Page 3 of Chasing Me (Beyond Me #2)

JAMES

I HUNG UP THE PHONE AND stared with disgust at my current drawing. The lines were bold enough, the light and shadow contrast decent, but something was missing. The element of emotion and intensity that usually transferred onto the board and gave the sketch life.

This was bullshit.

I grabbed the half-finished drawing and shoved it into the closet, slamming the door in a toddler tantrum that made me choke.

I was tanking, and pissed off. When I got into Brush Institute, I thought it would be the first step into making my art into a career that would be productive one day.

I mean, let’s be honest, I’m a literal spoiled rich boy who lives off his parents’ money.

Funny, it used to bother me before, but not enough to change things.

Now, with Quinn in my life, desperate to make an impression on her and her Dad, each obstacle before me seemed harder.

My admission test placed me at a high entry point, which meant I got to skip a lot of bullshit classes for beginners. Guess my book studies and years of practice on my own had given me a good start. But when I tried to get into the more advanced classes, my current teacher from hell blocked me.

Ava Goodridge.

She was both talented and recognized in the art world for her fierce manner in watercolors and bold sketches of the male form. Not my usual cup of tea, but she was a force of creativity and energy I couldn’t deny.

Unfortunately, she fucking hated my guts.

I grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and sat at the table brooding, waiting for Quinn.

From the very first meeting, Ava had looked at my work with a cool disregard that burned in my gut.

And instead of approving me for the painting and portrait classes I wanted to take, she denied me.

Stuck me in an elementary drawing class, telling me I needed to relearn my mechanics.

For the past four months, I worked my ass off to impress her.

Nothing did. Her suggestions and subtle insults to my work were well known in class.

My peers looked at me with sympathy when she used me as an example of what I did wrong on all counts.

Didn’t matter how I responded, either. If I was quiet and took her shit, she dubbed me a disinterested learner.

If I defended my position or tried to explain, she cut me off with a withering glance and told me I was there to get better, not defend crap.

She tied me up in knots until I questioned everything about what I was doing.

But I needed to hang tight, get through the rest of the semester, and show her what I had.

I also needed to prove to Quinn that I could take the shit with dignity.

I was done with running or looking for the easy way out.

God knew, Quinn showed me with her own sense of responsibility and work ethic that she needed a man to match her.

Someone worthy of her love. Not a rich kid who depended on his parents’ millions and spent his life jet-setting with a bunch of assholes, partying nonstop. No, not anymore.

I was gonna make sure I didn’t fail.

The door opened. I was used to the slight shock I always got when I looked at her.

Something about her gorgeous dark eyes, so open and honest, with the spill of her chocolate-brown hair and amazing body.

Her skin was soft and warm and responsive to anything I wanted to do with her or to her.

Our sexual chemistry was a force I’d never experienced before.

Even standing in a room, it was like a buzz of electricity always hummed between us.

Yeah, I sound whipped, right? Funny, I didn’t give a crap anymore.

She was my drug of choice, and I needed a steady hit, or I’d go bat-shit crazy.

She pulled off her jacket and hat, tossing it on my worn couch I’d gotten used, and gave me that smile that kicked my heart into gear and made my dick so hard it could cut stone. “I’m hungry,” she announced.

I gave her a slow grin, stalking her until she pressed back against the door, those dark eyes going all intense and foggy. God, I loved how just my look got her all hot. With Quinn, a few touches and she was so wet for me, her needy groans vibrating in my ear, making me feel like a fucking god.

“So am I.” I reached her, running my fingers through her silky hair and beginning to unbutton her pink flannel shirt.

The little catch of breath told me she didn’t mind waiting for dinner, and she enjoyed our little games just as much as me.

Raw hunger ripped at me. I swallowed the crazy need to tear off her clothes and fling her to the ground, shoving myself deep into her wet heat.

Instead, I fought back the intensity and dragged in a breath.

Quinn deserved gentleness and worship. Not being treated like an animal.

I needed to control my caveman reactions, even if it almost killed me.

I parted the material and gazed at her simple white bra. She liked to surprise me. Sometimes she’d wear the sexiest, laciest underwear and tell me about it when we were in a public place, knowing it made me nuts. Other times, she played the innocent, with white bra and cotton panties.

Funny, I think the virginal stuff revs me up even more.

I managed to calmly flick the clasp of her bra open.

Her red nipples were already tight and hard, begging for my tongue, and she arched up like a pretty present just for me.

I palmed the gorgeous globes of flesh while she quickly unfastened my jeans with an expert ease that always impressed me.

Quinn may have looked innocent and sweet, but she was the hottest, most responsive woman I’d ever been with, her arousal so intense sometimes my cock wept for the feel of her tight, slick folds clasping me in a vise.

