Dirty Games (Tropical Temptation)

Most people encountering a kid Josh’s age asked about future plans—college, career—stuff like that, but Quinn didn’t. Instincts, or maybe some personal experience, told her he had enough on his plate just getting through the next month. She kept things in the moment, focusing on the island. Had he been to the beach? Snorkeled?

The sensitivity with which she handled Josh’s situation, his adulation—all of it—wasn’t cautious or awkward, and Luke couldn’t help but admire the seemingly genuine, and relentlessly positive way she interacted with a young fan at such a complicated place in his life. Respect did have to be earned, but she was earning some of his with this encounter. When a nurse appeared at the door and announced the doctor was ready to review her MRI results, Quinn handed Josh a card she slipped out of a pocket on her phone sleeve.

“This is my agent’s number. When you get back to Cali, call him, and he’ll arrange for you to visit the Dirty Games set. Bring your ninety-day chip with you, because I want to see it. We’ll get pictures then, okay?”

Josh was stoked, to say the least. He took the card, and a hug. As Quinn followed the nurse through the door and down the hall to the doctor’s office, Luke whispered, “You just gave that kid the best incentive any therapist could offer to get him to complete his program.”

Quinn’s answering smile was startlingly bittersweet. “While it would be nice to think I could be so effective with nothing more than my good intentions, I know that’s not the case. The biggest key to Josh’s recovery is Josh. We’ll see.” She shrugged, but it fell short of noncommittal. “I am rooting for him.”

Yeah, there was definitely more to dig into here. She’d been touched by addiction. Maybe a friend, or a family member, or…maybe her? His gut tightened at the thought. They’d delve into the topic later, when they had privacy. For now, he followed her into the orthopedist’s office and leaned against the windowsill while the congenial, middle-aged man confirmed her MCL, and knee as a whole, looked good. He recommended using a brace if she felt like she needed lateral support, and mentioned that the pharmacy carried a wide selection if she didn’t already have one.

Luke aimed a questioning look at her. She frowned and shook her head. “I used one during the initial phase of PT, but I didn’t bring it with me. I haven’t needed it in weeks.”

“Looks like we’ll be stopping at the pharmacy.”

“I don’t need a brace,” she said under her breath as they left the medical office.

“You don’t need to reinjure your knee.” He held the door to the pharmacy and ushered her inside.

After explaining to the clerk what they were looking for, she showed them to the sports brace section, and invited Quinn to try on any that i

nterested her. Then she retreated to assist another customer. Luke pointed to one of the two chairs the shop had placed in the section. “Sit.”

“I’m not a German shepherd,” she huffed, but sat anyway. He scanned the options, looking for something simple and streamlined, and selected three possibilities.

“I like that one,” she said as he knelt in front of her and placed the choices on the chair beside her. Picking it up, she inspected it more closely. “It’s much smaller than the one I had.”

He took it out of her hands and unfastened the straps. “We’re going down a level from what you probably used. You don’t need the same degree of support anymore.”

“I don’t need any support. Hey—” She stiffened as he pushed the leg of her sweatpants up to midthigh. “What are you doing?”

“Putting it on. I want to see how it fits, and I want you to move and tell me how it feels.” As he spoke, he slipped the brace around her knee and secured the lower Velcro strap. Tight. Unwanted images infiltrated his mind. Quinn, sprawled across his bed, with her wrists strapped to his headboard, and her ankles tethered to his bedposts. A quick inhale brought his head up in time to see awareness flicker in her eyes.

He secured the top strap, and tugged the brace a little to test its give. “Are you comfortable?”

She cleared her throat. “Yes. Um. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a little snug?”

“We’re after a secure bind. Secure, but I don’t want you to feel overly restrained.” He forced himself to blink, break the trance they’d both slipped into. The effort wasn’t entirely successful, especially when she replied, “I think I can handle this level of restraint.”

He traced the top seam of the brace around to the delicate skin at the inside of her thigh. “I’m going to ask you to stand and do a few exercises in a moment. Concentrate on how it feels here, because this area is vulnerable to chafing.”

“Oh.” Her breath left her lungs in a little gust that ruffled the hair at his temple, and her back sagged into the chair. “Is it?”

He looked up into slumberous blue eyes. Without really meaning to, he pressed his thumb into the soft flesh. A deep muscle quivered and released. Every part of his body tightened. “It can be. I want to address your specific needs, but not with something too punishing.”

Her hand drifted down her thigh, fingertips stopping just short of where his rested. “That’s right. You don’t believe in punishment.”

“I never said that.”

Her lashes snapped up, and her eyes locked on his. “You said…consequences.”

“I merely drew a distinction between punishment and consequence. If I were to punish you, Trouble, it would be a very deliberate, very unmistakable thing. There would be absolutely no question in your mind about what was happening to you, or why. It would not be a careless act, and while you might experience certain aftereffects”—he rubbed his thumb along her skin, right above the brace—“I guarantee you an abrasion wouldn’t be one of them.”

She slid forward in the chair, and he lowered his head a notch. Maybe she wouldn’t notice he was fantasizing about burying his face between her legs?

It took her two quick inhales to catch her breath. “I’m tougher than I look. Nobody who knows me thinks I’m fragile.”

Jesus, he had to get ahold of himself. He shook his head to clear it at as much as to refute her statement. “Parts of you are.” He cupped the back of her knee and honed in on the question she’d skirted with him, and the doctor. She’d characterized her injury, been detailed about the type and degree of the sprain, but she hadn’t disclosed the cause. His instincts nagged at him to ask. He looked into her beautifully unguarded face. “How’d it happen, Quinn?”