Beneath the Surface (17 page)

The irony wasn’t lost on her that she was proving to be just like the other women she’d seen him with. Perhaps she had misjudged him all along and Asher wasn’t the flagrant, whoring womanizer she’d accused him of being. Maybe he was guilty of nothing more than being a gorgeous man that women, including herself, couldn’t seem to resist.

After a thorough inspection, he got off his knees and stood. “I think it’ll be fine. Let me know if you get dizzy or start having headaches.” Before he let her go, he pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead near the knot. Her eyes drifted closed, soaking in the heat of his touch, but it was over all too quick.

“It’s late. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

When he turned to leave, she bit her bottom lip to keep from calling him back. He stopped at the dresser to grab some clothes before heading for the door.

“Asher . . .” His name broke from her lips before she could stop it.

He paused. Tension radiated from him as he stood there with his hand on the door. He seemed hesitant to turn around. Would he stay if she asked him to? At the last minute, her nerves failed her. She cleared her throat and said, “I want to thank you again for saving my life tonight.”

“Don’t mention it.” He kept his back to her, his voice a bit rougher than normal.

Maybe he wasn’t as immune to what happened as he pretended. Her resistance broke. She was about to climb off the bed and go to him when he said, “Good night, Quinn,” and walked out, pulling the door closed behind him.

CHAPTER

20

J
ust keep walking, Tate.
One foot in front of the other . . .
He gave his feet their marching orders and despite their dragging protest, they were good little soldiers, taking him down the steps and away from Quinn before he did something he would undoubtedly regret. He’d seen that look in women’s eyes enough times to know what it was. He just never thought he’d see it in Quinn’s. And, like a coward, it had sent him running. He hadn’t trusted himself enough to turn around and face her when she’d called his name for fear he’d tell his honor to go fuck itself. As it was, that shit was hanging on by a thread.

Quinn was vulnerable and understandably shaken up over what happened tonight. She was just confusing gratitude with desire—that’s all. The emotional high of escaping death could fuck with one’s mind. He knew that. Hell, he was fighting the effects of it himself right now. He would not take advantage of her like this. It was the worst asshole move he could make. Especially when he knew Quinn Summers didn’t do casual sex.

But is that what it would really be? Was it possible to do anything with Quinn and call it casual? Asher wasn’t so sure anymore. Fuck, he wasn’t sure about a lot of things and he hadn’t appreciated his dad’s two cents muddying the waters even more. Could he really be in love with Quinn? His mind flashed back to his confession a moment before he’d gone over that mountain.
I think I could have fallen in love with you . . . 
Had it been the meaningless rambling of a man about to die? Or did his heart know something his mind wasn’t ready to admit?

Hell if he knew . . . It was late and he was exhausted. He was in no frame of mind to be making decisions about anything. The smartest move he could make was to hit the shower and then the couch. He let the bathroom door slam shut with a little too much gusto—the low level of sexual frustration setting his blood on a slow boil. Add in his concern that Quinn’s killer had likely found her and yeah, sleep was going to be a forgone wish. What he’d really like to know was how in the hell had that bastard found her so quickly?

He contemplated the answer to that question as he pulled off his clothes and stepped beneath the shower’s hot spray, making quick work of washing away most of the evidence of his near-death experience. Aside from a few cuts and bruises, he wasn’t any worse for wear. He’d been through a hell of a lot worse.

As if summoned, those memories threatened to resurface—the screams, the sharp report of gunfire as he yelled for his men to stand down. Peterson’s refusal . . . the explosion . . . Fuck, he swore he could still smell the sharp, sulfuric scent of gunpowder, the phantom pains of smoke-filled air burning his lungs, consuming his oxygen. With a snarled curse, he pushed the images back, refusing to go there. But the echo of guilt was never very far away. It did wonders to kill his cock, though, so he guessed he could at least be thankful for that.

Asher stepped out of the shower, then dried off and slipped into a pair of lounge pants, not bothering with a shirt. He headed into the living room after a trip past the front door to make sure the lock was secure. After checking the security system, he paused in the kitchen to swallow a few ibuprofen tablets because he was sure he’d be feeling the effects of that Evel Knievel stunt in the morning. Asher tipped his head beneath the faucet and turned it on, chugging down some water. Drying his mouth with the back of his hand, he clicked off the lights and headed to the couch.

