Authors: Camden Leigh
Love Me Crazy (17 page)
Neither disappoint, and that I can’t worship her a bit longer is a goddamn shame. She moves her hips slowly over my cock, priming herself for my entry. Her moan, delicious and sweet as peaches, makes me pump my hips. I penetrate slowly, working into her with a pace that leaves her breathless. Gasping for air. Wanting more. And bucking forward. She arches back, forcing me deep and I grab her hips, slowing her rocking, wanting to enjoy every damn minute like it’s the first and last time I’ll have her.
“I’m close,” she pants.
“I’ve been close since you got here. Go for it.”
She pushes into her feet, raising and lowering over me, enjoying the fullness when I’m deep with a sigh and a moan. I reach down and press my thumb against her clit. She rockets forward, eyes rounding as I add another dynamic to what she’s feeling.
Both gyrating, we find a rhythm, increasing the speed after each thrust. She leans forward, fingertips gripping my shoulders, and calls out. Her body quakes, sending my cock into its own set of tremors.
When
the aftershocks settle, she rolls off me and stares at the ceiling, chest heaving. “That was nice.”
“Nice? That was incredible.”
“Eh,” she teases.
I roll and pull her back against my chest. We lay like that for several minutes before she squirms out of bed and disappears into the adjoining bathroom. When she comes back in, she has shorts and a tight tee covering her magnificent body.
“Time for you to go.”
“No way,” I say. “There’s more where that came from.”
She leans against the door, hair a wild mess, like an out of control bonfire with smudges of ash beneath her eyes. “Seriously, Quinn. You have to go. You can’t stay.” She glances at the door.
“You’re afraid we’ll get caught? I don’t care about that and you shouldn’t either.”
“Not your ass on the line.” She leans down and picks up my clothes and drops them on my chest. “And that’s not really the case. I don’t let guys stay over. I told you that earlier.”
I push up to my elbow and thrust my clothes on the ground. “I’m not some fucking guy you picked up at a bar.”
“I told you, I don’t date.”
“Right, because you’re scared of disappointment.”
She folds her arms over her chest. “I’m not scared of it; I avoid it. I don’t have time to invest in the before, and I don’t need the heartbreak after. No boyfriends, no dating. It solves everything.”
“So just mindless sex?”
“
Do you need a girlfriend to have sex?” She rolls her eyes.
I used to enjoy that lifestyle. Until I realized being numb sucked. “So, just the fucking?”
Her chin drops. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Well,” I say, “you have yourself a problem then, because eventually a guy will come along and you’ll be shit out of luck. All your rules will cease to exist. He’ll want you. You’ll want him.” I scoop up my clothes and head toward the door. “You’ll enjoy each other, and then after, you’ll wish it had been for a better reason than ‘just a good fuck.’” I nudge the door open with my foot. “When you realize that guy is standing right in front of you, let me know, because I meant what I said about not being the one to walk away.”
Never have I ever drank a whole bottle of Jack by myself. I plop my ass in the chair.
False.
I stare so long at the striation in the granite counter, I swear it’s moving. Moving away. Moving closer. Which is it?
I set the shot gloss upside down on the empty bottle then rise to head to bed. I grab my reeling head and take a step closer to my room. The throbbing is minor compared to the emotions flapping through the room like locusts in a bat cave. Quinn couldn’t have put it better. I
am
shit out of luck. I’ve been out of luck since day one of my independence. Finding a stroke of good luck is like finding the golden egg on Easter morning. Everyone wants it. Everyone fights for it, but only one single person reaps the reward. That’s rarely me. Quinn? He’s the golden egg. Comes with all the bells and whistles the other plain eggs lack. Doesn’t mean I’m his golden egg, though.
After the worst night of sleep ever, which may have something to do with the liquor I consumed, but mostly has something to do with Quinn and what he’d said, I down two pills to dull the pounding in my head. Waiting for my waffle to pop up from the toaster, I reread the thread of texts between Mrs. Covington and Ellie. I rub sleep from my eyes and yawn. Twice.
My phone chimes again. “No, no, no.”
“Problems already?”
My heart stalls, but kick-starts as Quinn moves into the kitchen. Closer. And closer still.
Without
looking up, I try to play it smooth. “Ellie put me on a group text. She wants her ball moved outside. I swear you people find any reason to throw a party.”
