Beyond Me (Quinn and James 1)

"Because I've been thinking about you all day. Because I fucked up and wanted to apologize again. Because the thought of you finding some other guy to smile at and touch makes me want to go apeshit."

Her dark eyes widened. "That's a lot of reasons."

I chose my words carefully, knowing it was a turning point. "I'm not a liar. I want to spend some time with you so you can make your own decision and get to know me better. I'd like to walk with you, enjoy your company. May I?"

I wasn't used to asking women to spend some time with me. It was always the opposite, and suddenly I felt a flash of vulnerability. What if she said no and refused to talk to me again? I waited her out and realized how important it was that she agreed. How bad I wanted to spend more time with her--in bed and out.

"Okay."

I almost sagged with relief but managed to keep my man card. "Great. Where are we headed?"

"South Beach."

"Sounds like a plan." I fell in pace with her as we made our way down Duval. I'd been coming to Key West for years now, and I always loved the free spirit of the people. From the sunset parties, to the sailing and revelry, it was a place to get lost and yet somehow manage to be yourself at the same time. "I wanted to let you know Tracey is okay. I made sure she slept it off and took her home. No one bothered her."

"Good, I'm glad. I was worried."

She swung her hands back and forth like she was a bit nervous. I saw her teeth reach for her lips and confirmed she was a biter. Unfortunately, that just made me want to experiment with the other places on her body I could bite, so I firmly veered away from the image.

Down, boy.

"How old are you anyway?" she asked.

"Twenty-three. Please tell me you're of drinking age and I didn't serve you illegally."

She chuckled. I'd bet she'd never giggle. Another thing I liked. "I'm twenty-one. But I didn't see you carding at your door, so you could've been arrested."

I winced. She was right. I had gotten used to my parents greasing many officials' hands enough so I could do what I wanted without getting into trouble. The party was a yearly tradition, and I never got bothered. A sliver of shame cut through me. "Yeah, guilty as charged."

She swiveled her head and stared at me. Like she was trying to figure something out that didn't fit. "Did you graduate?"

I really hated these personal questions but figured I owed her. If I answered enough to keep her curiosity satisfied, I'd be able to move on to the good stuff. Like sex. Lots of sex. "Not really." I waited for her horror or for her to judge me as lacking. But she only waited me out, swinging her arms, like she was really interested in the story. "My parents threw me into Yale for law. I hated it. Made a fuss, got kicked out, and I went to Princeton. They thought maybe doctor. I thought not. Eventually, they gave up trying, and let me be. I decided to travel and find out what I wanted to do."

"I always wanted to travel," she said. "I think I'd pick Italy first."

"Why?"

"The food."

I laughed. "Yeah, the pasta and vino are killer. But the art is the best."

She sighed with longing. "Did you see the Pieta? Or David? I heard it's so massive it steals the air in the room."

I stared at her, my heart pounding. She spoke like she understood the beauty of art in a way most people never got. Shit, most of my friends just looked for the naked statues to compare their junk. I never got to have a decent intelligent conversation about something I loved. "That's a perfect description," I said. "Michelangelo takes cold marble and installs flesh and blood and emotion. The first time I saw David at the Academia, framed by the arched doorways, I cried. No one reaches for that type of mastery anymore. We're all too...lazy. Happy with being content or saying something's nice. There should be more."

She touched my arm and smiled. "How wonderful. You're an artist."

I jerked around. "No. I paint and study, but I'm not an artist."

She ignored me. "Yes, you are. It's like being anything--an actor or a writer. If you do it, you are. Getting published or scoring a movie deal is one of the goals, but it doesn't invalidate what you do."

An odd hunger clawed up from my gut. God, had anyone in my life ever simply accepted me for an artist? People clucked over my hobby, rolled their eyes, and generally made fun of the entire thing. Watch the little rich boy play at his paints and pretend he's important. It hurt so bad, I began hiding it undercover, disguising it as a hobby, but craving so much more. Ivy League schools blurred before me, when all I'd ever wanted was to go to art school. But that would be accepting what I really wanted.

That would mean I could fail. And then I'd have nothing left.

I fought a shudder and redirected the conversation. I'd given her enough. "How about you? Did you always know you wanted to go into social work?"

She shook her head. "No. But I'm good at it. Look, here's the beach."

