“No.” He said, this time a little more firmly, pronounced.

“Hmm…” I surveyed him for a long moment and we entered into an old fashioned staring contest. He had an unfair advantage because I was, basically, intoxicated.

Finally I spoke, “Why did you escort me out?”

He flexed his jaw even though his eyes were lit with mischief and a Mona Lisa smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, “How many cards do you need?”

“Don’t avoid the question-”

“I’m not. But, for the record,” he placed three of his cards in the discard pile and took three from the top of the deck, “I know you were watching me too.”

I blinked at him, “Watching you?”

He nodded, his eyes narrowed wickedly, “In the lobby, hiding behind plants. You would come down with your lunch and watch me while I worked.”

Button pushed, I blushed to my ears and quietly turned my attention to my cards. After a long moment I gave him all four but the ace. I felt like I’d been caught with my hand down my pants, feeling both embarrassed but pleased that he’d noticed and seemed to like it.

“I wasn’t watching you.” I mumbled.

“Yes- yes you were.”

I glanced at him for a brief moment, found him watching me with a look that bordered on menacing, then smashed my lips together to keep from smiling.

“You better have an ace.” He handed me four new cards.

“I have an ace.” I plucked them from his outstretched hand, careful not to touch him, “Do you want to see it?”

“Oh, I’ll see it soon enough.”

I glanced up from my new cards and met Quinn’s steady gaze with an unsteady one of my own.

Smolder, schmolder. His eyes held such an intensity of promise I wondered if it would be best just to forfeit and strip na**d now. I knew the only way I was going to win this game was to cheat.

My main problem was that I wasn’t sure I wanted to win.

CHAPTER 20

I glared at him.

Through my bottle of wine induced haze I’d been counting cards; so I knew he’d been cheating for the last few hands. But, I couldn’t admit to counting cards otherwise I would have to admit that had been cheating the whole time. Also, I was down to my underwear, tank top, bra, and one sock. Meanwhile, he had his tie- no shirt- boxer briefs, and one sock.

This last hand meant that we were tied.

He laughed, shuffling the cards, his blue eyes actually dancing with merriment; “So, sock or shirt?”

I was still sitting on the floor with my back to the bed; he was sitting on the couch and the ottoman was between us, sill serving as a table.

I thought about which article of clothing to remove even as I let my eyes move over his chest approvingly. I’d been dreaming about that torso for weeks, ever since he made his shirtless, just showered entrance the morning of my hangover. I’d thought about what I wanted to do when or if I actually had it within my possession.

I blinked, hard, and tried to focus on the foot-stool we were using as a table. I pressed my thighs together for no reason whatsoever and ignored the building warmth in my lower belly.

Quinn’s soft voice pulled me from my mounting aimless frenzy, “Janie… sock or shirt?”

I met his gaze abruptly and wondered if he knew what I’d been thinking; but looking at his face was almost worse. We were two minutes away from midnight. He wore a very serious expression and his eyes were freaking smoldering again, moving between mine with what felt like violent concentration.

I huffed impatiently. “Fine. Neither.”

He raised a single eyebrow, “Neither?”

I tilted my head to the side, removing my gaze from his, allowing my hair to curtain my face, and leaned forward, pulling my bra straps from my shoulders and through my arms. Then I unclasped the bra and, like magic, pulled the white lacy brazier from my body without removing my shirt.

Never mind that my shirt was a thin, white, tank top which was basically see-through. I didn’t want him thinking he’d won just yet or that he could guess my moves. I was quickly learning that a bottle of wine convinced me of all sorts of fantastical things, not the least of which was that I had moves.

I tossed the bra over my shoulder, leaned back against the side of the bed.

“Ok, deal the cards.” I said without looking at him, he was too distracting. Instead, I pulled fingers though my hair as I stretched and arched my back.

I heard his breath catch.

I looked up.

His eyes were no longer smoldering; they were now suddenly and forcefully ablaze and he was gritting his teeth, watching me as I stretched. His look told me I was steak and he was a tiger and that made me dinner and dessert.

“You shouldn’t do that.” The dark heat in his gaze, set of his jaw, and white knuckles of his fists betrayed the force of his concentration. He was concentrating… really, really hard.

