The Dirty Series 1(170)
In one thrust, I’m buried deep in her wetness. There’s not an ounce of resistance—she’s so open for me that the only friction comes from the size of me pressing against her walls.
“Yes,” she pants, the word a drawn-out hiss as I get into a rhythm, fucking her deeply, claiming her, for now, forever.
It’s much later when the light of her phone screen wakes me up.
Quinn stands over near her vanity table, her hand cupped over the screen, squinting at it. I take a moment to look at her outline in the harsh white light emanating from the phone, at the tendrils of hair escaping from her bun, at the curve where her hip transitions into her waist.
Her shoulders slump and my heart twists just to see it. Instantly I’m pushing the covers off, going to her side.
She leans into my touch, her head resting against my chest just next to my tattoo.
“What’s going on?” I ask her softly.
“My house in Colorado,” she says, and then swallows hard. “It burned to the ground.”
“Fuck.” Tears fill her eyes, but she’s smiling now. “Quinn?”
“I’m free of it. I’m finally free of that place.”
A smile spreads across my own face, just to see her relief. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m great. I’ve never been better.”
I lead her back to bed, pull her down into its softness with me, wrap her in my arms. She settles in, every muscle relaxing, safe and sound.
Several minutes later, as I’m starting to drift off, she says something I can’t hear.
“What?” I whisper, not wanting to shatter the peace of the moment.
“I love you.”
My heart nearly flies out of my chest. It’s never felt more right to hear those words. We’re going to have to talk about all of this, figure out our next steps, decide for ourselves if it’s really too early, but for right now…
I smooth my hand over her hair and squeeze her one more time. “I love you, too, Quinn.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Quinn
My heart hasn’t felt this light and free in months, maybe years. Now that there’s nothing holding me back in Colorado, it’s like a massive weight has been lifted.
The house is a total loss, and so Thursday is eaten up with strategic planning for Christian’s next wave of public appearances and phone call after phone call from my insurance company. It seems like they’re calling every hour on the hour to confirm various details with me—how much furniture was left in the house, the accuracy of my home inventory list, how much I have left to pay on the mortgage.
“Ms. Campbell?”
I answer the phone for the twentieth time. It’s never joyful to deal with an insurance company, but I’m over the moon—and not just because of the house.
“Yes?”
“This is Michael Deacon, calling from Mountainside.”
“Hi, Michael.”
“I wanted to call and give you an update on your claim.”
“It’s—” I break off when I realize he hasn’t asked me for another list, another confirmation. “Really?”
“Yes. Could you just confirm some identifying details for me for security purposes?”
“Of course.” I rattle off my mother’s maiden name, my birthdate, and my social security number for hopefully the last time today.
“Thank you, Ms. Campbell. I’m calling to inform you that the preliminary decision on your claim is that the mortgage company will be reimbursed according to…”
I’m so swept away by what happened last night, and so worn down by the constant phone calls, that Michael’s voice becomes a blur. I snap back into awareness as he says:
“…of course, this is pending a final walkthrough of the site by one of our inspectors. Someone has already been out to visit the property today, but you should see resolution in the next thirty to sixty days.”
Perfect. All of this means they’ll be sending paperwork, and then I can read the fine print on my own time, when my head isn’t swimming with love and lust.
“Thanks for the update, Michael. Is there anything else you need from me?”
“Nope. Thanks for choosing Mountainside for your home insurance needs.”
“No problem. Goodbye.”
I hang up the call and slide my phone back into my purse, and then I lean back against my seat, relief flooding my body.
From what I understand, most of the payout will go to my mortgage holder, with a small amount left over for me. I wouldn’t care if I got nothing—the sweet unburdening I feel from not having to deal with this house and all its attendant problems anymore is nearly overwhelming. I can always wait to sell the property. Or just have Sherrie list it for such an absurdly cheap price that developers won’t be able to resist. They never stay away forever, even after a wildfire.