Crazy For You (29 page)

“Louder,” he said in her ear as he stroked her. “Scream,” and she shook her head but breathed faster, sighing with his hand.

Somewhere something moved, muffled, and she tensed. Nick stopped, too, still looking into her eyes but distracted, as if he were listening for something. It was so quiet, all she could hear was Nick’s breathing.

He was breathing pretty hard.

“We better stop,” Quinn whispered, but there were no more sounds, she wasn’t even sure she’d really heard the first one, she wasn’t really sure she cared, so she pressed against his hand, and when he moved his fingers inside her again, she let her eyes go closed.

“I don’t think so,” Nick whispered against her ear. “I think we do this now. Right up against this wall.”

She shivered. It was dumb to do this here, she should be saying no, telling him they could do this at home, at his place, even in the truck, but it felt so good right now, and she thought about what it would be like to not think about it once, to just be, to take into herself the darkness he’d tried to give her the last time, the darkness her mind had kept pulling her out of, the darkness she could feel moving into her now.

“It’s been so long,” he said, his voice low. “So long since I’ve been inside you, watched you come, made you come.”

He slid his fingers higher, stroked her faster, made her breath go and her throat dry. “Nick—”

“So we do it now.”

His voice hummed in her blood. “Nick—”

“I’m going to take you hard against this wall,” he whispered into her ear as his fingers moved into her. “Harder than you’ve ever been had before. So hard you’re going to feel me with every move you make for a week. You’re going to remember you were mine every time you breathe.”

She shuddered under the tickle of his breath, under the pressure of his hand, but mostly under what he’d said—
you‘re mine
—and the dark washed over her in slow waves, syncopated with his hand. His fingers slid inside her, and she thought,
Go into it,
and gave herself up. The heat and the prickle in her blood spread low and thick, and she moved with it, against Nick’s hand but with his rhythm, and she thought about his hand to make things darker, Nick’s fingers, long and strong and square-tipped, alien inside her, invading her, moving into her slick folds and then out to her hard little center.
There,
she thought, and when his fingers slid wetly there, she said,
“There,”
out loud, and moved to help him, shivering at the stroke. “There,” she said again, just to say it, and when he bent his head to her breast, she said, “Oh,
there,”
and stretched to meet him.

Everything in her that was practical said,
You know you heard something,
and she ignored it and went into her body and what Nick was doing to her, into his fingers inside her, his hand holding her helpless, his body pressing hers—the heat was everywhere—into his mouth sucking her hard, his fingers faster there, his hand bruising her wrists—
I’m going to take you hard
—into the heat of him, the roughness of him, the darkness of him, the difference and the danger of him, into—

“
Into me,”
she whispered, and all sanity died as his fingers left her, left her so empty she cried out
Oh
and rocked forward, her hips following his heat, pressing against his fingers as they moved down his own zipper, pressing until his hand was on her again, not just his hand, and she felt him thick between her thighs. She breathed,
“Yes,”
into his mouth as he kissed her, felt his body slide down hers until his hand moved between her legs and guided him hard into her.

She shuddered at the shock of him, then deliberately opened herself to the dull thudding of her blood as he moved inside her, pinning her against the wall with each thrust of his hips.
Into me,
she told herself and thought of him smooth and thick sliding inside her, splitting her softness open, hard inside her, all the way inside her, into the hot and the slick and the pink of her, taking him, all of him. It was breathtaking, astounding, going into herself like this, thinking about herself like this; she’d had men inside her before but
she’d
never been there, never known herself thick with heat and succulent the way she loved herself now, could love herself now because she trusted him so completely that she didn’t have to think of anything else. For the first time, she was more real inside than out, all blood and flesh and nerve and mindless, endless pleasure filled with Nick.

He lifted her hips with his, pushing her up on her toes with each breath he took, thrusting her off balance each time, trapping her against the cold, smooth wall. The tingle in her blood turned to crackle, a dark itch under her skin that made her writhe, and she almost pulled her mind away but didn’t, not this time.
Into me,
she thought again, and willed herself to take in the darkness, to feel herself swell and clench, and when she opened her eyes and found him staring at her, she took him in, swallowed him with her eyes and made him hers.

“Quinn,” he whispered and let go of her wrists to cradle her face and kiss her, and she clutched him and gave herself up. He whispered her name over and over as he moved inside her, looked in her eyes as he took her, and when she dug her fingernails into his shoulders, he slid his hands to her hips to move against her harder, faster, shuddering, never taking his eyes from her, his fingers digging into her flesh, all of it part of the dark surging through her body, everywhere, swelling into her fingertips, her breasts, her thighs, her lips, everywhere she opened to it.

