The Dirty Series 1(164)

“Anything.”

I stand up out of the chair and lean across to whisper into her ear. “I want to bend you over this desk and fuck you until you can’t possibly orgasm even one more time.”

Then I sit back in my seat and watch her.

Heat rises to Quinn’s cheeks, turning her face a deep shade of red, and her lips part just slightly. I can only imagine how slick her folds must be right now underneath the sharp black dress she’s wearing today, the sleeveless cut showing off her toned arms. Her fingers curl into her palms as she stares into my eyes, the gold flecks in her green irises glinting in the afternoon sun pouring through her office windows. I only see the rise of her breasts because I’m looking for it. My cock twitches despite the fact that my heart is still pounding from how close, how close she was to seeing something that could have fucked everything up permanently…

She looks down at the papers in front of her, blinks, then takes one of them into her hands.

“The second opportunity will be two weeks from next Tuesday, and this is one that I’ve set up to be on behalf of Pierce Industries to show your commitment there. I haven’t arranged photography, but as soon as you approve this, we can move forward with—”

She’s trying so goddamn hard, so determined to do this job well despite what’s between us, and I fucking love that about her.

Emotion surges in my pounding heart.

I try to stop it, but I can’t—I’m falling in love with her.





Chapter Twenty-One





Quinn



At the Bowery Mission on Friday, we make up a small group: me, Christian, and a single photographer. The photographer and I tuck ourselves into various corners of the kitchen and linger near the serving line for just as long as it takes to get several photographs that will circulate online and in various press outlets.

I can’t take my eyes off of him.

He’s so cocky, so self-assured, so self-centered. He uses women and then discards them seemingly by the week. He buys whatever he wants and never thinks twice about whether he deserves it. His money is all that matters to him.

At least, that’s the image he projects most of the time. He lights up the goddamn room at the Purple Swan, charms his dates, tells dirty jokes—he’s at the center of everything.

But at the Bowery, he’s someone else.

The charm is still there, but it’s warmer, softer, not so in-your-face. He speaks quietly to the people who move through the serving line, politely, in a welcoming tone. Everyone smiles at him as he dishes out portion after portion of steamed vegetables onto the waiting plates.

Even the way he moves is different, restrained somehow, as if he’s fully aware of the power his body carries over people and is reining it in. He is graceful. Considerate. Humble.

He doesn’t spare a look over at us, doesn’t play up to the camera, not even once.

Christian is a natural.

The transformation is incredible to witness.

Even though he doesn’t look at me, my eyes stay locked on him. I take the opportunity to study him without the laser focus of his eyes on mine—the cut of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, the sandy color of his hair.

He’s mine.

The thought comes unbidden to my mind and it feels right. It feels good.

I dismiss it, like I know I have to—he’s not mine, and he may never be. A night of incredible sex does not a couple make, no matter how goddamn much I wish it was true when I lie in my bed without him by my side at night.

I watch him dishing up meals to people who need them, and something breaks open in my heart. It’s a tiny shift, like a pebble falling down a mountain face, but for the first time since I found out about what Derek did, I glimpse a future where not every decision about men is a knee-jerk reaction based on his disgusting betrayal.

This is also the first time I’ve ever seen Christian’s gentlemanly side. In front of my eyes, he is literally becoming a gentle man.

Not that I want a shy man. No. Not at all. The way we wrestle together in bed, the way he dominates me, it’s something I’ve been craving for years without knowing it.

That’s his real self, too.

I instinctively know it’s true. In bed together on Tuesday, there was no need to posture. God knows I didn’t. God knows I couldn’t even stop myself from begging to be fucked. That was raw. And the way he took me, again and again—that was absolutely him, down to the core.

Now I’m just wondering which side of him—the party-obsessed playboy who views women as accessories or the quiet man in front of me—is the real Christian.

Maybe it’s a pointless thing to think about. I’m not exactly the same in every situation. He doesn’t have to be either. And when I think of his arrogance the day we first met—the way he practically commanded me to ride home with him—a shiver of pleasure runs down my spine. I can’t get enough of him. I want all of him.