Beyond Me (Quinn and James 1)

"So good," I cried brokenly. "So good."

"You were made for me. Jesus, your body is so tight and hot. I can't get enough of you." He worked his hips and drove me right back up, his fingers clenching my ass and holding me still for every stroke, and I gave myself up to him, letting him do what he wanted and take me anywhere. The pressure rebuilt and I shattered into a second orgasm--my ass bruised, my thighs shaking, and throat raw from my screams. He came hard and threw his head back, shouting my name and collapsed on top of my body.

I had no idea how much time passed before I was able to move. Like coming out of a Rip Van Winkle sleep, the room seemed foggy and my body was limp from use. The scent of sex and a delicious musky cologne filled the air. I wondered if I'd ever walk properly again, or if I was permanently bow-legged.

"Wanna take a shower?" he asked, stroking back my tangled hair. My ponytail had come free at some point.

"Yes, please." I wrinkled my nose. "I'm a mess."

"You're a gorgeous mess," he corrected, dropping a kiss on my nose. "I have robes in the closet. Get comfortable and meet me on the deck. I'm gonna clean up a bit and get ready to sail back."

"What time is it?"

He grinned. "Almost sunset."

I gasped. "We spent the whole day in bed?" I'd heard of couples doing that before but always figured it was an exaggeration. After all, how many hours can you actually have sex? Now I knew.

"Yep. I'll take you on a sunset sail. We have some leftover sandwiches and champagne. Meet me upstairs when you're ready."

I watched him climb out of bed. HIs body was a work of supple, defined muscles, a tight ass, and meaty biceps. Dusky tanned skin covered with dark hair. Even his feet seemed strong and sensual. He donned a T-shirt, pair of shorts, and with a wink, climbed the stairs. I slumped back onto the pillows.

Best. Spring. Break. Ever.

I took my time getting cleaned up and back in my suit. The terry cloth robe felt snug and comfy. I made my way to the upper deck, and found a small table set up with the remains of our lunch and more champagne. The sails whipped in the wind, and the landscape seemed distant and far, far away. The sun was a giant ball of fire, suspended halfway in the sky, and I gasped at the outrageous beauty. The moment was idyllic, almost from a dream. James seemed to experience similar emotions, because he moved over and wrapped me in his arms. Nothing mattered anymore. It was just us--free and alone on the water, and our boat chasing the sun.

"Is it always like this?" I murmured against his chest. My cheek rubbed against soft worn cotton, and I leaned into his strength.

He paused. I waited for him to ask what my question meant. I wasn't sure myself. But his voice whispered on the wind and drifted to my ears. "No. It's usually never like this."

We didn't speak for a while. I realized something strong surged between us, beyond the sex, but it was too massive and complicated to analyze now. I worried about so much in my life, I didn't want to turn my perfect encounter with James into something to pick apart and rationalize.

We broke apart and sat down. I was starving, and ripped into the rest of the roast beef and salad without taking a breath. He laughed at me and refilled my champagne glass. "How long do you usually stay in Key West?" I asked curiously.

He shrugged. "Usually after break is over, I move on. Sometimes I stay a week or two longer, depending on my plans."

I hated the doubts that suddenly sprang to mind. He probably seduced a girl each year, kept her for the week, then moved on. And wasn't my goal the same thing? So stupid. I had gotten attached after one lousy day in his bed. I'd make a terrible casual lover. I stiffened my resolve to make sure I didn't make it more than it was, or pressure him in any way. Even after his words that this seemed to mean a bit more than an easy roll in the hay. "Sounds perfect," I said lightly, finishing up my food.

"It is sometimes," he said. He watched me from across the table with a brooding gaze. "But sometimes it's just...empty."

My gaze cut to his. Heat blazed and blistered. It didn't matter that we'd been at each other all day. My body flamed back to life, hungry for more. He muttered a curse but kept still in his seat. "Empty how?" I questioned.

