The Sweet Under His Skin (23 page)

"Can I take this off?" he asked, hands sliding around to her back where her bra was clasped.

She had a moment of reluctance, then he ran his tongue along her collar bone, making her whisper, "God yes."

It was undone immediately, and she wriggled under him to get her arms out of the straps. He didn't push to get her shirt off, but he wanted to touch her and she was going to let him.

Once she had one shoulder strap off his hand grasped her breast, kneading it, still teasing her nipple but taking the weight of it against his palm. She knew he liked it; his hips bucked against her again.

The arm keeping most of his weight off her was wound under her shoulders, his hand cupping the back of her head, turning her to kiss him deeper. Her chin was rubbed raw from his in a way she really liked, so much that she didn't really notice his hand release her breast and skim along her stomach to the fly of her jeans. He ran a finger inside the waistband, his knuckle sliding back and forth across her lower belly close to an area that felt hot and swollen.

She opened her eyes to see his staring down on hers. He didn't say anything, but when he had eye contact he started unbuttoning her jeans, then pulling the zipper downwards. His eyes were on her face, waiting for her to say stop; they were almost fucking her.

She licked her lips.

He did the same as her zipper was open all the way. Then his hand was inside her pants, cupping her through her panties. She gasped, and he closed his eyes as his fingers pressed close. Arielle could feel how wet she was then, which undoubtedly made her face go even further into the red. He slid two fingers down then up, her underwear in the way, creating friction.

Her hand left his shoulder to dig into the arm that had her panting. When his eyes opened again it looked as though he expected her to say stop. She took a deep breath, giving him the eye contact he wanted, then moved against his hand.

He rose up higher on his big arm, half-rolling off her, then pulled his hand away. She tightened her grip which made him smile. "Arielle, I ain't leaving it like that. Don't worry," he murmured with a chuckle and her face grew warmer yet.

He tucked that hand in under her panties, and she moved her hips and widened her thighs, breathing heavier before his hand was even where she wanted it.

When those fingers did slide down between heated folds she gave a gasp, head jerking back. His mouth fell on her throat with a groan, kissing and sucking along her skin. But she didn't feel it because the rough pads of his fingers were moving across her clit, slick with her own wetness, and she felt the agony of an orgasmic build-up.

She was whimpering in rhythm with him, and when he slid two big fingers inside she felt herself come apart, her feet rising off the mattress, toes curling, back arching, biting her lip to not holler out. She trembled and shook after, her breathing sounding ragged. Her eyes flickered open, taking in his stunningface as he gazed down on her so sweetly she wouldn't have believed it possible. How incredibly…

Perfect.

Quentin felt like he came when she did. With his fingers still buried inside her she turned her face toward his, looking soft and content.

He lowered his mouth to hers gently and she responded hungrily, hand sliding up along the back of his neck to keep him close, that fucking sweet mouth on his like candy.

"I gotta taste you," he moaned, shocking himself because he certainly didn't mean to say it out loud. But everything was different with Arielle. He was different when he was with her.

Her eyes got bright, and her cheeks reddened, which was so fucking adorable he nearly forgot his hand was still inside her. He removed his fingers, watching her eyes close and her breath hitch as he did it. He sat back on his heels between her legs, pulling down on her jeans and panties, taking them both off at once. She covered the juncture of her thighs with one hand, legs slamming shut as soon as her pants were off her ankles.

It made him chuckle again, and he took in how her skin goose-pimpled when he did it. "Are you cold?"

"No," she whispered, then repeated louder. "No. I'm fine."

He stretched up over her, elbow next to her head, hand resting along her neck. "Is it okay if I do this?"

"What…what are you going to do?"

He ran his nose along hers, keeping his tone low and private, just like hers, right where he wanted her. "I'm going to go down on you, Arielle. Like I just said, I gotta taste you."

"You want to do that?"

He raised his eyebrows. "I'm starving for it, Arielle."

