Broken (17 page)

His tongue rubbed against hers, teased and stroked. He nibbled at her lower lip, then sucked her tongue into his mouth and bit down. Sara groaned in her throat and arched closer. Much, much closer. Fisting a hand in the worn cotton of his T-shirt, she held on tight.

He crowded her against the padded back of the booth. The hand lying on her thigh slid higher, higher . . . Instinctively, she clenched her knees together, trapping his hand. He didn’t let that keep him from rubbing his fingers against her covered sex.

Her breath locked in her lungs. Painful need cramped her belly. She whimpered into his mouth.

He lifted his head and she gasped for air as he glanced around. When he looked back at her, his eyes were glittering, hot. Damn . . . who knew the color gray could smoke and burn like that?

“Spread your thighs for me,” he muttered, pressing his lips to her shoulder.

She blushed. She could feel the blood, hot and sudden, rising to her cheeks. “We’re in the middle of a restaurant,” she whispered.

“No . . . we’re tucked away in the corner in the back of a restaurant, and nobody is paying us any attention. The stupid waiter is more interested in talking on his cell phone, and nobody else is back here. I’ll hear anybody coming . . . now spread your thighs.”

There was no way in hell she was going to do that . . . except even as she thought it, she was shifting on the seat and easing her legs apart.

“Good girl.” He skimmed his lips along her shoulder, nuzzled her neck.

As good as his mouth felt, though, everything in her body was focused on his warm, hard hand. Resting on her thigh. Not moving. A few inches away from the one place she really wanted him to put that hand. Squirming around, she managed to inch a little closer.

Still, he didn’t move. That hand continued to rest just there, while he nuzzled her neck, nipped her earlobe.

“Damn it, Quinn.”

He laughed and then lightly, oh, so lightly, brushed the tips of his fingers against the denim covering her sex. So light, tauntingly so. Her breath escaped her in a shudder. Bracing her feet on the floor, she canted her hips higher and rubbed against that teasing hand.

Quinn stilled and once more he lifted his head.

Damn it, what is he doing looking around when I’m sitting there all but dying . . . oh
. That was her last coherent thought. He covered her mouth with his, pressed the heel of his hand against her mound, lightly grinding it against her clit.

Deep inside, she was shaking. As he kept up that light, steady pressure, as he kissed her like he was gorging on her taste, the shaking spread outward until she was all but vibrating under his hands and mouth.

Entirely too much.

Tearing her mouth away from his, she sucked in a desperate breath and whimpered. There was a scream building inside her—trapped inside her throat and begging for escape.

“Shhhh,” Quinn muttered. “Shhhh . . . you don’t want somebody to hear you.”

Don’t want somebody to hear
. . . ? The words didn’t make sense. Even when she forced heavy-lidded eyes open to stare at him, they didn’t make sense. The hand between her thighs, his mouth rubbing against hers,
that
made sense. Her eyes landed on the brightly colored light fixture hanging over the table and logic tried to work its way back in.

But logic had nothing against heat. Nothing against need.

She came, gasping against his mouth and when the scream started to tear free, she bit her lip instead.

“Fuck, Sara . . .” he muttered against her lips.

That was the only coherent thought in her mind as she tore her mouth away from his and stared at him. The climax rippled through her, her womb clenching, her body throbbing. Her nipples, hard and tight, stabbed into the cotton and lace of her bra. Her blood roared in her ears, a song of ecstasy that filled her, flooded her, threatened to overwhelm.

But the pleasure faded, all too quickly. Letting her head fall back against the bench, she stared up at him and licked her lips.

She could taste him.

She wanted to taste more.

Wanted more of him period.

“Would you?” she whispered.

He cupped her face in his hand, rubbed his thumb across her lower lip. “Would I what, baby?”

Blood stained her cheeks red. “You just said, ‘
Fuck, Sara
.’ I’m asking if you would.”

