Page 62 of Quinn, By Design

Lucy was solid and good. She wasn’t to blame for his mistakes, but for a fleeting second, he wished she hadn’t come. The loss of the exhibition was still too raw.

He hadn’t had time to parse the loss. He held tight to the joy of creation, of seeing people respond to his work, but making a living from his craft seemed to be drifting further and further from his reach.

Quinns pay their way. He didn’t want to be a feckin’ mendicant, smooching off McTavish goodwill. Without an independent income, he’d never be Lucy’s equal.

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Before dawn, Niallwoke to find her mouth on his cock and her hand cupping his balls.

“Lucy”—he placed his hand on her shoulder—“wait.” But he wasn’t sure she heard.

She was everywhere at once, desperate in her need to mate. She straddled him, rocking backward and forward. No gentle touch, just a madness to possess. The physical rush shot through him. His body was responding. Even as she tugged on a condom, he was pumping into her.

“Slow down,” he repeated his plea. Tension circled higher and higher. His body teetered on the edge, ready to explode. She tended him, touching the places he’d taught her brought him pleasure. She used every secret he’d given her in tender, endless loving to trigger a sharp, blinding orgasm.

“Has anyone ever told you you could make a living as a lover,” she purred and stretched, like a cat warmed by the sun, and the word “fuck buddy” came unbidden to his mind.

“No one important.”Until you. Niall lay on his back, covering his eyes with his forearm.

She’d told him she was comfortable with her body and sex. Lucy was uninhibited, attentive to his needs, but also taking her own pleasure from him. He wanted that.Praise the saints, he wanted her to feel in control, but her throwaway line cut deep, exposing insecurities he’d thought he’d left behind.

Stupid when he’d welcomed similar attentions from her at other times.

Last night, he decided to talk to Lucy about ways and means so he could stay in her life. This morning he faced reality. Once she’d got past her temporary cash flow problems, she’d still have McTavish’s money and a lifestyle alien to him. She’d work out soon enough he was a burden.

I’m a Class A eejit to think we might have anything lasting together?

If Cam hadn’t thrown them together, they’d never have met; their social circles didn’t overlap in any area.

Each day in her workshop, in her home, with her paying his way loaded him with more obligations, more debt. He’d already decided to leave the workshop. She’d be able to sell it immediately and have the financial security she needed to find her balance.

If he refused to be the foundation’s mentor, she could choose someone else, someone with a name, with their own studio.

Hell, he could give her a list of names.

They’d never promised forever. She’d never promised forever, while he’d given more of himself each time he touched her, until now he couldn’t conceive of a world without her.

Except they lived in different worlds.

“I need to get to work.” Niall rolled out of the bed.

“Me too.” She propped herself on her elbows, tousled, impossibly beautiful, and—if he was honest—out of his reach. Falling for her was the biggest mistake of his life. She gave a half-smile. “I’ll come and say goodbye before I leave.”

Niall let himself into the workshop. Frames were propped along one wall, waiting to be picked up. His last commission, because that’s the sum he and Liam had agreed. He hadn’t told Lucy he’d made his last frames either. Peter’s bruiser of a sideboard occupied prime position on the right-hand side of the workshop. He ignored it as well, moving to the kitchenette to make tea.

He opened the fridge. Lucy always cooked more than necessary, leaving him leftovers. She filled the fruit bowl before it was empty, topped up basics in his fridge like he was some bloody beggar. Niall figured this was what a fish felt like after it had been gutted. She’d increased her contributions since they’d started sleeping together, and her charity reinforced his sense of failure. The gallery owner whispered in his ears, “No reputable gallery owner will touch you.” Desperation kicked him in the balls.

Without conscious intent, he found himself standing in his storeroom.

He studied his hands, flexing and contracting them until his knuckles burned white. They’d let him down. His hands hadn’t worked quickly or cleverly enough to keep up with his dreams. He slammed one fist into his other palm before pushing to his feet. Feck, he was a bad-tempered bastard. And it was a bit bloody late to discover that he’d sabotaged his relationship with Lucy.

To meet as equals, he needed Lucy to witness his success.

By cancelling the exhibition, he’d lost that chance.

“I can’t do this anymore!” he roared. He needed the world to stop—needed time out to think. He texted Liam:I’m refusing the bequest.

Twenty minutes later, he heard pounding. When he opened the workshop door, he realised Lucy was gone. No goodbye. Probably for the best, given his mood.

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