He exhales, nodding. “Okay. Sorry, I’m just…” He stops short, then looks me in the eye. “So you’re saying you’re still on the pill?”
I feel heat creeping up my neck, but there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. “No. That’s not what I’m saying.”
His gaze turns intense. “Then what kind of birth control are you on, woman?”
Looking at the roof of the car, I crinkle my nose and say, “Um…”
With the speed of two fingers snapping, he devolves from an adult human male with a fully functioning frontal lobe to a cave-dwelling primate composed of ninety-nine percent penis.
A growl rises from deep in his throat. His arms tighten around me. His intensity level ratchets up a few thousand notches, and his eyes turn black. His energy crackling hot, he stares at me as if I’m about to be devoured.
In a guttural voice that raises all the hairs on the back of my neck, he says, “You’re not using anything.”
I nervously lick my lips. “Don’t go all George of the Jungle on me. I simply didn’t know I’d be needing anything because I didn’t know I’d be getting married.”
His savage grin is reminiscent of how an animal bares its teeth. His eyes gleam with a disturbing light. And his erection is now the fourth passenger in the car, quickly sucking out all the oxygen.
“You never mentioned that, viper. You let me fuck you and—”
“Keep your voice down!”
“—begged for me to come inside you. Begged me. And the whole time, you weren’t on birth control.” He bites my throat, then says hotly into my ear, “What does that mean?”
Shivering, I whisper, “That I have brain damage and should be taken to see a specialist immediately.”
He wraps a hand around my throat and takes my mouth.
The kiss is consuming in its intensity. He thrusts his tongue into my mouth and ravages it passionately until I think I’ll pass out. When he breaks away, we’re both panting.
But he’s the only one laughing.
Low, rough, and thoroughly pleased, his laughter is a victory lap around the race that I’ve obviously just lost with my admission.
“Quinn?”
“Aye, viper?”
“Don’t talk to me for the rest of the day, okay?”
Still chuckling, he kisses me again. His mouth is possessive, his embrace is tight, and his eyes are living fire.
“Whatever my queen wants.”
Looking away from his triumphant face, I wonder how soon is too soon to start marriage counseling.
31
Rey
Quinn takes me shopping at the most expensive stores in Manhattan, one by one. Not only at the couture clothing ateliers, but also for shoes, handbags, perfume, cosmetics, lingerie, and luggage.
It takes the entire day.
He arranges for most things to be delivered to his home address, but what doesn’t get delivered, poor Kieran lugs to the car with the patience of a saint.
When I ask Quinn why he doesn’t help him, he grins.
“I’m on my honeymoon.”
And because the man has a highly developed sense of the absurd, our last stop is at the Cartier store where we went to pick out Lili’s ring.
When we pull up in front of the building on Fifth Avenue, I frown. “You said you returned the pink diamond already.”
He chuckles. “Did you think a ring would be the only piece of jewelry I’d ever buy you?”
“It’s not as if I’ve had oodles of time to think about it.”
“I’ll spare you the effort. I want you covered in pretty sparkling things. The more, the merrier. You’ll look like a bloody Christmas tree by the time I’m done with you.”
Just to be subversive, he carries me across the threshold of the store in his arms.
The manager is overjoyed to see him. You’d think Quinn was his long-lost brother the way the man reacts. I expect him to burst into tears of joy at any moment.
I suspect with the purchase of that red diamond, Quinn has likely paid the man’s rent for the rest of the decade.
When Quinn tells him, “We need more jewelry. Lots of it,” he almost passes out.
We spend more than an hour in the store. When we emerge, I’m the new owner of a few million dollars’ worth of luxury baubles and am more than a little dazed.
Dazed and dismayed, because this feels much too one-sided.
“What’s that sour puss for?” he asks the moment we’re back in the car.
“It’s just that you’ve bought me all these wonderful gifts, and I haven’t given you anything. You even had to buy your own wedding ring.”
He gathers me into his arms, smiles at me, and plants a kiss on my lips. His voice soft, he says, “You’ve given me everything, you bloody daft woman.”
“Really? Because it seems like all I’ve given you are headaches and a constant barrage of death threats.”
“Aye. Those, too. Don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure you make it up to me later tonight.”
His sensual smile leaves no doubt as to what kind of “making up” I’ll be doing.
By the time we drop everything off at the hotel and head to dinner, we’re half an hour late. The house is on the outskirts of Boston in the wealthy suburb of Westwood.
And when I say “house,” I’m being ironic.
Declan and Sloane live on a forty-acre parcel with its own stream-fed pond, infinity pool, pool house, boat dock, and guest house. The estate is a masterpiece of contemporary design, with twenty-foot ceilings, entire walls of glass, and ten thousand square feet of understated opulence.
Its sleek elegance makes Gianni’s house look like a bad dream.
When we’re inside and I tell Sloane how much I love it, she smiles.
“Hopefully, this one’s a keeper.”
“What do you mean?”
She says vaguely, “We’ve moved around a lot. By the way, I love that dress.”
Standing beside me in the living room, Quinn puffs out his chest. “I picked it out.”
Smiling, I say, “You made a phone call. A hotel employee picked it out.”
“It still counts!”
Sloane grins. “Yes, it does, Spider.”
She seems fond of him, which I like. I like her, too. She’s smart, sophisticated, and the center of a room without trying. She also has a gorgeous husband who obviously worships her. Declan’s blue eyes track her every move with unconcealed adoration.
We have cocktails on the patio overlooking the pool and miles of manicured lawn. Though we only met once at the wedding rehearsal, Sloane and I settle into an immediate easy familiarity, chatting about topics as varied as shoes to current events.
There’s no bullshit with her. She says exactly what she thinks. She doesn’t give a damn about trying to impress.
Which is good for her, because the meal she serves is awful.
Seriously god-awful. I wouldn’t even feed it to starving rabbits, which seem to be the target demographic.
Sitting at their huge rectangular glass dining table, I stare down at my plate loaded with inedible, unidentifiable nubby twiggy things and wonder how poor Declan manages to keep so much muscle on his frame.
If I had to guess, he probably eats out a lot.
“Try the tempeh soy seaweed cakes,” she suggests, pointing with her fork to an ugly oblong greenish-brown lump on her plate. “They’re super good for your colon.”