Her comment was odd, and I knew there was more, but I let it go for now. No need for deep secrets to be revealed for either of us. I was familiar with the small beach at the southernmost tip of Key West. Wedged between a pier and hotel complex, it was a great spot to hit between bars and cool off. Some women were already topless, running off the families from the afternoon shift to be replaced by the nighttime crowd. The water was usually warm, and you could wade all the way out forever without ever going over your head.

Quinn grinned and stepped onto the sand, moving toward the shoreline. Her dress tugged in the breeze, exposing more of the delicious skin I couldn't wait to taste, and she dug her toes in and lifted her head up to the sky. Darkness bled into the shoreline and the moon peeked out. I watched her, happy and free in the moment, soaking up the simple pleasure.

"I guess you miss this in Chicago, huh?" I asked, brushing back the loose strands of hair from her face.

"This is pure heaven. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love living in a big city, I'm definitely a city type of girl. But the beach and sun make me feel a bit decadent."

Decadent. The word dropped from her lips like pure sex.

The wind plastered the flimsy fabric against her chest, and her nipples poked out from the halter top. Holy shit, she wasn't wearing a bra. I hadn't thought she was, but the evidence ruined me. I stared, trying not to, and imagined sucking on those points until they were red and wet and swollen for me. Music drifted from the restaurant/bar. I knew I should offer to get her a drink, go inside, chat, and be normal. But I wasn't feeling very chatty.

"James?"

"Huh?"

"You okay?"

"No." I'd never felt so alone in a public place. Like it was just Quinn and me and the moon overhead. I wrapped my fingers within hers and tugged.

She took the few steps forward. Her eyes assessed, as if she wondered if it was a good idea, but the flare of lust confirmed my decision. She wanted this; wanted me. And I was gonna give it to her.

"Do you know how fucking gorgeous you are?"

She bit at her lip and looked worried. "No, I'm not."

I laughed. Again, a first. I'd never had a woman completely reject a compliment. "Oh, yes, you are. Look at you. Your hot little body wrapped up in a little bl

ack dress. I want to strip it off, taste you everywhere, make you come. Make you scream." Her pupils dilated and she panted, holding still as I stroked her hair, her cheek, her naked shoulder. "But right now I'm just going to kiss you, Quinn."

I fisted my hands in her hair and held her still. Lowered my head.

"Okay," she whispered.

I smiled before I claimed her lips with mine.

THE HEAT seeped into my skin, my bones, my muscles, and began to burn me alive. Warm water swirled around my ankles, the sand was firm and damp under my feet, and he trapped my head so I couldn't move. Not that I wanted to. The strength and bit of domination gave me a dark thrill. No man had ever wanted to kiss me this bad. And I had never wanted to be kissed like it was as important as my next breath.

His lips covered mine completely, as if savoring me, like an appetizer before the holiday dinner. I rested my hands on his shoulders for balance and enjoyed the sensation. Slow, sweet, exploratory. His tongue traced the seam of my lips for entrance, and I allowed him full access.

His tongue plunged into my mouth and the world exploded.

I gasped at his delicious taste, a slight sting of alcohol and a raw hunger that devoured me alive. He moved his hands from my hair to cup my face, his tongue dipping in and out of my mouth as if gathering honey, taking me over completely until the ground shifted and I could only cling to him, wanting more. He nipped my bottom lip, then sucked. The sharp pain gave way to heat that flicked my skin, tightened my nipples, and made me crave something really, really bad.

"So good," he groaned. "Like candy." His deft fingers stroked under my chin, down my neck, and across the swell of my breasts. I twisted in his grasp and tried to get closer, but he only laughed and kissed me deeper, while his fingers touched my nipples.

I forgot we were on a public beach and almost begged for him to pull down my dress. I felt achy all over, so I pressed against him and those hard muscles surrounded me with a power I wanted everywhere--over me, under me, in me. "Oh God, I want--"

"Yes, baby, me too. I want to touch you, kiss you, fuck you." His dirty words made me gasp, and he swallowed the sound, moving his fingers from my breasts to my rear. He cupped my ass and pulled me hard against him. His erection seemed massive behind the ridge of his jeans. I imagined him slipping between my thighs and I moaned again, sinking into an animal state where I didn't care about anything except slaking the ache.