Broken, p.11
Broken, page 11
“I didn’t notice anybody else that fit the description of hawt and had a black eye.” Sara was pretty sure that Quinn fit the definition of hawt down to a T. Hell, the guy could have written the definition.
He snorted, still staring straight ahead.
Sara wasn’t sure, but she thought he just might be blushing a little. There was the faintest red tinge along his high cheekbones.
Unable to resist, she hooked an arm through his and grinned up at him. “I heard rumors that you have a knack for making teenage hearts flutter.”
“What?” He scowled down at her.
“The girl across the street . . . Trilby, I think. Theresa says the girl’s got a thing for you.”
The red became more pronounced—oh, yeah. He was definitely blushing. “Trilby’s a kid.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t make her heart go pitter-pat.”
Quinn stopped in his tracks. Since she still had her arm hooked through his, she had to stop, too. Tipping her head back, she smiled up at him, watching as his brows drew together, as the blush spread across his tanned face.
“Pitter-pat?” he echoed.
“Yeah . . . you know, gets a little uneven, does a little racing, makes the blood rush . . . pitter-pat.”
She was messing with him, Quinn realized. It was written all over her expression—the gleam in her eyes, the wide grin on her face. Hell. He thought his heart was about to start doing some of that pitter-pat shit. He wasn’t used to people teasing him—other than Luke, and maybe Jeb on occasion, it wasn’t something people did. Not with him.
Reaching up, he caught Sara’s chin. Pressing his thumb against her lower lip, he said gruffly, “I’d be a lot more interested if it was your heart that was doing the pitter-pat thing.” Then he replaced his thumb with his mouth, kissing her quick and light.
Pulling away after two seconds took a hell of a lot of control. But he did it. As they started walking down the mall corridor, Sara sighed. He slid his hand down and caught hers. She twined their fingers and then glanced up at him. “Don’t worry, Quinn. You make my heart do that pitter-pat thing quite a bit.”
ONE of these days, he just might figure out the puzzle of Sara Davis, Quinn told himself.
One of these days.
She talked like she wanted him to keep his distance, then she flirted with him in the middle of the damn mall. Teasing him. Smiling at him. Making him smile.
She moved with the streetwise confidence of somebody who’d had her fair share of rough times, but then she gave money to a woman after a ten-second sob story. Quinn had no idea if the girl had truly needed the money or not. He had a pretty good bullshit radar, thanks to his mother—that woman had conned hundreds of people out of money.
But he’d been too focused on Sara’s response and hadn’t spent more than five seconds looking at the other woman.
She seemed determined to keep her distance from people, but right now, she was standing close to the checkout counter in the bookstore, talking with another woman about books. The other woman had picked up three books on Sara’s recommendation—Quinn could understand that. Sara had gotten very animated when she started discussing books, grinning, her eyes glowing.
How stupid was it to feel a little jealous of the fact that books made her smile like that?
He wanted to be responsible for putting a smile like that on her face.
Wanted to flirt with her, like she’d been flirting with him, but he was clueless about how to do it. Flirting too often struck him the same as small talk—a waste of time. Something two people used when they were trying to figure out if they wanted to roll around on the sheets together or not.
Quinn never saw the point of wasting the time—if he was attracted to a woman, he might want to sleep with her. Five minutes of conversation tended to answer that for him—if she talked so much it put him into a boredom-induced coma, or if the shit she talked about revolved around her hair, her clothes, her shoes, her makeup . . . well, he’d move on. He didn’t need to waste time flirting to figure it out.
But if he could figure out how to handle it, it wouldn’t feel like a waste with Sara. Not if he could make her smile. Not if he could get that soft look to come back into her eyes.
Hell. How fucking hard could it be? He doubted he’d be able to slip her a bunch of smooth lines . . . they’d twist and tangle on his tongue and he’d end up looking like an awkward loser. But there were other ways to flirt, right?
