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"Seatbelt," he reminds me.
I comply and strap myself in as he joins the stream of traffic on the highway. We drive for half-an-hour in a silence that’s companionable. My eyes are drooping by the time he turns off onto a smaller road. We’re entering Primrose Hill; I recognize it by the street signs. Then he’s driving up to a townhouse at the end of a street. It’s set in a cul-de-sac, and when he switches off the engine, silence fills the space. Before I can open my door, he’s out of the car. He comes around, opens my door for me, then once more hauls me into his arms.
"I can walk," I protest.
"Humor me."
He heads for the doorway to a Victorian style building. It’s typical of the other houses on the street. There’s greenery everywhere, manicured lawns, cars parked in front of the other houses. Behind the house I can see the rise of Primrose Hill in the distance. He keys in a password into the keypad set into the frame of the door. The latch releases, and he shoulders his way through. I’ve been here before, but it looks different without the tequila coloring my vision. He heads through a living room, past doors that lead out to a conservatory, and toward a staircase. "Can you give me the grand tour this time?"
"When you’re awake."
"I am not ready to slee—" I yawn so loudly, my jaw cracks. Damn him. It must be the suggestion of sleep that’s making me feel so drowsy. He heads up the stairs, then across a landing and into a room.
I take in the super-king-sized bed, and beyond it, a door that must lead to the ensuite. There’s another double door next to it which must be the closet. There’s a fireplace opposite the bed. In front of it are two armchairs. On either side of the fireplace are windows, beyond which I can see the rolling slope of Primrose Hill. On the wall next to the door through which we entered are bookshelves. They are filled from floor to ceiling with books, with one of those wonderful rolling ladders to reach the top. I am too far away to make out the lettering on the spines, but the books look well-thumbed. Unlike Felix, who hated to read.
The most overriding thought was that I needed to save money. Money Quentin has. But that’s not the reason I’m allowing myself to consider his proposal.
It's the fact that I feel safe with him. That I’ve gone from not knowing him to trusting him, in very little time. I like his depth, how his experience has molded him. The hurt he carries at his core from whatever he saw when he was a Marine, his sticking to his duty, despite knowing he’d have to deal with the consequences, and not backing down from owning it. The regret he has about the impact of his actions on Ryot... Even the fact that he asked Felix to apologize for disregarding me... All of it paints the picture of a man who’s complex and unique and very sexy.
And I can't deny that I love how he worships my body. How he can bring me to orgasm. Marrying him is no hardship.
So tell him now. Tell him yes. Tell him you’ve accepted his offer.
I open my mouth to say, "I’ll marry you," and end up yawning again.
He places me on the bed, and I push my cheek into the pillow. "You should get some rest," he says as he pulls the duvet up to my chin.
"We need to talk," my voice is slurred.
"And we will, when you wake up. You’ve had a long day. Sleep well."
My eyelids flutter down. I sense a touch on my forehead. Did he kiss me? Sleep claims me before I can answer the question.
The next time I open my eyes, sunlight filters in through the windowpanes. I am on my side and facing him.
He’s asleep next to me. The covers are pulled up to his waist, and his chest is bare. The tattoo of the beating heart dripping blood feels so lifelike. As for those triangular tattoos framing his torso? They feel lethal, like they could cut into me if I touched them. His dog tags rest in the crevice dividing his pectoral muscles. I follow the path down to the hair that disappears under the covers.
My fingers tingle. I want to reach out and follow that happy trail to where the covers tent over his crotch. A thousand little sparks flare to life under my skin. The valley between my thighs grows damp. All the moisture in my mouth seems to have been pulled down to the flesh between my legs. Something causes me to raise my gaze, and I find his eyes are open. He looks at me steadily, and those little sparks grow brighter. My belly flip-flops. The pulse at his temples picks up speed. He’s as affected by my nearness as I am by his. I begin to inch closer when his phone begins to vibrate.
19
Quentin
My fingers twitch. I find myself leaning into her when the phone on the nightstand next to me buzzes. She jerks, the cocoon of sexual awareness we’ve been trapped in broken. I could ignore it and reach for her instead, but instinct has me stretching out my hand to the phone and bringing it toward me. I tear my gaze from hers and look down at the device. She must do the same and sees the name on the screen, for she freezes. The tension in the room escalates. I bring the phone to my ear and growl, "Felix?"
"I am at the door." His tone is both petulant and stubborn. My heart rate spikes. My pulse booms at my temples. I’ve been putting off talking with him, if I’m being honest. Instead, I’ve focused all of my attention on her because, again, instinct. And yes, delay tactics.
I need to talk to my son. I need to make it clear it’s not a competition between us. I need him to see things from my point of view—though I don’t expect him to. I am the parent here. I should put my son’s happiness first. Instead, I’ve set myself on a collision course with him.
He wanted to marry Raven. Even if he didn’t turn up in time for the wedding, he must have feelings for her. And I walked all over them when I proposed to her. Once more, I prioritized my needs before his. Once more, I’m a terrible example of what a parent should be.
“Quentin, you there?” Felix’s angry voice snaps me out of my reverie.
"On my way." I hang up on Felix, then push my legs over the side of the bed and stand up. I’m aware of her gaze following me as I walk into my closet.
Footsteps sound, then her scent teases my nostrils. She runs her fingers down the wings of the Raven etched into my skin. Its wings embrace me on either side with the tips of the feathers curling around to flank my chest.
"It’s a?—"
