Beneath the Surface (15 page)

CHAPTER

17

Y
our family is really great,” she told Asher after they said their last goodbyes eight hours later and walked down the sidewalk toward his truck. It was almost midnight. Once the sun went down, Robert had started up a bonfire and the boys passed around a bottle of Crown Royal, telling stories of their youth. She’d switched to iced tea long before then, and it was a good thing she had, because someone needed to be sober enough to drive home, and that someone was not Asher.

She’d learned quite a bit about him and his brothers tonight, more than he probably wanted her to know. Quinn couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard. Rory was the trickster of the family, Jaxson was the cautious skeptic, Asher was the badass brawler, and Fisher was the daredevil. His mother and father certainly had their hands full raising that brood, but they’d done well.

Quinn felt honored to be a part of that family, even if it was only for one night—even if it was a lie. It felt good to belong for once, and she would miss them when this was over and she returned to her old life, wherever that may be. Neither she nor Violet were very close with their parents, and her relationship with her sister, although better now, had been strained over the years. She’d been traveling for the last two, and knew she hadn’t been there for her sister when she’d needed her. The guilt ate at her for that, but she was hoping she would be able to make up for lost time. She knew Vi thought she was selfish, opinionated, and overbearing. Who knows, maybe she was right . . .

As they walked together, Quinn tipped her head back to admire the cloudless night lit by the sparkling stars as crickets harmonized with the bullfrog serenade. It was beautiful out here—so freeing . . . so different from the city or the other parts of the world she’d traveled. This land, these mountains, held a peaceful serenity that could have only come from God Himself. She could see why Asher loved it here. Away from it all, she could almost believe she was safe.

Her steps slowed and so did Asher’s. She wasn’t ready for this night to end. Was there a chance he felt the hesitancy too? She knew the moment they climbed into his truck and shut those doors, the charade would be over and her carriage would turn into a big fat pumpkin once again.

“Everyone liked you, especially Fish. Who would have thought you’d be such a great corn holer?”

She laughed. “That’s a terrible name for a game, you know that, right?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, it is . . .”

“I’m not sure Jaxson was a big fan. You could have warned me you had a twin.” She elbowed him in the ribs.

“It was funny to see the look on your face, I’m not gonna lie.”

“I’m so glad I could amuse you.”

“Jax liked you. Don’t worry. He’s a cop. It’s his job to mistrust everyone. It was hell growing up together. People always think twins are supposed to be so close, but we fought constantly growing up—sibling rivalry bullshit. And it didn’t get any easier when we got older. We’ve always had the same taste in women. They seemed to prefer him, though . . .”

His confession surprised her. “Why would you think that?”

Asher shrugged. “He’s always been the better version of me. He saves lives and I take them.”

Quinn grabbed his hand and tugged him to a stop just outside the truck. “That’s not true, you know. You’re saving my life.”

He chuffed a masculine grunt. “That remains to be seen.”

Quinn knew what it was like growing up in someone else’s shadow. How much harder must it have been having that person be your twin? She wasn’t sure what prompted her action; maybe it was their ruse and pretending to be a couple all day, or perhaps it was her genuine concern for his feelings of inferiority where his brother was concerned. She could give a hundred different reasons without touching on the truth—she just wanted to kiss him. After spending the day together, seeing him with his family, hearing the stories of a life beyond the negligent playboy, she knew there was so much more to Asher Tate than she ever imagined.

Taking a step closer, she slipped her arms up around his neck, stood on her tiptoes, and whispered, “I’d choose you, Asher.” She brushed her lips against his and he tensed as if surprised, whether by her confession or by her kiss, she couldn’t know.

It took a few seconds for him to respond, and then holy hell, did he ever . . . A low growl rumbled in his throat as his arm slipped around her waist, sucking her up tight against him, molding her to his hard, muscular body. His other hand slipped into her hair, angling her head so he could take over. His tongue plundered her mouth, stroking, teasing—demanding. It was all she could do to keep up. In all her life, she’d never been kissed with so much hunger and raw, primal need . . .

She was losing her breath, swept away by a maelstrom of emotion she was too afraid to name. Instead of letting him go and stepping back, which was what she probably should have done, she hung on tighter, giving herself over to the moment. Holy shit, he could kiss . . .

His mouth was pure sin, the way it moved over hers, firm and consuming. He woke places inside her she hadn’t even known existed. She was on fire and the only thing that could quench this inferno was Asher’s touch. A soft moan escaped her lips and he devoured it with an answering growl that made her aching sex clench with need. It had been so long since she’d been with a man, too long . . .

His lips were softer than she’d expected them to be when he was so hard everywhere else. And boy, was he hard. It wasn’t the first time she’d felt his arousal pressing insistently against her stomach, but it was the first time she wasn’t sure she was going to have the willpower to stop. So it surprised the hell out of her when Asher did—albeit, it was with a tortured groan.

He lifted his hands and cupped her face, resting his forehead against hers. His breaths came in ragged pants that held the vapor of whiskey but smelled like the mint he’d eaten from his mother’s candy dish on the way out.

“I can’t believe I’m fucking saying this . . .” She didn’t know if his voice was raw from drink or desire. “But we gotta stop.”

Nooo . . .
Her mind screamed in protest and her body seconded it. “Just a little longer . . .” she whispered, knowing the moment he let her go the fantasy would be over.

“Fuck, Quinn, I’m so lit right now . . . I don’t want to do this with you when I’m drunk. You’re better than that. You’re better than me.”

