The Dirty Series 2(10)

“Smaller? Not by much,” Quinn says, as she follows me down the hall to the master suite.

I open the door to reveal a massive king-sized bed, made up with dark sheets and covered by a comforter that looks like it’s made out of spun silver.

“Where the action happens,” I say, gesturing toward the bed, and Quinn laughs, the sound setting my heart at ease.

“This isn’t the only room, is it?” Quinn says.

I roll my eyes. “Of course not.”

We walk together, first through the master bedroom, which is easily the size of Quinn’s entire room in Carolyn’s apartment. Then I take her back across the room and down another hallway, off of which is a den and an office. These rooms are where I spend my time when I’m not at the Swan. I’ve been here more often recently, missing the hell out of Quinn.

As I watch her run her hands over the books on the shelves in the den, tilting her head to look at the titles, the reality of what I’ve done—and what it will do to her—tightens around my neck like icy fingers.

Will she ever come here once she knows?

I’ll give myself the night with her.

Then I’m going to tell her.

The thing with Matthews—it’s thrown my dilemma into stark relief.

I’m fucking over liars.

I just need one more night.





Chapter Thirty-Five





Quinn



Christian thrusts into me with total abandon like it’s his last night on earth—hard, fast, strong, and deep.

I had been looking at the book collection in his den—and damn, does he have an impressive collection—when I became aware the conversation had stopped. Turning, I dropped my hand.

The words I’d planned to say flew right out of my mind when I saw the look in his eyes.

There was pain there, like he was fighting off something sharp and cruel in his head, but obscuring it was a pure, masculine need. His muscles tensed underneath his jacket. His jaw worked. Then came the smoldering smile that sent electric jolts of lust in a wave from my nipples to the hallowed space between my legs.

I didn’t need words to know what to do next.

I crossed the room, pulled him toward me, and kissed him hard enough to shake the pain loose from where it was stabbing through his heart.

He responded instantly, wrapping his powerful arms around my waist and pulling me in tight, so close to his body that my feet almost left the ground.

It wasn’t far from the den to the bed and once he’d carried me there, we attacked each other’s clothes until they were all piled in a rumpled heap on the floor.

He pushed me down onto my back on the bed and I arched up to meet him, locking my arms around his neck, kissing him even deeper, and then I shoved my weight upward and sideways, turning us over by sheer force of will.

I straddled him, bucking against his hardness, already slick, the wetness coating his skin.

“Jesus,” he said on an exhale, the heat of the word catching in the hollow of my shoulder.

I took that as a sign to press into him more forcefully, striking a rhythm, drawing my wetness over his shaft again and again until I felt his muscles clenching underneath me, his hips rising to meet mine with more intensity. Then, in one smooth movement, I lined myself up over his cock and drove my hips down toward his, taking him all in.

When our bodies slammed together, he heaved a guttural sound from behind clenched teeth that was half relief, half desperation. It unlocked something in me, pushing me over the edge to wildness, and I worked against him with a fury I had never before experienced in my life.

It took him by surprise. I could tell by the sharp breath he drew in, but it only took him seconds to parallel my pace and intensity, taking in everything I had to give him, hands pressed tightly on my hips to pull me down onto him even harder than I could manage by myself.

Next thing I know, he’s lifting me away from him, turning me, so that I’m on hands and knees, my palms pressed into the million-thread-count comforter beneath me. Christian positions himself behind me, lines the head of his cock up with my opening, and stops. I’m panting breathlessly.

It’s a cruel tease.

I buck my hips backward against him, trying to get him to sink inside me, but he resists. His hands are clenched on my hips, gripping tightly and steadily, like he wants to be in control.

I can give him that.

I press my breasts down against the comforter and arch my back, head down, ass up, hands clenching the comforter. “Fuck me.” I know he wants to hear it as much as I want to say it.

“Beg.”

His voice is hard, uncompromising, and the tone sends a new gush of wetness between my legs.

“Please!” I urge. “Please.”

He remains still for three more heartbeats and I clutch the comforter in my fists, willing myself to stay down, to stay still, because I can feel through his touch that he is loving this. Something about that man’s mistake at the fundraiser made him feel out of control—that much is clear—and though I can’t read his mind, I’d bet my life savings that this is exactly the remedy he needs.