He sprawled out, one hand tucked beneath his head as the other slipped beneath the couch cushion to check for his Sig. After sleeping with a sidearm for so many years, it was just a force of habit. As his fingertips brushed over the cool metal grip, the thought occurred to him to find out if Quinn knew how to shoot. If she didn’t, she was going to learn. An image filled his mind of her wearing those sexy calf-high boots and skinny jeans, legs parted in a shooting stance with her arms outstretched, elbows locked, as she aimed his gun and pulled the trigger. Just like one of
Charlie’s Angels
 . . .

So fucking hot. With a groaned curse, he reached down to adjust the bent angle of his hard-on, straightening himself out. The ache in his balls warned him they weren’t happy about being denied their release—again. He’d spent so much time at the barbecue hard for her, it wasn’t funny. And then she’d kissed him outside his truck and holy shit . . .

His cock leapt at the memory, jerking with impatience. Yeah, well, Cujo was just going to have to heel, because this dog was not getting anywhere near Quinn. No sooner did that thought cross his mind than the bed above him squeaked beneath her weight, a painful reminder of just how close she was. He closed his eyes and tried to block out the visual of her wearing nothing but his navy blue T-shirt.

“Are you asleep?”

His eyes flew open at the sound of her voice. She was standing at the top of the stairs. The light from the lamp on the end table didn’t quite reach her face, but from the way she fidgeted with the hem of his T-shirt, she looked nervous. It took him a moment to find his voice. When he did, it sounded like he’d been eating gravel. “No . . . I’m not sleeping. What do you want, Quinn?”

She took a hesitant step down and his gut clenched, each subsequent one knotting that fist tighter and tighter.

“I can’t sleep . . .” she confessed, her bare feet taking that final step down.

Well, that made two of them then.

“Every time I close my eyes . . .”

Her voice broke and so did his heart. Fuck, this woman was going to be the death of him. Without consulting his brain, he was speaking before he even realized words were coming out of his mouth. “Come here, Quinn.” He sat up on the sofa and held out his hand.

She didn’t hesitate to race toward him, and the moment her hand connected with his, he pulled her into his lap. Her arms circled around his neck and she hugged him tight as she buried her face into the side of his neck. God help him, she felt incredible in his arms. Her scent enveloped him and his body responded with a visceral awareness like nothing he’d ever experienced before.

Her shoulders began to shake and moisture trickled down his neck. Her tears gutted him, and the invisible band around his chest tightened until he could hardly breathe. “Shhh . . .” he soothed, holding her a bit tighter, letting her get it out of her system. Over the years he’d seen so much bloodshed and tears, he thought himself immune to the maelstrom of emotion. Yet somehow Quinn’s tears seemed to resonate deep inside his soul. If he could, he would bear this pain, this grief for her. He’d do it in a heartbeat, because it was easier to deal with the emotion himself than the feeling of helplessness that came over him at watching her crumble.

“You’re going to be all right,” he said as her sobs phased into stuttering breaths.

“It’s not . . . me . . . I’m scared . . . about,” she hiccupped. “It’s . . . you . . .”

He tensed. Him? She was crying for him? Asher reached up and took Quinn’s face in his hands, her cheeks damp against his palms. He leaned back and he tipped her chin to get a better look at her. His breath caught in his throat. She was beautiful. Her violet eyes glistened with unshed tears. Seeing her like this, with no walls, no defenses . . . his heart fucking melted.

Never in his life had a woman looked at him with such genuine concern and caring—and she was the last person he’d ever expected to see it from. It was humbling and gut-wrenching at the same time, heartwarming and terrifying, because he wasn’t the man worthy of this woman’s devotion. She just didn’t know it yet. Once she learned the truth about him—what he’d done—that would change.

Two giant drops broke free of her lashes and rolled down her cheeks. He wiped them away with his thumbs. “Stop it . . .” he crooned softly, pressing his lips to one briny cheek and then the other. “I don’t want you crying over me, Quinn.” His mouth brushed over hers lightly. He meant it only as a comforting gesture, but her lips parted so sweetly beneath his, yielding so deliciously, he couldn’t resist taking another taste.

