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I switch hands, bringing the ice to her other nipple and applying more pressure, rubbing the perfectly peaked bud until she cries out. I drop the ice. “Shit.”
“Quinn,” she pants my name. “Stop fucking around and give me what I need, or this is going to take all night.”
“You’re not making this easy,” I say, then bite my tongue. “Sorry. Not your fault. I’m just trying to respect you through this.”
She releases an anxious laugh. “Always a saint. Even when a girl is begging for it.”
My brow furrows. There’s no reasoning with her. Not right now. But later, when she comes down, she’ll probably hate my fucking guts for this. I ring out the cloth and place it over her chest, giving myself some kind of a barrier, at least.
Then, sending the last of my inhibitions to hell, I take her tits in my hands. She arcs into me as I caress her, and I hate myself but god—her breasts feel so damn good. Even through the infuriating rag, they’re damn perfect. Heavy and full, with her silky nipples pebbling against the wet cloth. Right under my touch.
She relaxes again, her hand working eagerly beneath her underwear to get her there, while I rub my thumbs over her nipples, offering her as much stimulation as I can without losing my mind.
Only it’s too damn late for that.
Right here, right this second, everything changes. That wall that keeps me safely guarded comes crashing down, and I’ll never be able to desire another woman the way I desire Avery right now.
The want will kill me.
Just as I begin to crack, my sanity past the brink, Avery releases a sexy moan, her body trembling. Her thighs spread wide as she rolls her hips higher, her pussy thrusting eagerly as she breaks against her hand.
The sight of her has me pinching her nipples, just as desperate to feel her relief crash into me. I’m too close. My balls tighten, my cock ramrod straight and pulsing, but I rein it in. A growl rips loose as I clutch her tits, watching her milk the rest of her orgasm.
She falls limp against me, her hand sliding free of her underwear, and all I can think about is tasting those slick fingers. Shit. Not letting her get too comfortable, I say, “Avery, roll over.”
Her body is spent. She groans but allows me to roll her onto her side. I jump off the couch with a harsh curse at my aching balls. I push at my rock-hard erection as I locate her bathroom.
Then I lock myself the fuck inside.
Bracing my hands on the marble counter, I heave deep breaths. I can’t look at myself in the mirror. Fucking saint. She has no idea.
I flip the tap on and splash my face with cold water, thinking about grabbing some more ice to pack against my throbbing dick. Just the thought of lowering my zipper is too tempting, though. If I unleash myself now, I’ll wear my cock out.
And there won’t be any forgiving myself for jerking off to Avery’s pain. Hot as hell…but I won’t be that sick fuck.
Inhaling deeply, I can still smell her scent all over me. I tear my shirt off and press my back against the cool paneling of the door, praying like hell she’s sated when I leave this room. As much as I want to help her, I won’t be able to endure that torture again.
I do the only thing I can: I envision the bastards who did this to her, mentally putting my fist through their faces, and that swift bite of anger checks me.
When I’m composed enough to enter the living room, I almost collapse from relief. Avery’s eyes are closed, and though she’s suffering a fitful sleep, she’s out. I settle on the floor near her, so I can listen to her shallow breathing. Making sure she stays safe through the night.
13
Surrender
Avery
The piercing shriek of the kettle assaults my head. I trip over my feet on my way to flip off the stove burner. After I move the kettle aside, I bury my temples against my palms, resting my elbows on the counter for support.
A hangover I can deal with. But this is a whole other level of day after dejection.
I plop a green tea bag into my cup and pour steaming water over it. Then I think better and make a second cup. I owe Quinn a hell of a lot more than a stupid cup of tea, but it’s a start.
I feel his heady presence before I turn to see him standing in the entryway of the kitchen.
Our eyes lock, silence stretching out between us like a gulf. And I should feel desperate to fill it, but a strange comfort settles over me that he’s still here. That he didn’t fling himself out the door at the first ray of light.
His white dress shirt hangs open, black tie left undone, matching the unkempt look of his unruly hair. Which is the first time I can say I’ve ever seen Quinn out of sorts. My gaze roams lower to the tattooed words peeking from beneath his unbuttoned shirt. A quote covers the upper-right side of his chest. I first noticed it when I saw him stretched out on the floor this morning, but I still can’t make out the words clearly.
