About Last Night

Without hesitation, she responded, “Of course.” She prattled off her address, and within minutes, I was in my car on the way over.

Just because I wanted to.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Mia

Rushing out of the shower, I dried off, throwing my towel behind me, and slipped on my pajamas. Not my ratty tee, but the mauve silky set I bought on my shopping expedition with Edita. The spaghetti-strapped tank felt amazing against my bare skin, and the shorts barely covered my butt cheeks, but this was Quinn I was trying to impress.

I stood then stopped as my stomach flipped. I placed a calming hand on it. Oh, God. Quinn was coming over. As in, coming over to my apartment. To my place of residence. Where I showered and ate, and where I did mediocre things like sleep!

Gah! Why did I feel like this was something special? Shaking my head at the fluttering in my belly, I sighed lightly and scolded myself mentally for making this more than it was. Maybe Quinn did this with other female friends. Maybe this was nothing to him at all except a way to pass time. Maybe he was bored and I was simply available.

It made me think of something my brother had told me when I was a teenager. ‘Don’t make a man a priority if he only makes you an option.’ Was that what I was doing? Was I going out of my way to appease Quinn? Was I only his option? Because, quite frankly, that would suck balls.

My gut sank. I thought about changing into something a little more conservative, when a light knock on my front door sounded. My eyes went to the door. I looked down at myself and slapped a hand on my forehead. What the hell was I thinking?

Another knock sounded. It was too late. I’d answer the door as I was, regardless of how pathetic I was. I could pull off sexy if I really put my mind to it. I made my way to the door, slipping on my fluffy pink slippers on the way. I unlocked the door and opened it, ignoring the churning in my gut.

Quinn leaned on the doorframe, his tall body relaxed, his face somber. Even though he wore black sweatpants and a gun-metal grey tee, the strength of his legs were clear to see and his arms looked delicious in that plain shirt. When he caught sight of what I was wearing, he straightened and blinked down at me. “Wow.”

My cheeks burst into flame. “Um…”

He reached out and his fingers gently plucked at a thin strap of my silken tank. “This is nice.”

I swallowed hard before choking out, “Come in.” I followed this by taking his large hand in mine and pulling him in. It was then that I noticed the small white bag in his other hand. He handed it to me without a word. I took it with narrowed eyes.

Truthfully, I loved surprises, but if this was another vibrator, I’d hit him over the head with it. In complete Quinn fashion, he just grinned while I dug inside. Whatever it was felt soft. I pulled the item out and gasped.

Dropping the bag, I gaped at the clearly expensive sweater. It was the color of caramel, was softer than a cloud in heaven, and looked fancy. I checked the tag and squeaked.

Armani.

Oh no. It wasn’t just Armani.

It was mothertruckin’ cashmere.

Didn’t he know what this meant?

I could never wear this. This would be the one item of clothing that I brought out to look at, to admire, but I could never risk wearing this goddamn, stupid sweater, because of my being a klutz. I’d give it a week. It would have a hole in it. I threw it at him and jumped back, watching in horror as the sleeve of the sweater draped itself over his head.

He pulled it off and looked at me like I had lost my mind as he muttered slowly, “O-kay then.”

But I shook my head. “I can’t take that. It’s beautiful.” I clutched a hand to my chest and squeezed at my heart. “Like, beautiful. But I can’t accept that, Quinn.” Then I got angry. “Why would you get me something like that anyways? You’re not allowed to buy me things. I’m not a kept woman. This isn’t a historical romance.” I placed my hands on my hips and glared at him, poking a finger into his chest. “You are not a duke.” I straightened my shoulders and crossed my arms over my chest. “I will not be a duke’s mistress.”

I replayed everything I had just said in slow motion. Ridiculous things said ridiculously in slow motion only made said ridiculous things more ridiculous. My eyes darted everywhere but at him. My chest heaved, and for a moment there, I thought I would faint from mortification.

But then he sauntered over to me, sweater in hand. I bit the inside of my cheek and watched him approach me slowly, as if he were approaching a spooked animal. “Mia.”

I wrung my fingers together and looked at a spot on the wall behind him.

“Mia. Look at me, baby.”

Damn him and his highly hypnotic voice. I looked at him.

His eyes crinkled in the corners and his lip twitched. His strong hands gripped my hips and he pulled me into him. I had no choice but to go to him, or risk falling over. He squeezed my hip with one hand, massaging slowly, while catching my chin between his thumb and finger, lifting my face to meet his eyes. “Baby.”