R
IDING a motorcycle with an erection was brutal. It was torture, the way the bike vibrated under him, with Sara sitting behind him, her thighs pressed against his, her hands gripping his hips.

He’d attempted to flirt and he’d ended up two seconds away from trying to strip her naked. He wasn’t entirely sure, but he suspected flirtation was supposed to be a little more subtle.

Subtle
was one skill he absolutely did not have. However, he couldn’t really complain about how things had turned out, either. Even if she ended up walking away once he got her home. He might end up taking a cold shower for the rest of the night, but still, it wasn’t something he’d undo, either.

The miles between Crestwood Center and home seemed to take forever, even though most of the traffic had died down as evening bled into night. As the clear, summer blue skies slowly changed to indigo, he tried to figure out just what in the hell he’d been doing.

He knew what had come over him—Sara. She’d hit him in the gut like a sucker punch the second he’d laid eyes on her. But pawing her in a fucking restaurant was a little extreme.

He slowed to a stop as the light ahead went to yellow. Bracing a foot on the ground, he gripped the handlebars and swore silently when Sara rested her cheek against his shoulder. It didn’t seem possible, but she somehow managed to snuggle even closer.

He could feel her heat. Feel the soft curves of her breasts pressing into his back. The strong, sleek lines of her legs. It was probably his imagination, but he thought he could even feel the damp heat between her thighs. He wanted to strip her jeans away, her panties, press his mouth to the source of that heat . . . taste her, then ride her, ride her until the burning hunger inside him eased.

Which, for her, might be never.

If she got much closer, she’d have to crawl inside him . . . or him inside her and damn it, that wasn’t a picture he needed in his head just then. Especially since he’d spent the better part of twenty minutes convincing himself that he needed to cool his jets, because it was entirely likely Sara would have a change of heart by the time they got to the house.

Just like the night she turned to fire in his arms and then, just as quick as you please, pulled away.

He’d come on way too strong that night, just like he had tonight.

Subtlety.
Man, it was definitely something he needed to get a better grasp of. Subtlety . . . so he could seduce her, slow and easy and by the time she
did
have time to slow down and think, pulling back would be the last thing she wanted. The last thing she needed.

Maybe he could make her need him the way he needed her.

She was attracted to him, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t appreciate . . . well, something more than getting pawed in a fucking restaurant.

Hell, yeah. He’d just about give his right arm to put his hands on her body, his mouth on hers, and bury his aching dick so deep inside her that he lost himself.

Fucking Sara had become his favorite fantasy. Fuck her, hard and fast, then make love to her, soft and slow. Spend the night holding her in his arms so when she woke up, he could do it all over again. He wouldn’t sleep—he couldn’t ever sleep with a woman in the bed beside him, but lying there and holding her while she slept would work just fine for him.

Quinn wasn’t going to bank on any of that happening, though. Once she started thinking, she might just remember how she’d told him that she didn’t need any complications in her life. Even if she did melt in his arms, it might not mean much.

Even if she had looked at him, her pretty face blushing pink as she asked him if he’d fuck her. The heat in her eyes, the way she watched him as though she wanted him the way he wanted her.

Then the way she looked at him when she laughed. The way she smiled. The sadness . . . the grief in her eyes. The anger he glimpsed from time to time before she buried it. The way she’d already managed to wrap a fist around his heart. The way he couldn’t go a day without thinking about her. A day. An hour. Even a stretch of minutes seemed to be pushing it anymore.

Fuck, he needed her.

Needed her, but he wasn’t so sure he could handle her.

Shit.
Maybe
he
couldn’t afford the complications that she’d bring. From the minute he’d laid eyes on her, she’d complicated his life, making him think about her at the most inconvenient times. Making him dream about her.

What in the hell are you doing
?

As he pulled up into the garage, it was a question he still couldn’t answer.

