Page 31 of Quentin
It was really happening. Holy shit. “Okay. But, Quentin, if you make me regret this, I’ll make what Ciaran did to you look like child’s play. I mean it.”
“If I make you regret it, you won’t have to…and while this won’t be easy, I promise that every day, I’m going to make it worth it.”
Twenty-One
It was late afternoon by the time Quentin awoke. Lowey still slept beside him. They’d spent hours at the hospital after Patricia had been taken there by ambulance. They’d consulted with specialists and with therapists and with a dozen other people it seemed. The bottom line remained that no one had any real answers. No one could tell them if her brain function had suddenly spiked or returned after ages, what had prompted any of those changes, if those changes were permanent, if there would be continued progress made. The truth was, they knew as little after the fact as they did going in.
What had become abundantly clear, thanks to the admitting physician, was that the amount of testing done previously to determine the true nature of Patricia’s condition was grossly negligent. And all of that was thanks to Samuel. He’d wanted her in that state. It had made her more easily exploitable.
After it had all been said and done, Quentin had driven them to his house. All their stuff was at the carriage house and would have to be collected later, along with whatever was salvageable from Lowey’s apartment. But he’d wanted her there. He’d wanted her in his bed. It was long overdue. Eventhough they’d both been too exhausted to do more than sleep in each other’s arms, it felt right to have her there.
Rolling onto his side, Quentin stared down at her. She’d forgotten to take her makeup off, and what was left of it was pretty much smeared everywhere. Her hair was all but standing on end, but she wore nothing but a simple white T-shirt, and she was still the sexiest woman he’d ever laid eyes on.
As if sensing his gaze on her, she opened her eyes and looked up at him. “No,” she said, and pulled the covers up over her head.
He laughed. “What do you mean ‘no?’ I haven’t asked you anything!”
“I know that look, Quentin. I’m tired. I just want to sleep for a little longer.”
Quentin tugged the sheets back down until she was forced to look at him. “Give me one minute to change your mind.”
She glared at him, but since his hands were already stroking her legs, kneading the muscles of her calves, then her thighs, the glare became less heated. “One minute,” she agreed.
He used that one minute to his advantage. Grasping the hem of her T-shirt, he pushed it upward even as he lowered himself between her thighs. With his mouth only inches from her sweet flesh, he felt her shiver with anticipation.
Parting her legs wider, opening her to him completely, he dipped his head and pressed a tender kiss to the inside of one thigh and then the other. He repeated those kisses, gradually working his way to her center. When he pressed his mouth there, letting his tongue slide between her soft folds, he found her wet and eager. Her thighs tensed beneath his hands, and her body arched beneath him.
This, he thought, was what he’d wanted all along. He’d fought it, run from it, done everything in his power to sabotage it, but it—and she—had been inevitable for him.
Lowey couldn’t hold back the broken sob as his mouth moved over her. God above, he could make her crazy with just the slightest touch. It wasn’t even pleasure, she realized. It was just this primal, driving need that swept her away.
The heat of his mouth, the soft but insistent sweep of his tongue on her clit, had her writhing. Then he slid two fingers inside her, filling her up and easing the ache that he’d created.
Lowey reached for him, her fingers tangling in his dark hair, but he pushed her hands away, planting them firmly on the mattress. “You move, Lowey,” he whispered darkly, “And I’ll stop.”
“So, I’m just supposed to lie here and let you have all the fun?”
“I won’t be having all the fun…I’m going to make you come again and again. I’m going to make you come until you’re begging me to stop.”
She didn’t answer. He’d rendered her incapable of speech with another sweep of his skilled and wicked tongue. The things he did with his mouth were possibly illegal, definitely immoral, and so fucking amazing, she thought she’d die from the pleasure of it. But she didn’t reach for him again. She gripped the bedclothes bunched beneath her fingers and lay there, letting him torture her with his mouth.
He kept her there, hovering on the brink of release. Every time she would get close, he would move away or change speed or pressure. He was tormenting her, and they both knew it.
“Damn you,” she whispered brokenly.
“Do you want to come, Harlow?”
He sounded so calm, so reasonable, as if he were asking her if she wanted a cup of coffee. “You’re killing me!”
“If you want it, all you have to do is ask,” he said, his teeth grazing her inner thigh.
“Make me come.”
“Please,” he corrected.
“Make me come, please,” she said, but the words were about as far from subservient as possible, as they were uttered between clenched teeth. But they did the trick. He lowered his mouth to her once more. His touch was different—more direct, more insistent, and it rocked her straight to her soul.
Lowey closed her eyes as the tension built again, climbing higher than before. She screamed when it broke, sobbing as the waves of pleasure crashed within her.