Idly, he glanced around the bookstore and wondered if they had something along the lines of Flirting for Dummies or The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Flirting with the Opposite Sex.
A man who knew how to disable bombs, build bombs, hotwire damn near any vehicle known to man could figure out how to flirt. He thought.
Of course, the tricky part was figuring out just how to do it.
He already knew he could make her laugh. Maybe he could just try to build on that. And of course while it became glaringly obvious to him that he was failing at the flirting, maybe it wouldn’t be too obvious to her.
HE made her laugh.
For some reason, Sara hadn’t expected that. Even though she’d spent enough time with him over the past week or so that she’d already glimpsed some of that dry, biting humor, it still managed to catch her by surprise.
Chuckling over the comment he’d made about a couple of kids walking by their booth, she leaned against the padded pseudo-leather back and smiled. The vivid color of his black eye had intensified, and she couldn’t imagine that it didn’t hurt, but he acted like he wasn’t even aware of it.
“So how exactly did that black eye happen?” she asked. The question slipped out before she could stop it. Damn it—getting curious wasn’t smart. She couldn’t afford to be curious.
“Told you . . . I got in somebody’s way.” He jerked a shoulder in a restless shrug. “The man wasn’t happy with me.”
“You got in somebody’s way.” She should have just let it go at that, but now she was even more curious. The faint smirk on his lips only added to her curiosity, too. It was like he was amused by the fact that he’d gotten hit over being in somebody’s way.
“Yeah.” The smirk widened a little and a wicked light started to gleam in his eyes.
“Come on, Quinn.” Sara rolled her eyes. “There’s more to it than that. I don’t see you as the kind of guy somebody would hit because you got in their way.”
“Maybe he didn’t like my attitude, or what I told him he could do with his complaints. Which was basically to fu—uh . . . shove it.”
Sara snickered. “I’ve heard the word before, Quinn.” The restaurant was fairly quiet, but she kept her voice low.
“My dad heard me talking that way around a lady, I’d never hear the end of it,” he said with another one of those restless shrugs.
“Your dad, but not your mom?”
His lip curled in a sneer. Something cold and flat flashed through his eyes. But his voice was level as he said, “No. Not my mom. She’s dead.”
“Oh . . . I’m sorry.” Looking down, she studied the scarred wooden surface of the table. “My mom died a few years ago. I still miss her.”
“I don’t miss my mother, Sara. We didn’t have a good relationship.”
The words were so flatly stated, so cold, so unemotional. And his eyes, they were like winter ice.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. What else could she say? She hurt for him, though. There was a story there, and it wasn’t a happy one.
Quinn sighed. It was a heavy sound, and when she looked back up, those wounds she’d glimpsed in his eyes were there again—naked misery, pain, loneliness. He scrubbed his hands over his face and then swore, wincing as he gingerly touched his bruised cheekbone. “Shit, I forgot about that.”
“I don’t see how.”
“I’ve been hit a time or two. Guess you get used to it after a while.”
Sara had her doubts about that—she wasn’t sure anybody could ever get used to having a mark put on them.
“I don’t talk about my mother. I don’t like thinking about her . . . and I don’t want you apologizing over any of it,” he said, his voice flat and hard.
The ache in her heart grew. Although he wouldn’t share any more than that, Sara sensed a world of pain hidden behind those emotionless words. But she knew how miserable it was to talk about painful subjects, especially when you wanted nothing more than to forget. Forcing a smile, she reached across the table and brushed her fingers over the back of his hand. “Then we won’t talk about her.”
The ice in his gaze melted away, replaced by an intensity that had her heart skipping a few beats. Eyes hooded, he studied her. He turned his hand over and caught hers, twined their fingers together. From under his lashes, he studied her and the look in his eyes was hot. Hot enough to sear, scorch, burn . . . He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the back of it.
“What would you like to talk about?” he whispered, his voice low and rough.
