get undressed and lay down on the couch. Legs spread. And hold on to your ankles.”

I swallow hard. Damn, this is harder than I thought it would be. Neither sex nor sharing personal information appeals to me at the moment.

“Fine,” I concede. “Okay. We’ll talk, and I’ll try to choke down some wine.”

My surly tone makes him smile slightly. “What would you prefer?”

“Something hot would be good. Coffee or tea.”

“Are you cold?”

I shake my head, too proud to tell him a hot drink is a rare treat for me. I mostly drink water from public drinking fountains.

“Chai tea,” he says, walking over to a high kitchen cabinet and opening it.

I study his back as he does. He’s exceptionally tall and broad—I dread running into men his size in the tunnels. They hit hard and are usually impossibly strong. I learned quickly it’s best to evade men that big rather than fight them.

“How tall are you?” I ask, sliding into a chair at his square, wood kitchen table.

“Six two.”

“Tall parents?”

He nods slightly as he pulls a stainless tea kettle from a cabinet. “My dad was six three.”

“Was? How long has he been gone?”

“I was thirteen when he died.”

He’s looking down at the kettle as he fills it at the kitchen sink, but I can hear from the tension in his voice that the wound still feels raw for him. Something in me softens because never would I have imagined that I had anything in common with a man like him, but I do.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “My dad died when I was thirteen.”

He meets my gaze from across the room. “I’m sorry. What happened?”

“He had stomach cancer.” I shake my head sadly at the memories. “It was awful. What about your dad?”

“9/11.”

“Oh.” My heart goes out to Andrew in a new way. “So you never got to say good-bye?”

His lips set in a tense line. “No. Not even a real funeral. His remains were never identified.”

“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

Andrew shrugs and switches on the gas burner of his wide, stainless range, setting the tea kettle on it. “It’s been fourteen years now. I’m fine.”

“I’m not,” I admit. “I miss my dad so much it hurts. Every day.”

“What about your mom? Is she still around?”

I blow out a breath. “As far as I know.”

“Not close to your mom, I take it. Where did you live before you found yourself on the streets?”

“I can’t talk about that.”

His brow furrows. “You can’t? Or won’t?”

“Won’t,” I concede.

“Okay. Well, how about the sibling you mentioned earlier? Brother or sister? Older or younger?”

I shake my head. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Favorite kind of sandwich?”

I smile at the glimmer in his dark blue eyes. “Grilled cheese. You?”

“Pastrami on rye.”

“My turn. How many women have you done this with?”

“Talked about my favorite sandwich, you mean?” His tone is light as he gets up to retrieve the kettle from the stovetop.

“Ha-ha. Paid for sex.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds.

“Too personal?” I ask.

He turns to look at me. “No. I’m adding it up. It’s . . . twelve, I think.”

“Wow. And you don’t worry about knocking someone up or catching something?”

“Not at all. The blood test, remember?”

I nod. “Right. And I assume you wear condoms.”

Andrew clears his throat as he walks to his stainless refrigerator, which is at least eight feet wide. “Ah . . . yes.”

“What was that?” I ask.

“What was what?”

“You’re hiding something. What is it?”

I see him smiling as he pours splashes of milk into the mugs with tea bags and hot water. He stirs in some sugar and sets the tea bags in an empty mug. I can smell the sweet cinnamon aroma of the drink as he carries it over.

“I’ll tell you if you really want to know,” he says.

“I do.” I pick up the mug and take a test sip. The hot, spicy, sweet tea warms me all over as it slides down my throat. “That’s really good.”

He nods slightly in acknowledgment of the compliment before speaking. “I usually only have . . . particular kinds of sex.”

I set the mug down, eyes wide with surprise. “Oh . . . I see. So oral and . . . ?”

He smiles sheepishly. “Yes.”

“Oh, shit,” I say softly. “That’s . . . never happening with me.”

Andrew shrugs. “We all have our kinks, Quinn.”

“Is that yours?” I wrap my hands around the mug and grip it.

“I like sex in all its forms. And some women like it, too. It also tends to be less emotional for them, which is a plus.”

“Ugh.” I cringe. “I wouldn’t do that for any amount of money. I’d rather starve.”