Of all the times for him to step up and show a little chivalry, it had to be now? Seriously? It wasn’t like she was asking him to fuck her. For crying out loud, they were in his parents’ driveway. She hadn’t forgotten that, but a little more kissing sure would be nice, because hands down, Asher’s was the most talented mouth she’d ever had against hers. But Quinn refused to beg, and the sting of his rejection helped cool her jets.

Perhaps he’d forgotten, but she hadn’t. She’d seen Asher out of control before, wild with lust, and this was not it. Maybe she just didn’t do it for him like those other women did, because the Asher four months ago wouldn’t have cared if he was drunk or not. Hell, he probably wouldn’t have even cared if he was in his parents’ driveway. For chrissake, he’d fucked another woman in front of her, which was a much-needed dose of reality. What the hell was she thinking?

Quinn, you’re an idiot!

Gathering her last semblance of self-respect, she nodded, refusing to meet his stare, because his rejection hurt more than she wanted to admit, and there was no way in hell she’d give him the satisfaction of seeing it in her eyes. She pulled away from him, and he must have sensed the shift in her mood—guess he wasn’t too drunk to realize that—because he followed her forward and reached for her.

“Quinn . . .”

She sidestepped him and moved back. “Give me the keys, Asher,” she cut him off, holding out her hand. “I want to go home and you’re too drunk to drive.”

Exhaling a frustrated sigh, he shoved his hand into his pocket and gave her the keys. He knew she was upset, but what he didn’t know was that she was equally embarrassed for being just like every other woman who fell at his feet, only that wasn’t exactly true. Those girls he hadn’t said no to.

“Quinn, listen to me . . .” He tried again, but she was in no mood to hear it.

“Just get in the truck, Asher. This was a mistake.”

Maybe she would have chosen him, but he didn’t choose her . . .

Well, this was a first—a woman getting pissed at him for doing the right thing. Goddammit, he couldn’t win for losing. What in the hell did she want him to do, fuck her in the bed of his truck? There had been a time, not long ago, when he would have done exactly that. But there was something about Quinn that was different. She wasn’t like all the others, and she sure as hell deserved to be treated better than that.

Problem was, his control was slipping, and so was hers, whether she realized it or not. He’d felt it in the way she’d responded to him, softened against him. It had been so fucking hot—so perfect. He could still feel where her hard little nipples had pressed into his chest. She tasted better than he’d ever imagined. Quinn Summers was a spirited ball of fire, to be sure, but she’d tamed so beautifully in his arms . . . Had he really called her a shrew?

What she needed, what he suspected she secretly craved, was a strong man to take control, to show her the woman she was, the woman she could be. She didn’t always have to be in charge; there was freedom in letting go. And damn if he didn’t want to be that guy for her, but this was not the time or the place.

She didn’t realize that her innocent request for “just a little longer” would have ended with him buried balls deep inside her. And he didn’t want to be the crass bastard who pointed that out to her, not that she would have believed him, because she still clung to the illusion that she was the one in control here. Which roused another burning question in his mind; how experienced—or inexperienced—was Quinn Summers in passion? Because she’d been playing with fire and he doubted very much that she knew how close she’d come to getting burned.

“Quinn, slow down. These corners coming up are sharp.”

Maybe he should have driven after all. Except for the years he’d been pounding sand, he’d lived in these mountains as long as he could remember, knew them like the back of his hand, and knew with absolute certainty that if Quinn didn’t slow the fuck down, they were going over the side of this cliff.

“Quinn!” he snapped, his voice sharp as the adrenaline spiked in his veins, burning through the alcohol and ushering in a blast of sobriety. Then he realized that the tension in her as they headed toward this turn wasn’t anger, it was fear.

“Asher, I’m trying to slow down. Something’s wrong with the brakes.” She shot him a panicked glance and the bone-deep fear he saw staring back at him arrowed right through his fucking heart. “I don’t know what to do!” she cried, stomping hard on the brakes with no response. “I can’t stop!”

The night all but swallowed up the little patch of light the halogens cut through the blackness. They couldn’t see the curve yet, but he knew it was there. If he didn’t slow this truck down there was no way they were going to make this turn. In the reflection of light from the dashboard, he could see her foot still pressed hard into the brakes. A quick glance at the speedometer confirmed they were picking up speed—55 . . . 60 . . . Asher snarled a fowl curse and grabbed the emergency brake between them and wrenched it up.

Nothing happened.

“Fuck!”

“Asher . . .” Terror strained her voice as the high beams landed on the sign warning them of the 30-mile-an-hour curve coming up.

65 . . .

Panic filled her violet eyes as she turned them on him in desperation. Her tight, white-knuckled grip on the wheel kept the truck heading down the mountain road, but not for long. They were running out of options, and a jump from the truck at this speed would surely kill them both. If he could just make this corner, the next one had a cable guard he could take them into. Asher reached over and cut the engine; the loss of power slowed the truck down, but the steering became a lot tougher.

“What are you doing?” she cried. “I can’t steer!”

Asher glanced at the speedometer—50—still too fast. “Hang on!” he shouted, unfastening his seat belt so he could reach the wheel. She wouldn’t be strong enough to control it without power steering.

“What are you doing?” she cried. “Put your seat belt back on!”

He didn’t have the heart to tell her, but these seat belts weren’t going to save either one of them. Grabbing the wheel from her hands, he jerked it hard to the left. The momentum sent her shoulder slamming into his chest. Air whooshed from his lungs and he grunted at the impact. The tires squealed in protest against the pavement, the back end skidding, kicking out as it hit the gravel shoulder, sending up a spray of rock and debris pinging off the metal undercarriage.

Quinn screamed a shrill cry of terror that shredded right through him, and he swore to God if he lived through this, that sound would haunt him the rest of his days.