“It’s customary to have a party for the guests who arrive early.”
“A ball? Normal people do dinner at a restaurant or book tours for the early birds. Not plan an extravagant themed ball. That’s not even the worst part, she told her mom I was to be a guest.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
I look up from my phone but it chimes again. “Good God. Do your sisters always win?”
“Well, the name does kind of give us preferential treatment.” He fakes a yawn to conceal a grin. “You going as a guest works for me.”
Is this the same guy that charged out of my bedroom last night? I guess I did kind of kick him out, but still, he acts as if nothing went down, and something most certainly did. I expected him to never speak to me again. I did not expect to be greeted by this charming, forgiving man who considers my presence as a guest a great idea. “I should be in the kitchen bossing the caterers, or making sure the speeches follow your mom’s rigid time-table.” I sure as hell can’t do those flowy-gown dresses.
“I still don’t get what the big deal is. So you get to go to a party. A massive one at that. Have a little fun. You deserve it.”
I suck in a huge breath, then exhale my words quickly, “I can’t dance. I don’t do box steps or whatever. Or bows—”
“Curtsies.”
“What?”
“Ladies don’t bow, they curtsy. Gentlemen bow.”
“
See what I mean? I’m a complete idiot when it comes to formal dancing stuff.” I pull my waffle from the toaster and drip syrup in the center. “In case you haven’t noticed, I wasn’t eligible for southern charm school. Sure I can hug the crap out of you people, and attempt to say ‘yes, ma’am’ and ‘yes, sir’ but let’s be honest; I was raised to brownnose the intellectual crowd at university parties, not charm the pantaloons or whatever off Mr. and Mrs. Manners. I don’t know the first thing about a dance of this magnitude.”
“I’ll help you.”
Glad he hasn’t brought up last night, I humor him. “Exactly how?”
“I’ll teach you the dances.”
I stop, a bite halfway to my mouth. “What’s in it for you?”
His eyes go dark and glaze like he’s thinking something inappropriate. I’m positive he is, because I am. I’m thinking my lips around his cock instead of this fork would be a good trade off.
I snap in front of his face. “Did you hear what I asked?”
“Uh, yeah. I um”—he adjusts his pants, confirming my suspicions— “just want you to survive. Mom’s notoriously lethal at these functions.”
I squint and give him the once-over. Twice.
“Why give her a reason to draw her weapons? I’ll teach you all the dances and we’ll show her you are perfectly capable of stepping out of the kitchen.”
I suppose lessons would benefit me in the long run. Pray tell I need to attend another ball in this century. And there’s Ellie’s insistence. Doubt she’ll let me say no. “So just dance lessons? No funny business?”
“None. All work. No play.”
Somehow
I doubt that.
The door flies open and Kat, singing something about horses, dances into the room.
Quinn grabs her before she dances into my plate. She jumps, banging her elbow on the fridge handle. After a string of cuss words fly out of her mouth, she yanks her earbuds free. “What the fucking shit?”
She gawks at me, then Quincy. A grin spreads across her face. “Hey, Cassidy; did you get Ellie’s text?”
“Which one?”
“The one about the fabric. Ellie’s going crazy.” Kat pushes past me and wedges between me and Quinn.
“Has she decided?” I ask.
“It was broadcloth and she freaked. Mom suggested brocade, but Ellie’s hell-bent on dupioni. I don’t know why the fuck it matters. They’re all the same if you ask me.”
“Am I supposed to whip up a flock of caterpillars and weave more silk?” I ask. “Where am I going to get a billion yards of silk in the right shade of blue a week before the wedding?”
My phone chimes again. “Oh, in the Gentlemen’s Quarters?” I set my phone down. “Where’s that?”
Kat whips her head around and stares at Quinn.
“What does your text say?” she asks.
“Pick up five bolts of dupioni from the Gentlemen’s Quarters. Take them to the dressmaker. They’ll suffice
,
” I read.
“I’m bowing out of this one. Quinn will take you.” Kat backs out of the kitchen leaving me no clues and Quinn turning white as the fine china in the cabinet.
“
Quinn?” I question.
“That would be Dad’s office.” He melts two inches. “Where he died.”
