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Was someone else here? Jesus, the only thing worse than being discovered by Quinn Rusek alone would be getting caught in his closet in front of some girl he’d brought home to fork in the shower.
Quinn Rusek was one fine piece of man candy, and I had a sweet tooth for him that wouldn’t quit.
What an asshole. A hot asshole—the worst kind.
Curse you, Alex, and your generous heart. And curse you, Quinn, for getting under my skin again. You stay away from me. But a traitorous little part of me hoped he wouldn’t. (Bet you can guess which part.)
I hadn’t seen her in a while, but sometimes being with someone from your past is like going home again. No matter how long it’s been, you don’t forget the way.
“What the hell is that? Your Flynn Ryder smolder?”
“Oh, you're one of those,” I teased. “One of those what?” “One of those people who believe men and women can’t be friends.” Leaning back against the counter opposite the fridge, I took another drink. “At least, not if they’re attracted to one another.”
“I suppose it’s hard to have a serious girlfriend what with young women throwing themselves at you all the time.” I nodded. “And older women too. Don’t forget them.”
“Maybe I want to take you on a date.” She made a face. “I’m not going on a date with you.” “Why not? My mom said I’m a good catch.”
I bet she’s a firecracker in bed. I bet she likes to be on top and call the shots, which I’d happily allow her to do, but that also means it would be an even bigger challenge—and maybe even more fun—to subdue her.
When I kissed her—and I was going to kiss her—it was going to be on my terms.
I wanted her to come to me and admit she felt that spark. I wanted her to give me another chance. I wanted to do things differently with her. But first, I wanted to make her sweat a little. Then I wanted to make her sweat a lot.
“He says he wants to be friends.” “Friends?” “Friends. But fuck that. I’m not going to be his friend,” I said stubbornly.
“I’m going to ignore him until he goes away.” “Good plan. That always works when you have a crush on someone.” “I don’t have a crush on him!” “No, no. I’m sorry, sweetie. Of course you don’t.”
It took me a long time to fall asleep that night, imagining him beneath me. (And I do mean right beneath me.) Even a realist has to dream sometimes.
I needed to focus. I needed to figure him out. Then I needed a strategy to make him want me. I’d get my fill of him—literally—and then he could be on his way. Out of my house, out of my head, out of my life.
If I’m going to stalk him, I might as well do it right.
“I never said I didn’t want to fuck you.” She pretended to think, tapping her lips. “Hmmm. I guess it was implied when you walked out of my apartment without even kissing me.”
“You think I’ll want to have sex with you as a prize? I’ll play your little game, Quinn Ryder. I’m no chicken. But the size of your ego is staggering.” “That’s not the only thing.”
“You know what I want.” “Well then, maybe we can come to some sort of agreement…” His eyes flicked to the bed. “On this bargaining table here.”
“I can’t think if you touch me like that.” I wrapped my legs around him, my heart pounding. “Thinking is overrated. What do you say we just feel our way through this?”
For me, the best part about sex is the aggression of it. The chase, the climb, the race for the prize.
It’s like, when you’re young, you can’t wait to get away from home, and it’s only later that you appreciate what your mom—or dad, or whoever raised you—did for you. Only later that you realize you should have listened closer, that you weren’t done learning from them, that you still have questions about life.”
And Quinn was so beautiful, this view was like none I’d ever seen before. Fucking stellar. His bone structure was ridiculous. Also his boner structure.
All I’d wanted was a little man candy, and he was offering me an entire meal.
“Candlelight? A wine bucket? Who are you?” I teased. “This is way too romantic for the Jaime Owens I know.” She smiled and shrugged. “I like candlelight, what can I say? And I’m serious about my wine. I can’t help it if it’s romantic.”
That’s what happens when women fall in love, though. They lose themselves. They lose perspective. They lose control over their own happiness.
“Funny? My dick is funny to you?” Yes, jokes were good. Jokes would distract me. “I’m sorry, let me try again.” She peeked at it. “You’re right. It’s a very serious cock. Very no-nonsense. Businesslike. Maybe even presidential.”
“Are you OK?” He lifted his chest off me and looked down. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to crush you.” “You’re not. Come back.” I pulled on his shoulders. “I wasn’t suffocating, I was sniffing you.”
All my rules were broken. All my walls were down. I slept alone that night.
I was in love with him. I was in love with him. How had I let this happen? I had to fix this. Now.
“You’re right about serious relationships not being all hearts and flowers and orgasms, Jaime. That’s falling in love. Over time, it’s not that anymore. It takes work. It takes trust and sacrifice and faith in something you can’t see. It means sticking the fuck around when you’re scared or tempted or angry. It’s knowing that someone has your back and will be there at the end of your best days and your worst. It’s understanding that you’re part of something bigger than yourself, and fighting for it.
“There is no secret. There is no magic, Jaime. No way to tell what the future looks like. The point is that you’re willing to take the chance anyway. You’re willing to say, I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I know I want you with me on this journey.”
‘Jaime, there is no secret. There is no magic. There is no way to know what the future holds. The point is that you’re willing to take a chance.’”
“It’s a feeling, followed by a choice made in the face of chaos and uncertainty: I don’t know where this road will take me, but I want you by my side on the journey.”
