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We’d gotten as far as the first dark hallway, which he’d pulled me down to kiss me.
From there, things got out of hand, and all of it had to do with his skillful hands and talented mouth.
“Come back to my hotel,” he repeated, brooking no room for argument this time as he tightened his hold on my body.
“Your brothers are here,” I tried to argue.
He snorted. “My brothers are here because it gave them the leave they wanted to take a break. They didn’t actually come for me.”
I didn’t say anything.
Not at first.
No, my brain was too busy whirling as I tried to stop my crazy thoughts from taking the natural path they wanted to take when it came to this particular Carter.
Almost without thought, my feet carried me out of the bar, and down the street before Quinn could guide me. Within five minutes, we were walking into a Marriott.
Two minutes after that, we were inside his hotel room, and he was staring at me expectantly.
That’s when I temporarily caught up to my morals.
“Quinn James, what are you doing to me?” I asked.
“What I’ve been trying to do since you left me,” he grumbled, then he kissed me.
It took a few long seconds for his words to register. I mean, Quinn’s mouth had a way of making me stupid. But eventually his words sank in, and they angered me.
I pushed at his shoulders, catching him by surprise. “I didn’t fucking leave, Quinn! You did!”
He fell back a step, shock on his face at my abrupt reaction.
“I didn’t leave!” he corrected me. “One day, we’re taking a break, and the next, you’re in Missouri joining the goddamn Army!”
“A break…” I said, shaking my head to clear it. “We were on a break?”
“It was…” he paused. “A pause. A break. A…”
A fucking break up…
I scoffed. “You’re fucking nuts if you expect me to think what happened when you broke up with me was a goddamn break.”
“Watch your mouth,” he snapped.
One day, I’d asked Quinn why he hated when I cussed.
He’d said it was because, when I cursed, it wasn’t because I was hurt, but because I was pissed off and inconvenienced.
See, when I was a child, I was diagnosed with a disorder where I couldn’t feel pain.
According to the doctors my parents had made me see, I had congenital insensitivity to pain and anhidrosis—also known as CIPA.
From toddlerhood, my family knew I was different.
It was only when I turned six, and I broke my arm and didn’t cry, that the doctors finally put a name to the condition.
From then on, I had to be hyperaware of myself. When I got a cut, or a bump, I had to make sure that it wasn’t more serious than just the peripheral.
When I met Quinn, the day we’d become what we were to each other, it was because I’d walked into a door and broken my nose.
