AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I’m not thinking about cleaning up after Mom last night.
I’m thinking about pinning Quinn to the wall and making her come.
There are no cracks in my smile.
Period.
“It’s open.” I try to make my voice even, but I don’t get all the way there. Like it’s obvious how much this tugs at the strings holding me together.
That isn’t happing.
I’m not going there.
“So it is.” Quinn steps inside. She pushes the door closed behind her. Clicks the lock. Smooths her red dress.
The soft fabric hugs her perfect tits and her narrow waist. It flows over her lush hips.
It begs for my hands.
I need that fabric against my skin.
I need that dress on the floor.
I need my thoughts gone.
Shit, I’m using sex the way my idiotic brother used alcohol.
But I guess that’s nothing new.
“Shoes off?” She motions to the row of sneakers by the door.
“Up to you.”
“You sure?” She turns. Bends to study the shoes. “Seems like you went to a lot of effort to not track dirt all over the place.”
“Still up to you.”
She nods and slips out of her cork sandals. Her bare feet pad the ground as she crosses the living room. “You’re kinda ruining my outfit here.”
“Am I?”
She motions from her head to her toes. “They pulled the whole thing together.”
“You look fucking amazing.”
“Yeah?” Her voice is soft. Insecure.
It’s ridiculous. Quinn always looks polished. Like a magazine photo come to life. “You doubt it?”
“I guess I picture you with a different type of girl.”
“What type is that?” I ask.
“Well…” Her expression gets sheepish. “More aggressively sexual.”
“Fishnets and fuck me heels?”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
“You think I like trashy chicks?”
She tries a coy shrug. Doesn’t get all the way there.
“Brutal.”
“Sorry. But it’s the impression you give.”
I shrug like I don’t mind. Usually, I don’t. Usually, I cultivate my careless playboy image.
I want to be that guy.
I don’t want to care.
Caring hurts too fucking much.
Quinn’s eyes flare with something, some realization, but she keeps her lips zipped. She turns to the kitchen. Surveys the pan currently sautéing garlic. “What are you making?”
“Not sure.” I never really think about what I’m making. Or what I’m doing for that matter. I listen to my gut. It usually works out.
“It smells good.”
“Garlic always does.”
She crosses to the kitchen. Gets close enough to the pan to watch the bulbs sizzle. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Start cooking without any idea what you’ll make?”
“I have some idea.”
“Yeah?” Her eyes fill with curiosity. She’s genuinely fascinated by my thought process.
It’s weird feeling under scrutiny. But her attention is still flattering. “Something that’s good with garlic.”
Her laugh is soft. Honest. “But… how do you know it will be good?”
“I don’t.”
She stares at me like I’m crazy.
“Figuring it out is the part that’s fun.”
Her fingertips skim the counter. “But what if you can’t figure it out?”
“I do.”
Again, she stares at me like I’m crazy.
“You never cook without a plan?”
She shakes her head. “Last time I tried… have you ever combined garlic, cinnamon, and charred chicken breast?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Don’t. It’s not good. And, no matter how many times you tell yourself ‘all these ingredients are in curry,’ it’s still awful.” Her eyelids flutter closed as she inhales the scent. “I wish I could do that.”
“Go off plan?”
She nods. “It’s just… it doesn’t work.”
“You’ve done okay.”
Her brow knits with frustration. “I guess so.”
“You’re starting med school in four weeks.”
“Three and a half.”
“You’re not happy about that?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I mean, I am. It’s a good plan. I just wish…” She turns to the stove. “This is really sizzling.”
It is.
“You should probably add to it.”
I take a step toward her. “You have any requests?”
“No.” Her fingertips skim the counter. “Whatever is fine. I’m not sure I’ll eat much.” She swallows hard. “I’m a little nervous.”
“I’ll send you home with the leftovers.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“Oh.”
“You’re not used to people taking care of you?” I ask.
“Is that what you do?”
“Like this? Yeah.” I take a spot in front of the stove. Next to her.
“You’re taking care of me?”
“You prefer calling it something else?”
Her eyes flit to me. “Are you always like this?”
“Always?”
“With other women?”
I’m not sure exactly what she’s getting at, but I might as well set the record straight. This is fun. I want both of us to have fun. But it has to end there. “I show women a good time.”
“Is that all?”
“What else would there be?”
Her brow furrows as she turns over my words. She nods, accepting them, then she moves closer. Close enough her hip brushes mine. “Can I help?”
“I don’t know. Can I trust you near cinnamon?”
Her lips curl into a half-smile. “Probably not.”
“How about you pick out wine?”
“You have options?”
“A red and a white.”
She laughs. “I have to know what we’re making.”
“Yeah?”
“There are rules for wine.”
I arch a brow.
She blushes. “They’re more of guidelines. Flavors that go together.”
