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But he’s looking at me, expectant.
And I start to sway. He takes my glass from me, steps back and gives me a little room. I should be cringing with embarrassment.
The look in his eyes won’t let me. It’s like he needs me to dance. He slowly circles me as I move, throw myself into the throbbing beat. I feel his eyes everywhere. On my throat, my arms, my ass, my breasts. Halfway through, he lifts my glass and gulps down half my champagne. The sight of him drinking from my glass is so intimate, my breath catches. On his next rotation, he drifts his fingers down my arm.
The touch singes me right to my pussy.
Fuck. I bite my lip and circle my hips to the beat. He’s behind me when the music blends into another tune. Firm fingers plunge into my hair, and he kisses his way from my neck to my jaw to the corner of my mouth.
“You take my fucking breath away,” he croons into my ear.
Flushed with horny vibes, I turn and throw my arms around his neck. Our kiss is what force ten gales are made of. Mouth-fucking at its most intense, we go at it until a throat clears loudly from the lounge doorway.
I hide my face in Quinn’s jacket and let him deal with the intrusion. His chest rumbles with whatever he’s saying. After a minute, he whispers in my ear. “Our food’s here.”
Food. Okay. I can do food. He leads me to a small bar area where our plates are waiting. I can’t quite look him in the eye after attacking his mouth like it was my favorite toy, so I concentrate on sating my other hunger. I polish off the burger and fries in minutes, then look up when I hear his dark chuckle.
“Always knew you were a voracious little thing.”
I glance at his plate. He’s barely taken more than a few bites. Such a waste. “I have a great relationship with food.”
He picks up a fry, dunks it in ketchup and holds it to my lips. I take the food and give an exaggerated little moan. I’m rewarded with something that vaguely resembles a half smile. He shares the rest of his food with me, feeding it to me like he fed me in his office what feels like a lifetime ago. God, was that only last week?
When we’re done, we head back to the edge of the lounge. I work off some of the calories over the next few songs. Quinn doesn’t join me in dancing, but he stays close, eyes always on me. More drinks are served. We take a break an hour later, and head to the sofa, where we mouth-fuck a whole lot more.
At some point, I end up in his lap. His big hands cup my ass and he grinds me into the thick rod of his hard-on. But by mutual agreement we don’t take it beyond that, although I know deep down, if fate and circumstances allow, it’s only a matter of time before I fuck him.
We leave the club in the early hours. Outside, there’s no sign of the paparazzi. We get into the back of a limo, Quinn having drunk too much to drive his DB9. In the back seat, I find myself once again in his lap. His hands are on my ass, but we’re not kissing. His piercing blue eyes survey me from where he’s leaning against the headrest.
“I have a thing tomorrow during the day.”
“A thing?”
A sliver of ice crawls over his features. “With Maxwell.”
“Your father?”
A curt nod. “It finishes in the afternoon. I’ll come to you after.”
“Okay.”
“Good.” The pressure on my ass increases. “Kiss me.”
We make out all the way back to Hell’s Kitchen.
When he leaves me at the door, I’m disappointed, but a little grateful.
Because I know I’m falling in love with two men. And my head feels like it’s going to explode from the pressure.
***
QUINN
I’m in the shower, jacking off—yes, I’m fucking masturbating for the first time in years, to the memory of Elyse’s ass in my hands, her tits, her pussy grinding into me at the back of my limo—when my phone rings.
I turn off the spray. “Answer.” When the voice activation kicks in, “Yes?” I growl.
“We have a problem.”
My back knots in tension. “What is it, Nella?”
“Clayton Getty. We’ve lost his trail.”
“Where?”
“Private airport in Reno. He hired a plane. Flight plan said he was headed to Tallahassee. He never landed there.”
My wood dies a quick, merciless death.