Sara slid off the bike first and he ached at the loss of her warmth. The feel of her. He had to fight the urge to grab her and haul her close. The silence between them was heavy. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but then again, Quinn was rarely uncomfortable with silence. Talking was much more likely to bother him. Except with her, it seemed.

He kicked a leg over the bike and took his time as he turned to face her. The single lightbulb hanging down from the ceiling didn’t do much to illuminate the dark, cramped space, but he saw her well enough. Thin slivers of moonlight fell through the windows, highlighting her face, turning those warm brown eyes to black.

The feel of her mouth, the taste of it, was burned on his mind. He went to close the distance between them and she glanced away. The rejection, subtle as it was, cut deep, but he didn’t let it show. He’d been expecting it—he could handle it.

Instead of reaching for her, he did his best to shove his need aside. “Come on. I’ll walk you in.”

“Walk me in?” she asked, tipping her head back and studying him.

He frowned at her. “It’s dark . . . I’m walking you to the door.”

She was the one who closed the distance. Taking one small step, then another, until she stood in front of him. Then she reached up, using the tip of her finger to trace an imaginary pattern on his shirt. Through the worn cloth, he could feel that light touch and it had his heart bumping against his rib cage.

“I thought you were going to tell me more about this trouble I’m asking for,” she said, her gaze locked on his chest.

He could just barely make out the faint pink blush creeping up her cheeks. Thick black lashes shielding her eyes—that pissed him off. He wanted to see her eyes. Had to.

Cupping her chin in his hand, he angled her head back and made her look at him. He wanted to ask her if she was sure. He wanted to tell her she was going to drive him nuts if she went and pulled back on him again. There were other things he wanted to tell her, ask her, but he didn’t entirely understand them well enough to try.

Talking hadn’t ever been his strong suit—even when it didn’t strike him as a waste of time, too often the right words just didn’t want to come out. So instead of trying to make that happen, he dipped his head, pressed his lips to hers.

He kept the contact light and soft, touching only her face. She might seem sure now, but what if she changed her mind?

What if he moved too quick, did something wrong, freaked her out? What if she suddenly remembered she didn’t want anything complicating her life? He’d have to stop. And Quinn suspected that just might do him in.

So he held back, keeping it slow, gentle. Even though what he wanted to do was slide his hands around her waist and haul her up against him. Cover those soft, sexy curves and feel her move against him as he rode her.

Sara sighed against his lips and rose onto her toes, resting her hands on his shoulders. She used her tongue, traced it along his lower lip and then pushed inside. Slow, lazy, but there was nothing hesitant, nothing uncertain, in her kiss. Or in the way she slid her hands down the front of his chest and eased them under the hem of his shirt so that she could touch bare flesh.

Damn, did she touch. She scraped her nails lightly over his back then ran her fingertips along the waistband of his jeans. Her fingers encountered one of his scars. It lay along the left side of his lower back. But she didn’t pull away and ask questions—she just explored it, using the pads of her fingers to outline it as though she wanted to learn it through touch. She did the same with another scar he had on his right side, tracing the ridged flesh, stroking it with her thumb.

His hands itched to touch her the way she was touching him, to roam over those sweet, soft curves, cup the weight of her breasts, and slip inside her jeans, inside her panties.

But still, the only place he touched her was on her face, his hand cupping her chin as they kissed. By the time she pulled back and settled flat on her feet in front of him, Quinn was ready to tear off every last thread of clothing and lie at her feet, just to get her to keep touching him.

He wanted to tear off every last thread of her clothing, too, but instead, he lowered his hand to his side and clenched it into a fist.

“You change your mind?” she asked, easing back until a few more inches separated them. Her voice was calm, a little hoarse, but level. If it wasn’t for the look in her eyes, naked heat and hunger, he might have even believed she wasn’t all that affected.

“No,” he murmured. Reaching out, he caught the front of her jeans and slipped his fingers inside, tugged her close. “I just need to be sure you’re not going to. Very sure, because I already feel like I’m dying here.”