Neanderthal Seeks Human(95)

As it was, I could only return his smolder with stunned, albeit tipsy, surprise; my internal organs and major muscle groups were helpless against the chemical reaction reducing them into frozen yet gelatinous goo. My heart, likewise, spring boarded to my throat and I was abruptly aware that I was attired only in a white tank top, bra, and bikini bottoms; so, basically, my underwear.

I’d like to say that, when faced with the smoldering indigo eyes of Quinn Sullivan after a bottle of wine, his impressively massive and muscled form hovering outside my hotel room door and big hands gripping the frame on either side of aforementioned door, I felt very little in the way of intense physical or emotional response.

If I said that then I’d be a dirty liar. A dirty, dirty liar.

Quinn, suspended like a metaphor on the abyss of in-my-room/out-of-my-room, was still in his custom cut black suit, white shirt, blue silk tie. However, he was emphatically mussed. His tie was loosened haphazardly and hung a little off balance around his neck; his shirt was wrinkled from hours of wear; his hair was askew and spiking about at odd angles; his chin and jaw were shadowed with a full day of stubble. Of course, he still looked like a GQ model. But, instead of the well groomed variety he looked like the well tousled variety.

The fact that he said nothing at all didn’t help. He just… looked. At first he held my gaze for a long moment then he looked up; he looked down; he looked all around. This was done with such a deliberate languorous insolence that I began to feel like I was being perused for purchase. I blamed my slightly inebriated state when I was tempted to ask if he were looking for something in particular or just window shopping.

Regardless, his eyes were the bull, all my previous attempts at detachment were the china shop, and he was smashing it to pieces- smash, smash, smash.

I managed a deep breath but couldn’t seem to release it. I maybe resembled a red nosed Reindeer caught in headlights.

Then, he moved.

“Can I come in.” Quinn asked the question like it was a statement and, without even pretending my response mattered, he walked into my room leaving me to stare after him as I held the door.

“I don’t- I- well- if- you- I guess- how… ok.” As he walked by I smelled whiskey and whatever aftershave or soap still clung to his skin and suit.

He smelled delicious. Smash, smash, smash.

I released the breath I’d been holding after a further three of four seconds then, on fragmented auto pilot, hesitantly closed the door. I kept changing my mind as I moved in slow motion, reconsidering the correctness or appropriateness of closing the door while my boss’ boss sauntered around my hotel room.

My internal dialogue went something like this: leave it open!… but that would be strange if someone walks by… who cares? I care! Why do I care? Just close it! You can’t close it; you’re in your underwear!! and if the door is closed you might… do… something… Here is the situation: I’m in my underwear in my room with Quinn and my alcohol laden inhibitions are low, low, low. It’s like closing yourself up in a Godiva chocolate shop, of course you’re going to sample something… Don’t sample anything!! Don’t even smell anything!! If you smell it you’ll want to try it. Don’t smell him anymore. No. More. Smelling. I hope he doesn’t see the empty bottle of wine… Put some clothes on. Is it weird if I dress in front of him? I want some chocolate. Ah! Clothes!!

Finally the door closed even though I hadn’t made a conscious decision to do so. I took a steadying breath then turned and followed, trailing some distance behind him and crossing to the opposite side of the room from where he was currently standing. I spotted my workout shirt on the bed and attempted to surreptitiously put it on.

Quinn’s back was to me and he seemed to be meandering around the space; he didn’t appear to be in any hurry. He paused for a short moment next to my laptop and stared at the screen.

He looked lost and a little vulnerable. Smash, smash, smash

I took this opportunity to rapidly pull on some sweatpants and a sweatshirt from my suitcase. The sweatshirt was on backwards, with the little ‘V’ in the back and the tag in the front, but I ignored it and grabbed my jacket from the closet behind me and soundlessly slipped it on too.

He walked to the window and surveyed the view as I hurriedly pushed my feet into socks and hand knit slippers, given to me by Elizabeth last Christmas.

I was a tornado of frenzied activity, indiscriminately and quietly pulling on clothes. I may have been overcompensating for my earlier state of undress. However, it wasn’t until he, with leisurely languid movements, turned toward me that I finally stopped dressing; my hands froze on my head as I pulled on a white cabled hat, another hand knit gift from Elizabeth.