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He scrapes his nails against my inner thighs. This tiny, perfect hint of pain. Enough to wake up my nerves. To remind me he’s in control.
To remind me I’m his.
I mean, I’m not.
Not yet.
But, God, I want to be.
Wes winds me up with every flick of his tongue.
Pleasure collects in my core.
It gets tighter and tighter.
Until it’s almost too much to take.
Until it is too much to take.
With the next flick of his tongue, I unfurl.
My world goes white.
Nothing but this soft, beautiful, blissful light.
Like his t-shirt.
And my walls.
And the sky on a cloudy morning.
I groan his name as I come.
He licks me through my orgasm, then he pulls back, and he looks up at me like I’m everything he wants.
And for the first time, I believe it.
This is possible.
We’re possible.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Quinn
Wes stretches his arms over his head. His t-shirt slides up his torso.
My gaze goes straight to his taut stomach.
He’s beautiful.
He really is.
He yawns. Blinks twice. Looks straight to me. “Good morning, angel.”
“Good morning.” My lips curl into a smile. My heartbeat picks up. My skin buzzes. He’s half-naked in my apartment. Mornings don’t get better than this. “You want coffee?”
“You have coffee?”
“Instant.”
His nose scrunches in distaste.
“We can go out and get something.”
“Out?” He raises a brow.
I nod.
He gives me a long, slow once-over. “You gonna change into something else?”
I smooth my short nightgown. “I can’t wear this.”
“Then we can’t go out.”
“You’re choosing me over coffee?”
“You’re better than coffee.”
My cheeks flush. It’s flirting, not a declaration of love, but after last night…
Everything is different.
We’re possible.
This is possible.
Maybe it’s a remote possibility—can I really walk away from my life or ask him to walk away from his—but it’s there.
“How about I make you tea?” I offer.
He nods sure then moves straight to me.
His hands brush my palms. My wrists.
He pulls me into a tight hug.
One hand goes to the back of my head. The other goes to my waist.
His lips connect with mine.
It’s a soft, slow kiss.
Then it’s deeper. Harder. Hotter.
My chest warms.
My sex aches.
I need more of him.
All of him.
Nine days.
I have nine days to decide to jump.
Or nine days left with him.
No pressure.
My thoughts dissolve as his tongue slips into my mouth.
When he releases me, I’m shaking.
“Fuck, angel, you’re too good at that.” He keeps one arm around my waist as he leads me into the kitchen. “This tea stuff—”
“This tea stuff?”
“That a problem?”
“You need to show a little respect.”
I nod. “Oh?”
I nod. Fill the electric kettle with water. Turn it on. “What if I referred to your twenty-dollar-a-pound beans as ‘this coffee stuff’?”
“Dunno. Maybe you should try.”
“Maybe you respect quality.” I rise to my tiptoes to reach the high shelf. This is it. The good stuff. The rich, malty Assam I can barely afford.
His fingers brush mine as he takes the tin. “This is the good stuff?”
“The best.”
“Any booze in it.”
“You need a drink this early?” I tease.
He smiles, but there’s something in his eyes. This frustration. From last night. His mom.
We still haven’t talked about that.
Should we talk about that?
I want to help him.
I just don’t know how.
Is it better to give him space or demand a discussion?
If it was me…
I don’t know.
Maybe I should just ask him what I should ask him.
“How do we make this good stuff?” His voice bounces back to his usual teasing tone, but there’s still something in his eyes.
Or maybe I’m getting better at reading him.
“It’s much easier than coffee.” Okay, it’s more that I’m incapable of making halfway decent coffee. I pull the teaspoon from the drawer. Then the tea strainer. “One teaspoon per six ounces.”
His fingers brush mine as he takes the metal utensil.
“Steep for five minutes.”
“That’s it?”
“There are subtleties.”
“Yeah?”
I nod.
He places his body behind mine. Wraps his arms around my waist. Rests his head in the crook of my shoulder. “What kind of subtleties?”
Mmm. What are we talking about again?
“Quinn?”
“Yeah?”
“Sorry, am I distracting you,” he teases.
“Mhmm.”
“That a no or a yes?”
“Uh…”
“Or maybe a don’t stop?”
“That one.” It flits through my brain. He’s deflecting with sex because he doesn’t want to deal with this. But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I like sex. He likes sex. There’s no urgency to this issue. We can… Uh…
His fingers skim the hem of my nightgown. “I have an idea.”
“The water temperature.”
“Huh?”
“It needs to be boiling for black tea. That’s, the, uh—”
He slips his hand beneath my nightgown.
“The subtlety.”
“Oh.” He drags his fingertips up my inner thigh. “I like subtlety.”
“Wes,” I breathe.
“Yeah?”
“Do we need to talk?”
“Do you need to talk?”
“No.” I’m losing interest in conversation quickly. “But if you do—”
“Not right now.”
“Okay.” My eyelids flutter closed. “But soon.”
“That a demand or a request?”
“The first one.”
“I like you demanding, angel.”
“Thank you.”
He draws circles on my skin as he scoops tea into the strainer. Then as he pours the boiling water.
“You only have five minutes,” I say.
