“It can be grisly and sad, but yeah. It’s like a calling. How did you know?”
“Tell me I’m not the only one who feels this strange connection—”
“Like we’ve known each other forever? You’re not.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Exactly. It’s so odd. I’ve never felt this way.”
“Me, either. I’m usually a perfectly happy loner.”
“Well, not a total loner,” I point out. “You obviously know your way around a woman’s body.”
Quint is manly as hell, but the self-deprecating grin that crosses his face could almost be called boyish. “I said I was a loner, not a monk.”
He was already gorgeous and solid, but he’s got a sense of humor, too? Be still my heart. “Clearly.”
Something on his face changes. “You haven’t dated a lot, have you?”
“I did. Well, I tried. I just never found anyone I clicked with.”
“Until me?”
“Yeah. Does that sound crazy?”
“It does. But I know it’s not since I’m feeling it, too.”
I bite my lip. “What do we do about it?”
Chapter Four
Quint
“Good question.” We live in different cities, in different states. I’m not sure how we deal with that. But the longer she bites that plump pink lip, the less able I am to problem solve rationally. I drag my thumb over her pouty mouth. “Stop that.”
“Why?”
I can’t help but notice she asks the question with a hint of sass, which I’ll be happy to spank out of her later, but she complies immediately. Does she have any idea how perfect she is for me?
“Because you look sexy doing that and it distracts the fuck out of me.”
She laughs. “You’re not sated?”
“For the moment, maybe.” But not for long. “You think you are?”
Calla rolls her eyes. “I’ve never had four orgasms in one night. You’re like the Superman of the bedroom. After all that, there’s no way I’ll be able to manage round two.”
Oh, she of little faith. “Wanna bet?”
Suddenly, the smile leaves her face. “No. If anyone can prove me wrong, it’s you.”
“Not if, angel. When. I will definitely be proving you wrong, but not until we have food. I’m starving.”
“Me, too. I didn’t get to grab lunch before I caught my plane.”
“Same.” I shift a sidelong stare her way. “Go out…or stay in?”
“There are a ton of amazing restaurants here in Vegas, and the food blogger in me thinks I should hit at least one before I leave Sunday morning, but…stay in.”
“God, you really are perfect for me.” I hold her close and kiss her nose. “I want to know everything about you.”
“And I want to know about you. How do we cram all of that into a few hours?”
“We’ll do our best.” I bound out of bed and prowl around the room, stark naked, searching for the room service menu.
I feel her eyes on me. Given the way she’s staring, I’m not sure she cares what we order for dinner. I don’t much anymore, either.
“You’re gawking,” I point out.
“You’re hot.” She grins.
That makes me laugh. “If you keep flirting, you’re going to get fucked again.”
“I wouldn’t hate that, but you promised me food first.”
“I did.” I sigh and hand her the menu, then sit on the bed beside her. “What sounds good?”
Calla glances down at the pages with a frown. “Whoever did their photography is second-rate. It’s distracting. Why don’t you tell me about your scars instead? It looks like you’ve led an exciting, if harrowing, life.”
“You could say that.” Probably more than she can imagine.
“By contrast, all I’ve ever done is beat a path between my kitchen and my computer, photographing and writing about what I’ve cooked. You must think I’m so sheltered.” With a sigh, she sets the menu aside and fingers a round scar near my ribs. “Tell me about this.”
I thumb through the menu and realize she’s right about the photos. “Once you’ve picked some dinner. Because if you keep touching me like that, dinner will never happen.”
She giggles. “Fine. Do they have a burger?”
“Yeah. What do you want on it?”
“Just ketchup and lettuce.”
“Sounds good.” I make the call, aware of Calla’s gaze on me. As I finish and hang up, the curiosity in her eyes is just another turn-on to add to the list of things I’m digging about her. “Forty-five minutes to an hour.”
“Good. That gives you plenty of time to tell me about your scar.”
Her tenacity makes me laugh. “I got shot here about three years ago. Want to see the rest of the collection?”
“Since that means I get to peruse your whole body, yes.”
I walk her through another shooting, this one even further in the past, a trio of stabbings—all by the same killer trying to escape capture—and a stupidly reckless motorcycle accident in my twenties that landed me in a coma for two days. “What about you?”
“Scars?” She grimaces. “I fell as a toddler and hit my head.” She points to the faintest pucker at her hairline.