way to liquid heat, honeyed and soothing and all-encompassing.
“God, Quinn.” He gasped against her hair. “You’re so tight. So perfect.”
“Take me. Please.”
And he did. With abandon.
Her nails dug into his back as he pumped into her, his hips knocking against hers, each stroke brushing her sex and pushing her closer to the peak. She grabbed his face in her hands and forced his mouth down to hers, meeting him thrust for thrust.
“So good,” he murmured, his eyes squeezed shut. “Oh, Quinn. Christ!”
An orgasm crashed into her as he plunged deep, his body trembling against hers. Their names mixed together, passed between each other’s lips as they fell into shared oblivion.
* * *
QUINN’S EYELIDS FLUTTERED OPEN. She tried to push the hair from her face and realized she couldn’t move. Not an inch. She hadn’t had that much to drink at the party...had she?
The bed shifted and something hard pressed against her ass, an arm tightening around her. Then it came flooding back: talking to Aiden, drinks at the bar followed by a string of life-changing orgasms.
Shit.
She’d done it...she’d actually had sex without freaking out.
And she’d slept through the night. When had that happened last? Normally, it would take an hour or two of “Slayer’s Faith” before she could even contemplate crawling into bed, and then she’d stick her earbuds in, tossing fitfully to some bullshit relaxation track until sleep finally claimed her. Temporarily, anyway.
The last time she’d slept all the way through without waking was... She couldn’t remember.
His arm was a deadweight over her midsection. His thighs lined hers and his crotch cradled her ass. Apparently, what they did last night hadn’t worn him out...not if the steel rod digging into her was anything to go on.
Easing herself out of Aiden’s grip, she shuffled to the edge of the bed and grabbed her phone. Three missed calls from Alana and a handful of texts. Oh, and it was 6:00 a.m.
Double shit!
She had to get across the bridge to her Brooklyn apartment so she could change for work. A subway ride of shame wasn’t exactly appealing, but a cab might not be quick enough. Biting down on her lip, her mind spun, searching for a solution.
Moving as gingerly as possible, she swung her legs out of the bed and stood. There was no time for awkward morning-after conversation. Besides, she’d been very clear what she’d wanted from him.
Aiden’s resting form could have been used for a mattress commercial; the hint of a smile on his lips and the messy splay of his dark curls made him look angelic.
But there sure as hell hadn’t been anything angelic about last night.
Quinn pressed the heel of her hand to the throbbing spot between her eyes. She needed to get out. Now.
Tiptoeing across the room, she gathered her panties and her dress and slipped both on as stealthily as she could. Alana’s patent leather stilettos gleamed beside the bed, still standing upright from when she’d discarded them last night. Heat surged through her as she remembered exactly what had happened after she’d shed them, her knees wobbling at the memory.
Holding the heels in one hand and her purse in the other, she glanced at Aiden. He mumbled in his sleep, rolling onto his back. The sheet came up over his hips, outlining an impressive erection. Swallowing, she let her eyes linger for a moment before sneaking for the door.
Part of her wanted to scribble down her number and leave it for him to find, but a relationship wasn’t in her plan. She had a promotion to chase and a personal life to sort out before she inflicted her problems on someone else...and her gut told her that seeing Aiden again would be like trying to take drugs without getting addicted.
You both agreed, no strings. You don’t owe him anything.
Quinn opened the hotel room door just enough to squeeze through, and she held her breath as it closed behind her.
As she walked barefoot to the elevator, her phone buzzed, Alana’s face flashing on the screen.
“Hello?”
“You slept with someone?” Alana’s high-pitched squeal ricocheted in Quinn’s head, making her flinch.
“Jesus, Alana. Can you not scream?” She shook her head, trying to clear the ringing in her ears. “And you say that with such amazement. I wasn’t a virgin, you know.”
She stopped at the elevator and jabbed the call button repeatedly, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she waited. Hopefully, the early hour would mean she wouldn’t have to walk past many people in a dress that was barely decent for a cocktail party, let alone breakfast.
“I know but it’s exciting. You’re getting past your...”
“Mental deformities?”
Pause. “Trust concerns.”
Quinn rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that sounds a whole lot better.”
“So who is he?”
“A designer for Ricochet Studios.” Quinn drew her bottom lip between her teeth. “Kind of cool that I slept with a guy who worked on ‘Slayer’s Faith.’”
Alana snorted. “I could make so many jokes right now.”
“Don’t. And, before you ask, no, I’m not going to see him again.”
Alana sighed. “I get it. Baby steps. Where are you, anyway?”
“I’m still at the hotel.”
“Me, too.” A sly laugh came through the line. “You’re not the only dirty birdie here. I’ll meet you downstairs in a few minutes and then we can head to my place.”
Alana’s was only a short walk away. She could shower and change and be at the office in forty-five minutes tops. “Any chance I can borrow something to wear to work?”
“Of course.”
Quinn stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. Mercifully, the doors closed and no one else had joined her. “See you in a minute.”
Dropping the phone into her bag, she sagged against the elevator. Drained. Her whole body thrummed with satisfaction but a monster coffee was required to put her in good form. The new guy was starting today, and she would make damn sure her manager knew what a mistake he’d made not choosing her.
Whoever this guy was, he would not show her up.
“DAMN ALANA. DOES SHE not own a single pair of pants?” Quinn muttered under her breath as she walked into the Cobalt & Dane head office, tugging on the hem of another one of her friend’s dresses.
Thankfully, this little black number covered her more comfortably, although the hem was still above her knees. She’d thrown on a pair of white high-top sneakers and a denim jacket in the hopes of dressing the outfit down. However, judging by the raised eyebrows aimed in her direction, she’d failed.
“You can’t sit here.” Owen Fletcher, her colleague and friendly office pain in the ass, dropped down into her chair before she had a chance to dump her satchel there. “This desk belongs to a grumpy pink-haired lady who never wears skirts.”
Smirking, she sipped her giant latte. “That’s got to be the first time you’ve ever called me a lady.”
“Seriously, what’s with the dress? It’s...weird.” He scrunched up his nose as if she’d walked into the office wearing a trash can.
“Can’t