He stiffened. Anger seemed to beat from his figure, confusing me. "I do what I want, when I want. I make my own schedule, travel anywhere in the world, and have enough money and security not to worry. But there's no one on the other end. If I dropped off the face of the earth, no one would give a shit."

I sucked in my breath. The sudden vulnerability in his features fisted my heart and squeezed. How could that be possible? James Hunt had everything. Didn't he? "Your parents? Friends? Siblings, cousins?"

His profile remained carved in stone. "I'm an only child. I was pretty much raised by my housekeeper, private tutors, and learned everything needed to be the perfect society boy. It wasn't until later that I began to question my role."

"What role?"

"I was a prop. My parents only wanted one child so they could raise it to be what they needed. They'd sweep in to parade me in front of their friends, or at a party, or to show off. Most of the time they barely spoke with me, unless it was with demands on who I could see, how I should behave, all that crap." His voice became distant and cold. "When I figured out fucking up would at least bring their wrath, that was good enough for me. At least I got some reaction at first. Dad focused on getting me some reputable career or drafting me into the banking empire, but he doesn't get it. I'd die. I tried talking to him about it, but he didn't give a shit. Neither did Mom. So they gave up on me, released my trust fund money, and threatened to disown me if I humiliated them."

"I'm sure they didn't mean it. Parents threaten things all the time."

Shadows flickered over his face. "No. They meant it. They check up on me, of course. Skype, text, an occasional call. But not to really talk or find out what I'm up to. They want to be sure I haven't done anything to wreck the family name. My last visit was a clusterfuck. I got an hour at breakfast, and they both cited shit excuses to avoid me the rest of the weekend. I have no other family--they were both only children--and my friends? As I told you, they like what I can give them but if I had no money, they wouldn't stick."

"Maybe you never give them a chance?" I suggested gently. "I'm sure they'd care about you whether or not you had buckets of money."

He laughed, but it was bitter and without humor. "You still don't get it, do you, Quinn? I'm a complete mirage. Underneath, there's nothing there. I go from one event to another, one plac

e to the next. My friends just happen to be the ones I take with me for the ride, and when I drop them off, they happily leave. I'm a fucking ghost. Maybe it's good. No one gets hurt. No complications. Easy in, easy out."

"Why are you telling me this?" My voice trembled. There was something greater growing between us; a seed that sprouted and would soon become Jack's beanstalk with just a bit of care and tenderness. But how could such a connection happen in a day? Was that even possible? Or was I living in my own mirage, with no responsibilities and reality to intrude in perfection?

His eyes blazed. "So you know. You need to know who I am, what type of person you're with. I'm not like you. I never will be like you. Do you understand?"

My hand shook around the glass. "You don't know anything about me," I whispered. "Don't try to tell me what I can and can't handle."

He rose from the chair and clenched his fists. I swallowed as a rush of sexual energy punched the air. "You take care of people. Forgive them. You're strong and real, and I don't want you to forget it. But at the end of this week, you're gonna get on that plane and walk away. Without me."

My cheeks flamed. How dare he? "Don't flatter yourself," I said coldly. "I'm not a naive little virgin who's going to beg to stay with you. I have a life back in Chicago, and just because we have great sex doesn't mean I'll drop everything to be your groupie. You're a conceited asshole if you think it does."

He shut his eyes tight and seemed to struggle with something deeper. I waited, ready to walk away, ready to fight. His low voice stole my breath and my need to retreat. "That warning isn't for you, little girl." His eyes flew open and blazed hot and fierce. "It's for me."

Raw sexual energy swarmed between us. I knew he was admitting something he didn't want to, and had no idea how to process. He was messing with my head, big time, and I was getting sick of it. "What the hell does that mean anyway?" I hissed.

Emotion tightened my throat at the look of his face. Pain. Frustration.

Vulnerability.

"Damn you," he whispered. "Why'd you have to come here and fuck everything up?"

"Fuck you." I spun on my heel with the intention of getting the hell away from him, but his fingers grasped my arm and yanked me back. He lifted me up. His gaze raked over my face, studying me so intently I felt stripped and naked.