She also loved dirty talk, one of my favorite things in bed.

“How bad do you want it?” I asked, tonguing her nipples and sucking hard on the tips. She paused in the act of ripping my pants off, her fingers curling into the rough denim as she gasped, wiggling to get closer.

“Bad,” she moaned. “No teasing.”

I bit down just enough to wrack a shudder from her body.

Already, I felt like I was ready to come, and I wasn’t even out of my jeans.

She made me insane with the drive to mark her, possess, claim.

Thank God she wore stretchy yoga-type pants, so I was able to yank them down with one hard tug.

She stepped out of them, and sure enough, there were the cotton panties covering her sweet pussy.

I smelled her arousal, and when my hand palmed her over the fabric, they were already damp.

I wanted to pull my cock out and plunge inside her tight heat with one deep thrust. Instead, I lifted my head from her tits, and studied her gorgeous face.

Eyes closed, lips parted as pants of breath escaped, she was all mine and crazy for me.

She deserved to be with a man who was controlled, not one who’d go right to a rough, intense fuck against the door.

“Come with me,” I said roughly, tugging at her hand.

Those eyes widened in foggy confusion. “No, here. Right now.”

I growled low in my throat, barely hanging on. “You should have a bed.”

I tried to step away, but she grabbed me hard, grinding her hips against my erection until I gritted my teeth, knowing I’d never make it to the bedroom now. I shoved down my underwear, pushed her back, and lifted her high. She shook with excitement, but I made sure I was back in control.

“Bossy girls get punished,” I said in her ear. My fingers swiped her wet slit and she gave a low moan, her hips lifting for more. I pushed two fingers slow and deep, thumbing her clit with teasing brushes, not allowing her to get off until I’d driven her out of her mind. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours. James, please.” She twisted in my grasp, and I took her mouth in a long, deep kiss, my tongue thrusting in the same tempo as my fingers.

Her nails dug into my shoulders, begging for more, but I refused, trying to wring out every sweet, hot moment before she came.

Not able to wait another second, I replaced my finger with my cock, bareback now, since we’d both been tested and she was on the pill.

Her pussy squeezed me tight as I pushed in slow, inch by inch, until I was buried balls-deep inside.

Lifting her right leg higher up for better penetration, I pulled in and out of her, watching her face, desperate for orgasm, desperate for me to give her pleasure, until she shook and begged and writhed beneath me.

“Harder,” she gasped, banging her head against the door. “Rougher.”

I refused, giving her what she deserved, my adoration and control, so I kept the slow, steady pace, fighting off my own orgasm until I felt her pussy clench around me.

At that precious moment, I ground my hips harder against her clit, and she came, screaming my name, milking me dry.

I shouted and gave myself up to my own climax, the silky heat of her skin, and musky scent of arousal drowning me, until she slumped downward and I caught her in my arms.

Wrecked and sated, I carried her to the couch and lay down for a few minutes. Her hair spilled across my chest, and her thighs were wet from my come. She snuggled against me, and in that moment, I knew I’d never love anyone the way I did Quinn Harmon, ever again.

“Did you really make pasta, or was that just an excuse to lure me over?”

I laughed, pressing a kiss against her temple. “I really made it. Rigatoni and Newman’s sauce. Organic, and proceeds go to charity. Oh, and there’s bread, too.”

“Sounds so good. But I can’t move.”

I rolled over, running my hands over her luscious, naked body.

Her slim hips and long legs were lithe and strong, her breasts extra sensitive to any wicked thing I wanted to do.

And her pussy was heaven, trimmed neatly with a perfect landing strip for my tongue.

“I’ll serve you. Stay here. Don’t put on clothes. ”

I made her a plate, warmed it up in the microwave, and cut a thick piece of Italian bread.

Then I carried it back to her and watched her eat, her gratitude for the simple meal and caring I took making my heart clench.

Funny, I’d grown up with private chefs and five-star restaurants, never having to cook in my life.

Since I’d moved to Chicago and had to make do on a tight budget, I learned the importance of pasta, clipping coupons, and getting excited over a sale.

I was also more satisfied than I’d ever been, finding the food I cooked and paid for the most enticing meals of all.

Right then, I realized I had everything I ever wanted.

My one-bedroom apartment sported a worn cream carpet, garage sale furniture, and a tiny bathroom with a leaky faucet.

The kitchen had an electric stove, refrigerator that hummed loudly day and night, and cheap linoleum floors with a tiny table and two chairs.

The lights were dim, the walls a chipped mud-brown, and my art room was now my living room instead of an entire attic pooled in sunlight.

And I didn’t give a shit.

I had Quinn.

That, in my, mind was worth everything.

Would I have changed anything if I had known what lay ahead?

I’d never know.