He pressed his mouth more firmly against hers. Her lips were so full and soft, with just the faintest hint of her tears. He could feel his resolve slipping as she snuggled closer. His thin T-shirt did nothing to hide the pebbled hardness of her nipples pressing against his chest as her bottom ground against his erection. This was a bad idea . . . getting involved with Quinn like this. He was crossing the line. Who the fuck was he kidding? He’d crossed the line so long ago the damn thing was a speck in his rearview mirror. But still, she was upset, emotional, and vulnerable. She didn’t know what she was doing . . .

Her tongue teased over his top lip and retreated. She slipped her fingers into his hair and they curled into tight little fists as she shifted in his lap. Okay, maybe she did know what she was doing a little bit. But that didn’t make him any less of a bastard for taking advantage of her. “Quinn . . .” he whispered against her mouth. His throat was dry as ash, making her name a broken, husky plea. “I don’t think—”

“Don’t, Asher,” she interrupted him. “Don’t say it. I just . . . I need this,” she pleaded softly. “I need you. I need you to make me forget. I need to feel alive and that everything is going to be okay, even if it isn’t.”

Her request was more than he had the strength to deny. She knew what she wanted, even if it was just his body. He could give that to her. Hell, if he could give it to scores of women he didn’t care about, he could give it to Quinn. But this was different—
she
was different, his heart tried to warn him before it was too late. He didn’t listen.

He could take away her fear, her hurt, and replace it with pleasure. He could make the world go away—even if it was just for the night . . .

No regrets . . .
It was Quinn’s vow when she’d climbed out of bed and into this man’s arms, and it was her vow right now as she made her plea for him not to stop. She could feel the tension inside him, his hard body veritably humming with it—a living, breathing force of restraint. His will was impressive. What would it take to break him?

In all her wildest dreams, she’d never imagined she would be the one to proposition him. Then again, she’d never believed it was possible to fall so hard or fast for a man like this. She was a humanitarian in love with a mercenary . . . The irony of it was laughable if the hopelessness of a future together wasn’t so heartbreaking.

She wasn’t going into this with blinders on. She knew Asher didn’t love her, but sadly that didn’t stop her from wanting him. And if she couldn’t have his heart then she at least wanted this—one night with him before she left. This wasn’t just about her safety anymore. She cared too much about Asher to let him keep risking his life for hers. She would never forgive herself if something happened to him.

She’d almost experienced that loss tonight—and she vowed she’d never do it again. Tomorrow morning she would leave—it was the only way to keep him safe. But before she left, she wanted one night to experience what it was like to be in this man’s arms. She was going to walk away from him brokenhearted either way, so she might as well do it with no regrets.

“You don’t want to do this. This isn’t you, Quinn . . .”

How would he know?
She
hardly knew herself anymore. She’d been hiding behind her walls for so long, afraid to love, afraid to trust, that she’d lost sight of who the real Quinn Summers truly was.

She knew he wanted her, could feel the evidence of his impressive arousal against her hip, making her ache with long-denied need. “Please, Asher . . .”

And that was all it took to snap his restraint. With a growl that sounded more animal than man, he rolled her beneath him, his hard, muscular body pinning her against the couch. His mouth took hers in a hot joining that left her breathless. His hips rocked against her sex, the friction making her gasp as little jolts of pleasure arrowed into her core. The thin barrier of his lounge pants and the damp scrap of cotton between her legs were the only things preventing him from entering her.

She exhaled a throaty moan that he devoured. His breath infused her lungs as his tongue tangled with hers. One hand fisted into her hair while the other slipped beneath her shirt, capturing one of her breasts. The calluses of his palm abraded her nipple, sending a direct current of energy between her legs. She squirmed beneath him, seeking the friction of his erection to relieve the mounting tension coiling deep inside her.

“Fuck, Quinn, hold still . . .” he growled, tearing his mouth from hers.

His hand left her breast to grab her hip and pin it down. The feeling of his fingertips biting into her flesh was an erotic mix of pain and pleasure. “You’re going to make me come before I even get inside you.”

The rough gravel of his voice and the vulgar honesty of his confession thrilled and excited her. Every nerve ending was lit up, alive in a way she’d never felt before. She wasn’t sure she
could
hold still. The need was nearing unbearable. Her breaths were coming in a ragged pant. Perhaps Asher recognized the desperation in her eyes, because his lips curled in a grin of pure masculine approval as his hungry gaze swept over her.