Her eyes were fevered on his, scanning his face before nodding. He kissed her mouth, teasing at her tongue again, careful to keep his hand on her right breast, pulling at her nipple to make her cry out softly. Then he dropped his head to her belly, kissing that warm soft skin all the way down, stopping to pull her knees apart, getting down on his elbows in front of her, running his eyes along her private skin, looking up to see her watching him. He gave her a smile.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered before striking out with his tongue softly once to see if she was with him.

One foot jerked up next to him then dropped. She panted. Yeah, she was so with him.

He closed his mouth over her clit, letting his tongue work in circles slow and soft. Her hips were moving with him. He didn't suck, didn't speed up, he just added his fingers and was rewarded with a very female, very satisfied moan.

He refused to roughen up his treatment. As heated as he was, as much as he wanted to get rid of his own jeans and plunge into her deep, he was still remarkably in control of himself. He wanted to feel her come like this, with his fingers inside and his mouth tasting her gently. The combination was like a leash on him.

The orgasm surprised them both. Her hips bucked but he was already holding her in place, her legs writhing along his arms. She was mewing, the sounds matching the contractions he felt along his fingers. He softened his tongue's attentions, only stopping when she was quiet and still.

He kissed her stomach. Her chest over the T-shirt. Her neck. She turned her head in time to meet his lips, both her hands fisting in his hair. Her legs wrapped around his waist and he knew then she was his.

He could take her.

To come to this after so long dancing around each other, pretending they didn't want each other. Culminating right now, with her in his bed, willing and warm. She wanted this before chemo, he knew that. She wanted this before she got sick and lost her hair and a lot of weight…

He pulled his head back, hand on her stomach. There was panic in his chest, and he didn't like it. He didn't want her to get that sick. He didn't want her to go through all that shit.

Fuck, she could die. He could lose her completely.

"Quentin…" her voice was still thick with want. "…What's wrong?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but he was locked on her eyes, how bright they were. Alive and gorgeous and vibrant. Fuck, he didn't want to lose any of her, actually.

"Quentin?" Her tone told him she was sensing something amiss.

Fuck, how did he stop now? How could he stop without absolutely embarrassing her? Shit, he couldn't do this.

"Arielle," he mumbled, lowering his forehead down to hers and closing his eyes.

"Is something wrong?" Christ, she was worried about him.

He was a fucking asshole. "Shit, Arielle. I…we can't do this."

The pause felt like she struck him before she asked, "What?"

"I shouldn't do this. I…I don't want to hurt you."

"Hurt me?" she hissed, scrambling out from under him flying off the bed and grabbing at her clothes. "Hurt me," she repeated, annoyed, still breathless but now plenty angry, clumsily pulling on her jeans. "Don't fucking look at me," she snapped, doing up her fly.

"Arielle, it's not because you're—"

"Incomplete? Of course not .You'll fuck anything with a hole, but that isn't about this," she spat back while slapping her chest.

"I care about you, babe—"

"Don't do that. Don't fucking do that. Don't call me babe as you lie to me." She was struggling to get her bra on under her shirt.

He stared at the bedspread, heart feeling like about ten-thousand pounds of concrete. "I care about you, Arielle. You…you shouldn't be with someone like me."
She ain’t for this life…
Bishop was right. She was too precious for someone as fucked up as him.

She got the bra done up and was headed for the door in the meantime. But before she got there she spun around. "It's not me, it's you? Give me a break, Quentin. I just wanted to get laid. To have something fun happen to me before I go off to the world of chemotherapy. That's all. You think I'm here falling in love with you? Don't fucking flatter yourself."

Then she was gone. The anger she left behind stung, it cut to the quick and she might not believe it but he felt each word.

That was good, though. If she was pissed, she'd stay away. And now he was only half-worried that he'd find ways to hurt her worse once she was even deeper under his skin. He'd take that pain gladly to keep it from her.

He was just too fucking scared to let her matter more than she already did, and that was the brutal truth.

He got to his feet like a broken man, pushed his way into the bathroom and turned the tap on the sink. He washed his hands thoroughly to get rid of her, then scrubbed at his face with both hands as well. When the smell and taste of her was gone, only the tingle of sweet along his jaw and up the back of his neck, he returned to the bedroom, picked up his shirt, grabbed his keys and locked up his house.

