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I want to pull her close and whisper hell yes, baby, I’m dying to be your first in her ear.
But she’s already terrified.
I need to take this slow.
It’s impossible.
I’ve dreamed about fucking Quinn since we were teenagers. Our parents were college friends. They got together every year to catch up. They always brought us along.
I thought she was too smart for me.
That there was no way prim, proper Quinn Thorn would give me the time of day.
Now she’s asking me to take her virginity.
Fuck, I’m already losing touch with conscious thought.
My body is raring to go.
The phone dings as a Prius pulls up to the curb.
“Noon to one.” I pull the door open for her. “You know the address?”
She nods. “Everyone knows where Inked Hearts is.”
I shoot her an incredulous look.
She returns a sheepish smile. “I can’t consider a tattoo?”
“You have to make me a promise, Quinn.”
“Yeah?”
“You’ll go to me first.”
“Of course.”
I offer my hand.
She shakes.
She’s talking about that tattoo.
But that’s not where my head goes.
Happy fucking birthday.
I pound another shot.
Griffin pats my back. “Drinking your way to alcoholism.”
I flip him off. The guy is my best friend, but he’s not exactly possessing tact. He says whatever flits through his mind. No matter how rude.
I mean, he’s rarely wrong.
But he could watch the phrasing.
Yeah, my brother Hunter is celebrating one year sober while I drink myself stupid.
But hey, Hunter isn’t here.
Griffin takes a swig of his beer. “You enjoying any of this?”
There are a dozen people downing shots. I like three of them. Barely know the rest.
It’s normal party shit.
But after Quinn’s request—
This isn’t fun.
Or thrilling.
Or intoxicating.
No, that’s on point.
I lost track a few drinks ago, but I know enough to know I’m drunk.
Despite my family history (Mom has a problem too, but she’s far from admitting it), I’m not a lush.
I drink a lot, sure, but only at parties or when I’m enjoying the taste.
I don’t need it to numb some deep-seated pain.
Or cure some emptiness.
There’s no fucking emptiness.
Just—
There isn’t a fullness either.
Fuck, I sound like Griffin.
I’m not going there.
It’s my birthday.
Quinn Thorn wants me to pop her cherry.
This is a cause for celebration.
I motion to the guy with the bottle of bourbon. Jim Beam. The shit Hunter used to drink.
It doesn’t taste like a good time anymore.
It tastes like disappointment and bitterness and everything getting fucked-up.
“Fuck, you’re in a mood.” Griffin brushes a dark strand behind his hair.
“Fuck, you’re an asshole.” I swallow the rest of my drink. Which makes the room spin faster.
Too fucking fast.
This is my limit. Past my limit.
I need to slow down.
But there’s no way in hell I’m admitting that to Griffin.
“That’s why you love me?” he asks.
“In your dreams.”
“I know you do.” He reaches out and musses my hair. “I love you too.”
I slap his hand away.
He chuckles. “You’re too easy.”
“I try.”
He motions to the no longer occupied couch. It’s late—well past midnight—but the room is still packed.
Griffin plops on the couch. Folds one leg over the other. “You’re thinking about something.”
“I am not.”
“Yeah.” He holds up his beer. “Saw you talking to Quinn.”
“And?”
“And you’ve fucked yourself to her since you were a teenager.”
“You didn’t know me when I was a teenager.”
“I’ve heard things,” he says.
I flip him off.
He laughs, not at all bothered. “She’s cute.”
I study his expression. Try to see what he’s getting at.
But there’s no getting at with Griffin.
He says what he thinks.
“She’s fucking gorgeous,” I say.
“Maybe I’ll give her a call.” He takes a swig of his beer. “Since you’re not thinking about her.”
“Over my dead body.”
“What did she say?” he asks.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“I will. Later.”
“Jesus.”
He shrugs. “Got a girl begging for a video.”
I don’t need to know that.
“Think I’ll shoot it tonight.”
I really don’t need to know that.
His laugh gets louder. Heartier. “You can admit you have feelings.”
“Can we not do this?”
“What is this?” he asks.
“The thing where you make something dirty and beautiful into something sweet and disgusting.”
“Dirty how?” His interest perks. It’s hard to tell with Griffin—the guy is as steady as they come—but it’s there.
“None of your business, that’s how.”
“She wants to fuck you?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
His chuckle spills through the room. “You’re usually jumping to brag about a woman that hot wanting to fuck you.”
I shrug like I don’t care.
“You’re so full of shit.”
“Maybe I want to enjoy the thoughts in my head.”
“Maybe you actually like her.”
“Maybe you should go fuck yourself.”
“I can shoot the video here if you want.”
Gross.
“I hate to do it in the bathroom mirror, but she’s getting desperate.” He pulls out his cell and taps a text to his paramour.
I only catch a flash.
Fuck, sweetheart, you’re making me so hard. I’m gonna split you in half.
That’s too much information.
Way too much information.
“Put that thing away.” I motion to his phone.
“Funny, she’s asking me to take it out,” he says.
God dammit, I don’t need to hear this.
