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14
HIATUS
Quinn Blackwood doesn’t tell me exactly what I owe him. And I’m too chicken to ask. I leave his office in a deeper daze than ever before and lock myself in the bathroom as soon as I get a chance. For the first time in my life, the temptation to masturbate is borne out of frenzied frustration rather than the adolescent curiosity that briefly gripped me before Mom died and my life went to shit.
I sit on the close-lidded toilet, rest my head against the cool tile, and, eyes closed, drift my fingers over my palm where he touched me.
I shudder, and the ball of fire between my legs threatens to rage out of control.
God.
My body is being prepped to fuck another man starting next week, and yet, I’m lusting after Quinn with a need that is beyond insane.
His face slides into my mind’s eye and a moan slips free. Slowly, I open my legs and slide my hand underneath my panties. The force of need nearly sends me shooting off the toilet seat the moment my finger touches my engorged clit. Gasping, I glide my hand lower, to my blazing center. I’m hotter than a furnace and wet enough to feel my slickness on the inside of my thigh.
Getting myself off will be as easy and satisfying as jumping off a cliff. But a part of me resists. An innate knowledge that it won’t be as satisfying as I imagine prevents me from succumbing to the need. I resort to massaging the outer lips of my pussy while trying to breathe through the terrible hunger tearing me apart. My brain finally relents and transmits the message to my cunt. Hunger recedes far enough for me to tear my eyes open, adjust my clothes and stumble out of the stall.
The rest of the afternoon passes without incident, and I make it back to Hell’s Kitchen in one still-dazed piece.
At seven, Bruce, my fitness trainer, returns to put me through another ninety minutes of hell. When he leaves, I strip and take a shower, luxuriating in the endless hot water and thankful that I’m too exhausted to tend to the dull ache still throbbing between my legs.
I dress in a brand new set of lounge pants and top, and I’m on my way to the kitchen when the doorbell goes.
Before alarm takes full hold, I cross to the security screen and turn on the outside camera.
Fionnella.
I release the lock and wait for her to walk through the double set of security doors. Once the last one closes behind her, I open the front door.
Her hobo purse is slung over one shoulder, and she’s clutching a large brown bag with a logo I don’t recognize.
“Have you eaten?”
“No, but I was just about to make myself a sandwich.” I can cook a few basic meals, but I’m no culinary expert by any stretch of the imagination, so having a fridge stocked full of food is a blessing but also a curse. Although I planned to make something other than grilled cheese or pasta this weekend, using a cookbook I discovered among the plethora of reading material in the loft.
She holds out the takeout bag. The aromas that waft from it are heavenly enough to make my mouth water. “To make up for the confusion over the clothes,” she says.
I open the door wider with my right hand and reach out to take the bag with my left. Her gaze falls to my wrist. It hasn’t gone purple as I feared, but the distinctive yellowing is clearly visible. Her gaze sharpens.
“It’s nothing,” I blurt, but my heart sinks at the resigned look on her face. “Please don’t tell him.”
She enters, shuts the door behind her and regards me with a touch of sympathy. “It doesn’t work that way, Lucky. If there’s a situation we need to know about—”
“There isn’t, I swear.”
She reaches into her bag and pulls out her clipboard. “Give me the cliff notes. I can’t promise one way or the other how this will go. But I have a job to do, same as you.”
“And that includes bothering him with something this minor?” I gripe.
A flicker of something hard in her gaze reminds me of Q’s warning that not everyone’s as they seem. “Cliff notes, Lucky. Who. How. When.”
“Today, at work.” I stop and grimace. “My new clothes attracted a little more attention than I expected. That’s all.”
She nods in understanding, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m waiting for the who.”
“It’s a guy I work with. Miguel. He’s pretty harmless,” I toss in hurriedly.
She finishes her notes and pulls out her phone. “Go eat.”