Part of her wanted to say You. If he didn’t want to talk about his mother, that was fine. She wanted to know more about him. But there were problems with that. That kind of conversation tended to be two-way. He’d expect her to talk about herself. She couldn’t do that.
Even though she had an entire story memorized, nice, simple, and pat, she didn’t want to give it to him. She didn’t want to lie to him.
“Who says we have to talk about anything?”
His lips trailed over her skin, left a sizzling, hot trail in their wake. “Always thought talking was overrated myself.”
Hell. He wasn’t kidding. Licking her lips, Sara tried not to whimper as he turned her wrist over and kissed the soft, sensitive flesh on the inside.
Shooting her a look, Quinn opened his lips and touched his tongue to her skin. She stared at him, her eyes half-closed, the warm velvety brown hot and sweet. Looking into her eyes made him think of melted chocolate, sweet and rich.
Up until recently, he hadn’t ever had much of a sweet tooth, but damn if he didn’t want a better taste of her. Raking his teeth over the soft skin of her wrist, he said gruffly, “You really shouldn’t look at me like that in a public place, Sara.”
“Look at you how?” she asked, her voice almost as hoarse as his own. She blinked at him, looking a little dazed.
Before he could answer, they heard a crash off in the distance, followed by the sound of breaking glass. As a few of the customers in the restaurant started to applaud, Quinn leaned back against the seat and slouched down.
“Like that,” he muttered. He shifted a little on the seat, uncomfortable. But there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it, not sitting in a public place, wearing a pair of jeans and sporting an erection so hard it hurt. “The way you’re looking at me now. It could get us both in all kinds of trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” Then she blushed, almost like she wished she hadn’t asked.
Quinn smiled. Glancing around, he slid out of the booth and settled down next to her, crowding her until she slid over a little. They were tucked away in the back corner of the restaurant, and since the group of teens had left a few minutes earlier, they were alone in the section. Keeping an ear out for their waiter, he bent over her and nuzzled her neck.
“You really want to know what kind of trouble?” he asked. Half of him prayed she’d spare him the strain on his sanity and tell him no. The other half was all but ready to beg her to say yes.
She slid him a look from the corner of her eye. “Something tells me I ought to say no. I already know you’re more trouble than I need right now.”
“You’ve said something like that before.” He laid a hand on her thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin through the jeans she wore. “If I went by what you say, I’d just have to keep my distance. But then you look at me like that’s the last thing you want.”
Therein lay the problem—him keeping his distance wasn’t at all what she wanted. She should just tell him, loud and clear, that she wasn’t going to sleep with him. That she really did need him to keep his distance. Then, once they got back to Theresa’s place, she needed to pack up her stuff and get the hell out of town. She’d already been here too long anyway.
Not to mention the fact that she was giving him all sorts of mixed signals. Telling him she needed to keep her distance from him, but then when he showed up again, did she do anything to dissuade him? Hell, no. It was like she wasn’t even capable of it.
Or rather, she didn’t want to be capable. She didn’t want him keeping his distance, she didn’t want him pulling back, and she didn’t want to ignore him, avoid him. And no way in hell did she want to leave.
Keeping her distance wasn’t working, even though she knew better than to get close. Getting close was dangerous, and the fact that something about him called to her shouldn’t matter. Couldn’t get close, couldn’t get involved, and couldn’t get attached.
It was too late.
She was already attached, and sometime soon she knew she was going to get a hell of a lot closer. She shivered as he stroked his thumb across her thigh. His lips feathered over her cheek as he waited for her answer. Tipping her head back, she stared at him.
“So which is it, Sara?” he asked, his gaze lingering on her mouth. “Do you want to know what kind of trouble you’re asking for?”
Sara was so tired of doing what her brain said was the right thing. The safe thing. The smart thing.
She wanted to listen to her body. Listen to her heart. So for the first time in ages, she let her heart, her body dictate her mouth. Smiling up at him, she whispered, “Why don’t you tell me what kind of trouble it is . . . then I’ll make up my mind.”