Quinn picks up my waffle, hands it to me and drags me out the door. I chase him down a clay bank past the barn, stomach rumbling because I lost my waffle to the bees. He pauses and I lean on my knees, sucking as much oxygen through the humidity as I can.
I made the mistake of asking about his dad’s office and what kind of business his family ran when we first left the house. He’d picked up the pace and never answered. Sore subject obviously.
“This isn’t helping my headache,” I say between pants.
He walks circles around me, punching one fist into his other hand.
I consider breaking his rant with one of my own. Last night, after I puked up forty percent Jack Daniel’s and sixty percent defeat, I’d promised myself to talk to Quinn and really consider my options before giving him another big flat “no.” I wish he could’ve overheard the conversation in my head. I don’t want to repeat any of it, especially the part where I’d come to the conclusion I only live once, and living with Quinn might not be so bad.
“Come on, let’s get this over with.” Quinn grabs my hand.
We walk in silence, him pulling me like a kid through a busy market. Me silently enjoying it because it feels nice for someone else to take the lead, like I can close my eyes and totally trust whatever he drags me through will not harm me.
When we reach the bottom of the trail, we head down a dirt road with huge oaks lining both sides, much like the front drive to the plantation. The trunks are so wide, it would take several people to encircle one tree. Their branches rainbow across the road, entangling with the tree directly across from them. Spanish moss drapes from the branches, its minty gray-green
tendrils
complementing the earthy browns in the tree. I move to the center of the road and peer up at the limbs, reveling in awe at the magical web.
“There’s nothing like this back home.” I spin twice, taking in the entire road, the casual procession of trees, the moss, the quaint, mystical beauty so satisfying it nearly hurts to breathe.
“Live oaks are a symbol of strength.” Quinn stretches his arms overhead to grab one of the tired limbs. He’s the perfect model for a lazy summer painting to hang above someone’s mantel.
“Live oaks.” I run my fingers over a trunk, finding the bark pliable and warm though it appears rough and scaly. “These are like the trees in town, right?”
“Yes, but these are older.” He walks around one and lightly taps the trunk with his fist. “It’s said that cannonballs bounced right off the USS
Constitution
. Its hull was made from a live oak. These trees can weather anything.”
“Even your mom?”
“Ha! I don’t think anyone can weather her.” He pushes off the tree and walks toward me. “So,” he draws out. “Last night was pretty intense. Yeah?”
My gaze flicks off the swaying moss to Quinn’s eyes. My chest tightens when he sighs.
“Please trust me.” He smooths his hands over my arms, conveying the essence of his heartfelt words. “All I’m asking is for a chance to prove you can trust me with anything. Let me in. I promise I’ll do my damnedest to never disappoint you.” His unblinking eyes search mine, bringing me close to a nod.
I drop my gaze to his shoulder and grind my teeth until my jaw aches.
“Even now you’re looking for a way out of this conversation. You can’t run from everything.” He smooths a finger along my jaw, making me let up on the pressure.
“
I don’t consider it running when I’m just trying to survive.”
“Stop avoiding the inevitable. Live. Feel. Feeling proves you’re alive, Cass.” He shakes me gently. “Are you alive?”
Preston left an empty hole in my chest. I thrived off the nothingness because it meant nothing tied me down or held me back. Being, feeling, and having nothing made surviving easier. But Quinn, he’s filling the void with something, and I can’t wrap my mind around it.
Quinn tugs at my hand until I let him take it. He cups it between his and kisses my knuckles. I pull my hand free and turn, needing to escape the heaviness inside.
A distant thunder warns its approach. I walk down the road, quickening my pace.
“Wait, Cassie.” He grabs my wrist, pulling me from my sprint with a jolt.
“Please don’t lecture me about something you can’t do yourself.” I stare at his chest, unwilling to let the compassion in his eyes coax pleasantries out of me. “You held back last night, too. It wasn’t just me. What’s the
real
reason why you left? And what kept you from returning?
You
quit hiding, too.” I yank from his grip. “You have no idea what my life is like. You don’t get the holiday cards and ridiculous checks bribing you to come home because you’re the
only
child. I change my phone number constantly. I stay hidden and unlisted for a reason. If I were, to, say, bring you home with me, you’d be my parents’ next victim. My reasons for staying away from you aren’t
just
because of your mom and this job or even my wounded heart because of my stupid ex. It’s my future.
Our
futures I have to protect.”