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His fingers are still in my pants, and I mewl in satisfaction as each orgasm keeps improving.
Quinn slides his fingers out of me, and I miss him being inside. But as he places his fingers inside his mouth, the same two that were inside me, I whimper and turn a bright shade of pink.
“Mine. Every part of you is mine.”
I’m stunned by his confession and do the only thing I can do. I throw my arms around his neck and promise never to let go.
My back aches because something sharp digs into my spine, causing me to contort at an angle that cannot possibly be good for me. But I don’t care because I’m wrapped up in the arms of Quinn Berkeley.
I must have fallen asleep in his arms as it’s now daylight, and I don’t remember much after I clung to him like a spider monkey, never letting go.
I look at him closely as we are pretty much nose to nose, lying along the bench seat, arms and legs entwined, and wonder, how on earth do I tell him that I think I’m falling in love with him?
Just the thought of telling him has my heart pounding against my chest, but not because I’m afraid of him knowing. No. I’m afraid if I tell him, the feelings won’t be reciprocated. I know he cares for me, but love is a whole different ball game.
“Mornin’,” Quinn says huskily, his green eyes slipping open, stunning me with their vibrancy.“What time is it?”
I shrug, in awe of how someone can look this hot when they first wake up. “I’m not sure. Sometime after dawn.”
Quinn smirks and runs a hand through my hair.“You sleep okay?”
I nod.
“We should get moving,” he says, and he’s right because last night’s stop was an impromptu one.
“Sure. I gotta use the bathroom before we go,” I say, thankful I saw restrooms when I pulled in last night.
Quinn nods, letting out another yawn. “I’ll come with you.”
I’m about to protest, but he adds, “Don’t know what kind of country bugs are out here, hiding under the seats.”
I blanch and nod quickly, not eager to face these country bugs on my own.I fucking hate bugs.
“C’mon, boy,” I call out to Lucky, who lies on the floor, looking up at us, also desperate to make a pit stop.
The cold breeze slaps me in the face. It’s been quite cold in the South this winter. Being from LA, where we don’t get cold winters, I understand why people go nuts and celebrate the whole white Christmas thing. Playing in the snow and waking up to a real pine tree and eggnog on Christmas morning would be magical.
“Whatcha thinking about?” Quinn asks as we walk toward the restrooms, hand in hand.
“About Christmas,” I confess, turning to look at him shyly.
“Oh shit, it’s December already,” he says, stunned that Christmas is just around the corner. We’ve had other pressing issues to deal with—like not dying.
“Yeah. I was thinking about how I get the whole white Christmas thing. It would be nice sitting around an open fire, the smell of fresh pine needles engulfing the house while opening presents with loved ones,” I reply, lost in a fantasy.
“You’re big on Christmas, then?” Quinn asks, ducking so he doesn’t walk into a branch.
Tucking a lock of hair behind my ear, I shyly confess, “I’ve never really celebrated it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I was too busy playing Santa on Christmas morning, dealing a different kind of snow to crackheads to worry about anything else.”
Quinn nods, biting his lip. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s fine. You can’t miss what you’ve never had, right?”
Quinn squeezes my hand softly, and we walk to the restrooms in silence.