I stilled my movements and froze mid-stretch, “Do what?”

“That.” His words were ragged, “Don’t do that unless you’re finish playing with me.”

I licked my lips, finding them suddenly dry and my eyes moved hungrily over his form.

In truth, in that moment, I didn’t remember what we were playing for, which may have explained why I suddenly no longer had any desire to continue to the game.

Then again it could have been the impaired judgment.

I let my hands fall gradually to the carpet on either side of my thighs, my hair crashed over my shoulders and down my back. I licked my lips again, watching him and his tightly reigned reaction with wide eyes. Slowly, slowly I righted myself to my knees and, without plan or forethought, pushed the ottoman to one side. Despite what I thought were measured movements, the cards spilled off the makeshift table and on to the floor.

His eyes followed me with intensely guarded attentiveness as he sat perfectly still on the couch. I crawled over to him and knelt between his legs. I lifted then rested my hands lightly on his bare thighs for balance. He flinched when my skin made contact with his.

“Quinn.” I whispered his name. I don’t know why I was whispering but I suspected that my vocal chords were incapable of cooperating, “Quinn-”

Abruptly, he wrapped the long fingers of one hand around my neck and, before I could think or react, he dragged his mouth over mine then ransacked. He was fervent and wet and hot and the warmth in my stomach fluttered and twisted until the pressure between my thighs started to ache. I pressed my knees together again and clenched, flexing my thigh muscles.

His mouth pulled away from mine and began alternately biting and sucking and kissing my neck, the scruff of his eighteen-hours-between-shaves was pleasurably painful and each skillful stroke of his tongue soothed the scratches left by the stubble.

I closed my eyes against the sensations and then his hands and his mouth were everywhere at once and I think I lost consciousness.

Let me clarify that last statement: I think my alcohol-saturated forebrain lost the ability of conscious thought but my lower brain- the Id, the part that is associated with automatic responses and instinct and pleasure seeking behaviors and wanting ice cream for dinner every night- that part may have slipped my forebrain benzopines so it could assume control and have its way with my body. For purposes of simplicity, I will call that part of my brain Ida.

And Ida did have her way with my body. Let me make that perfectly clear.

On the long, long journey to the bed, Ida had her way on the couch and the floor and the dresser; at one point Ida had her way against the wall.

For maybe the first time ever in my life my mind spent a significant amount of time not wandering because it couldn’t engage or gain any traction. All forebrain surfaces were slippery; everything and nothing was distracting at once. I was so focused on the moment, on the feeling and sensation of being with and over and next to and under and against Quinn.

I was crushed and grabbed and stroked and admired and savored and, by God, aroused. I was aroused like it was going out of style and on sale. At one point I thought it was going to sever me in two and I panicked in much the same way a feral animal panics when approached with unfamiliar kindness.

But, to my wonderment, Quinn seemed to innately comprehend what I needed; when I required tenderness and when I craved… not tenderness. He calibrated his movements, caresses, and kisses as the counterpoint to desires I had no idea existed within me but which, now, I was certain I could never live without. And, with one arresting look, one devastatingly raw gaze which stole my breath and held me captive, one moment of connection, he made me fearless.

The jarring part, because there is one, is that Quinn seemed to be just as lost as I was and my body, my hands, my mouth, and my eyes seemed to know how to be his counterpoint, how to reassure and ignite and move and respond. If my forebrain were engaged I’m sure I wouldn’t have recognized this suddenly fearless creature who found boldness and bravery and shed cowardice within the dreamy chaotic perfection of physical intimacy.

When Ida- seemingly sated, satisfied, and smug- allowed the curtain to be pulled back- albeit briefly- we were collapsed against each other in a Chinese knot of limbs and sheets. I was slightly less drunk on alcohol, but a great deal drunker on the euphoria that, apparently, accompanies mind-blowing sex.

Ida whispered in my ear that Quinn felt warm and good and very, very right. I nodded at this assertion even as a small pain originating in my heart made it suddenly hard to breathe. I suppressed the sensation, swallowed it, put it on a shelf to think about later.