One of these days, my mouth is going to get me into trouble . . . too much of it. It just might be today, but she was going to enjoy every last second of it.
He hissed out a breath and then reached up, cupped her cheek. Stroking his thumb over her lower lip, he murmured, “Are you sure about that?”
Staring up into his eyes, she caught her lip between her teeth. Was she sure? No. She wasn’t. But she desperately, desperately needed to feel his hands on her. Feel that mouth on hers. Feel his body moving against hers.
She took a deep breath and then reached down, covered his hand with hers. His mouth twisted and he started to shift away, tried to tug his hand away. She wouldn’t let him. Pressing her hand down against his, she whispered, “I have no idea what I’m getting into, Quinn . . . but I’m absolutely positive I want to find out.”
His lids drooped low over his eyes and he sucked in a breath. That long, lean body tensed. When he lowered his head to kiss her, she tried to brace herself . . . it just wasn’t possible.
It wasn’t the sort of kiss a woman could brace herself for.
The sort of kiss that a man should give a woman in a public place.
The sort of kiss that should happen anywhere outside of a bedroom.
Because it left her wanting to strip out of her clothes, tear his away, and then climb on and ride him, ride him until that long, powerful body shuddered and quivered under hers.
His tongue rubbed against hers, teased and stroked. He nibbled at her lower lip, then sucked her tongue into his mouth and bit down. Sara groaned in her throat and arched closer. Much, much closer. Fisting a hand in the worn cotton of his T-shirt, she held on tight.
He crowded her against the padded back of the booth. The hand lying on her thigh slid higher, higher . . . Instinctively, she clenched her knees together, trapping his hand. He didn’t let that keep him from rubbing his fingers against her covered sex.
Her breath locked in her lungs. Painful need cramped her belly. She whimpered into his mouth.
He lifted his head and she gasped for air as he glanced around. When he looked back at her, his eyes were glittering, hot. Damn . . . who knew the color gray could smoke and burn like that?
“Spread your thighs for me,” he muttered, pressing his lips to her shoulder.
She blushed. She could feel the blood, hot and sudden, rising to her cheeks. “We’re in the middle of a restaurant,” she whispered.
“No . . . we’re tucked away in the corner in the back of a restaurant, and nobody is paying us any attention. The stupid waiter is more interested in talking on his cell phone, and nobody else is back here. I’ll hear anybody coming . . . now spread your thighs.”
There was no way in hell she was going to do that . . . except even as she thought it, she was shifting on the seat and easing her legs apart.
“Good girl.” He skimmed his lips along her shoulder, nuzzled her neck.
As good as his mouth felt, though, everything in her body was focused on his warm, hard hand. Resting on her thigh. Not moving. A few inches away from the one place she really wanted him to put that hand. Squirming around, she managed to inch a little closer.
Still, he didn’t move. That hand continued to rest just there, while he nuzzled her neck, nipped her earlobe.
“Damn it, Quinn.”
He laughed and then lightly, oh, so lightly, brushed the tips of his fingers against the denim covering her sex. So light, tauntingly so. Her breath escaped her in a shudder. Bracing her feet on the floor, she canted her hips higher and rubbed against that teasing hand.
Quinn stilled and once more he lifted his head.
Damn it, what is he doing looking around when I’m sitting there all but dying . . . oh. That was her last coherent thought. He covered her mouth with his, pressed the heel of his hand against her mound, lightly grinding it against her clit.
Deep inside, she was shaking. As he kept up that light, steady pressure, as he kissed her like he was gorging on her taste, the shaking spread outward until she was all but vibrating under his hands and mouth.
Too much.
Entirely too much.
Tearing her mouth away from his, she sucked in a desperate breath and whimpered. There was a scream building inside her—trapped inside her throat and begging for escape.
“Shhhh,” Quinn muttered. “Shhhh . . . you don’t want somebody to hear you.”