He’d draped the sweater over his shoulder. I stared at it and whispered, “I don’t like you buying me things.”

His smile stretched. “I got that.” Then he sobered. “But maybe if I explain why I bought it, you’ll get over it, accept it, and thank me.”

I closed my eyes, trying hard as I could to ignore how domestic this scene felt. I also tried to ignore how right this felt. His lips hit the apple of my cheek and he spoke softly, “I was out this afternoon, went down the strip for a new suit. While I was there, I spotted this soft thing, so I went over and felt it, and I thought to myself, ‘I wonder how this would look on Mia.’”

This wasn’t fair. And I felt like crying. With every additional moment, I fell deeper and harder for Matt Quinn. How dare he make me love him? It was almost cruel.

His breath warmed my skin. “The lady at the store asked if there was a special lady in my life that might like it, and I thought, ‘Well, Mia is about the most special lady I know.’”

That was it. I was fucking doomed. Tears prickled behind my closed lids and my throat strained with emotion.

The hand at my hip slid around my back, pinning me to him. “I told her to wrap it up, because all of a sudden, I couldn’t leave the damn sweater there.” His fingers moved soothingly up and down my back. “Not when it was made for you.”

Gah! He was good. My voice hoarse, I spoke softly, just loud enough for him to hear. “Thank you, Quinn. I love it.”

He kissed me then; his lips were cool and he tasted of mint. It was short and sweet. “You’re welcome.”

Blinking away tears, I silently led him to my bedroom, where the TV was on. He slipped off his shoes, laid the gorgeous sweater across the chair at my vanity, and then without permission, he lifted the quilt and let himself under the covers. As he did this, he groaned quietly, and it was only then I saw the strain on his face.

I climbed in next to him and tucked myself into his side. He ran his fingers down my arm, but stopped when I blurted out, “I want to talk about your job.”

He stilled a moment before resuming the comforting motion. “What do you want to know?” He sounded tired, but I was too curious to care at that moment.

With my cheek on his chest, my hand resting on his taut stomach, I took in all the warmth he had to give, wrapping a leg around his, wanting to turn us into a Quinn-Mia-pretzel. “How do you do it?”

He stayed quiet a moment before responding carefully. “From a young age, sex was my drug of choice. I guess it sort of seemed natural when it transitioned into a job. It felt like I’d won the lottery, actually.”

He snuffled a laugh through his nose, and I smiled, asking quietly, “Do you think you’ll ever quit?” He didn’t answer, so I tried again. “Don’t you ever want more?”

His arms tightened around me as he answered, almost as if he was scared of my reaction to his reply. “I’m not looking for more, Mia.”

And there it was. My reaction was to hide my th

oughts in complete silence. My mind mocked me. Did you think he’d confess his undying love for you and quit his job? He fucks women for a living. Of course he wouldn’t settle for one woman, especially if that one woman is you.

Which, of course, meant that I needed to rub salt into the open, gaping wound in my chest. “How many women do you sleep with a week?”

He sighed. “Depends.” He was trying to brush me off.

I should’ve heeded his discreet warning. I asked quietly, “How many?”

Regardless of what he said, he did not sound proud when he admitted, “Minimum three a week. Hour long sessions. Maximum of six.”

I swallowed hard, staring into the bright, moving images on the TV. “And they all come to you for sex?” He grunted. The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them, “But don’t you feel dirty?”

Quinn went rigid under me. “About as dirty as the socially awkward girl with self-esteem issues must’ve felt hiring a hooker to deflower her.”

Oh, damn. Thems were fighting words. And I totally deserved them. But those words cemented a decision I knew I needed to make. I snuggled into Quinn, feeling his body relax against mine. “Sorry.”

He placed a kiss at my hairline. “Me too.”

We watched TV for a little while longer before Quinn’s breathing steadied as he slept. I silently reveled in the feeling of being the woman he came to when he needed a brief break from his hectic life, the woman he thought about when he went clothes shopping. He called me his special lady. And yet, somehow, that wasn’t enough for me. The sad truth was it never would be. Not unless he gave me all of him.

Decision made, I buried my nose into the crook of Quinn’s neck and breathed him in, falling asleep as close to him as I could possibly get. I never wanted to forget the feel of him, the smell of him. It was bittersweet, this time together.