He climbed on the Dyna, not wanting to ride the bike that Calvin helped him build now, kicking it to life loudly and taking off down the street headed for the clubhouse.

Such a fucking asshole. He knew very damn well that girl deserved better than him. But he was a selfish prick, and he knew how to be nice to a woman just enough to get her curious and interested. He'd pulled that on Arielle and she didn't fucking deserve it.

It looked as though most of the club was assembled for the evening. He parked in line with the other Dead Men bikes, climbed off and headed for the clubhouse door. Dillon was smoking up against a wall outside the bar, bottle of beer dangling between his knees. As Quentin approached he heard the big man chuckling.

"Bedtime for that sweet little neighbor of yours come and gone then?" Dillon quipped.

"Fuck you," Quentin muttered as he stalked past.

"Don't be so sensitive, Quent. I think this slip of gash is making you irritable. Is her ass too tight for you, or something?"

Like before, the anger struck like a black out and before he knew it his fist was stinging like a bitch and Dillon was on his back on the ground, cradling his jaw with one hand. He'd dropped the smoke but managed to keep his beer upright and unbroken. Dillon set the bottle on the ground and stood slowly, cranking his jaw to the side and looking up at Quentin under his lowered brow. Quentin knew that look, it was as pissed-off-looking as the bastard got.

"You want a fight then?"

"You don't hit someone if you don't want a fight," Quentin replied hollowly.

"I owe you for earlier, too," the asshole reminded him. Quentin just set his jaw and waited. Dillon gave him a moment, looked him up and down, then shrugged one shoulder. "All right then," he conceded before connecting a left hook with Quentin's jaw.

He may have been getting a touch slower in his forties, but Dillon still packed a hell of a punch. Stars lit off in Quentin's head, and he righted himself with some difficulty, shaking his dome and bringing his hands up. "Not bad," he admitted.

It's not me, it's you? Give me a break, Quentin.

Another hook, but Quentin answered with a jab to Dillon's gut that he was ready for, his stomach tightened before Quentin got there.

I just wanted to get laid.

Another hook he didn't even try to evade, white lights fading the world again momentarily.

You'll fuck anything with a hole, but that isn't about this.

He stood stock still for the fourth hit, a bitch of a jab that caught his cheekbone.

You think I'm here falling in love with you? Don't fucking flatter yourself.

Quentin hit the ground on one knee, hearing Dillon's heavy breathing as he circled away muttering "Fucking hell," to himself.

"Thanks," Quentin muttered, his voice sounding thick. He spat, and it was bloody.

"Fuck you," Dillon said, but with affection. He crouched in front of Quentin, hand on his shoulder. "What the hell's wrong?"

"I think I'm fucking broken."

"Broken how?"

"I fucked it up with Arielle."

Dillon sighed. "What'd you do?"

He shook his head. "God, I wanted her. I wanted her so fucking bad."

"You didn't hurt her?"

He couldn't be mad at Dillon for asking. "No, I did worse. I…left." His raised his eyes to Dillon's. "She was saying yes and I…said no."

Dillon's weight eased back onto his heels and he exhaled. "Ah, Quent," he said, and that was it.

"I know." Quentin got to his feet so Dillon did too, but Quentin rolled his shoulders back, trying to reassert some man into his spine. "She won't forgive me. It took a lot to get close and… Fuck, my old man was right!I’m fucking pathetic."

Dillon regarded him silently, tongue working in his cheek as he was thinking something over. "I can't help with this," Dillon finally said. "You need to talk to something with a vagina."

Quentin blew out a breath. "I need to get drunk," he corrected. "Completely mindlessly drunk so I don't even get up tomorrow."

Dillon nodded, slapping his shoulder. "All right, that I can help with."

"Arielle? Honey, open the door. Please sweetheart, tell me what happened." Arielle could only shake her head, curled up in a ball in the corner of her tiny bathroom, trying not to make any noise with her sobbing. It hurt. It made it harder to stay quiet. Aunt Thelma sounded ready to form a lynch mob. "What did he do? Arielle, answer the door. I'm sorry I told you to go over there. Just tell me what happened."