“Oh,
God,
Quinn,” Nick said, intent on her eyes. He kissed her hard, and the dark deepened and tightened. She writhed against him as it burned and spread and throbbed, and she shuddered with it, making small breathless cries as Nick thrust into her—Nick hot in her, mindless in her, thick and hard in her—her blood screaming, tight, everything inside her tight, tighter—tighter—and then she cried out “Nick” and came, staring into his eyes, crying again with each break and shudder, each spasm flinging her into the next, hard, hard again, hard again, hard again, over and over and over, until she clung to him, defenseless and open and ecstatic, safe in his arms, not caring about anything except how dark and beautiful and shattering it was inside her.

Then she collapsed and he held her tightly because her knees had gone and there was nothing left of her except ache and quiver and satisfaction. He felt so good against her-—his worn T-shirt soft under her cheek, his chest hard under the shirt, his hands digging into her back—and then he bent to kiss her, his mouth soft on hers, and she sighed from the sheer lightness of it.

A few minutes later, he whispered, “Imagine what we could do in a bed.”

“I don’t want to imagine,” she said, and her voice came out thick and low. “I want to know.”

His arms tightened around her. “Your place or mine?”

“Yours.” Quinn moved her face against his shirt, still clinging to him, her knees like rubber. “Max took Darla back to my place a hour ago, and I want to scream again.”

When Nick was gone to get the truck—“Let me warm it up and bring it to the door,” he’d said, laughing, shrugging on his flannel shirt. “The last thing I want is you going cold on me or the damn thing stalling”—she stood alone on the stage, hugging herself because they’d done it right, she’d done it right, and anything seemed possible. Darla would go back to Max, the play would be a hit, Bill would find somebody else, and she and Nick could drive each other into hot, wet darkness forever.

She picked up her bag and went out to meet him in the dark parking lot, her heart tripping, letting the door slam shut behind her and yanking on it to make sure it was locked. If the BP found it unlocked, there’d be hell to—

“We need to talk,” Bill said behind her.

Oh, hell,
he thought now from habit, but he was too elated to be depressed. Holding her and loving her and needing her and having her all at once had been a mind-bending experience, one he intended to repeat every chance he got. Forever. Assuming he could pull that off.

“Don’t fuck this up,” he told himself now. “Do not fuck this up.”

Of course, she was going to be skeptical.
You pancaked on me three times,
she’d said, so she’d need some reassurance when she got in the truck that they weren’t going out for pizza.

Okay, she’d get in the truck and he’d tell her he loved her.

No, he wouldn’t. Jesus, this would be the worst time, right after sex, she’d never believe him, especially given the stuff he’d pulled before. They could never have pizza again. Why hadn’t he said, “Let’s go out for broccoli”?

Okay, he couldn’t tell her tonight, so maybe tomorrow. He could take her home tomorrow after the play stuff was done and not jump her until he’d told her.

No, that wouldn’t work, either, she’d think it was just a ploy to get her into bed. So he could tell her and then not sleep with her tomorrow night.

Fat chance.

This wasn’t going to work. Besides, he didn’t want to tell her anyway, how could you just say something like that? No wonder guys sent flowers. More daisies. He could write it on a card.

No, he couldn’t.

Okay, so he was going to have to get used to the idea before he started actually talking about it. Oh, hell, he was never going to talk about it. Maybe she’d just know. Maybe if he stayed the night, she’d figure it out.

But then he’d have to actually stay the night.

He flinched a little at the thought, and then he thought of holding her close and safe—holding Quinn close and safe, loving her, feeling her warmth all night, waking up next to her, not having to wait to hold her again—and he stopped flinching and told himself it would be okay. He could get up really early. It would be fine.

He started the truck and thought,
Well, what am I going to say to her when she gets in ?
and turned the truck off to think again.

“You scared me.” She tried to laugh again.

Wrong. Wrong. His head started to pound.

She pulled away. “Bill, you cannot even believe how tired I am. I can’t talk right now.”

“Come home,” he said and
tried
to take her hand, but she jerked it away, too, like there was something wrong with him, there wasn’t anything wrong with him, and she said, “Bill, I’m tired.”

She tried to move around him and he blocked her, just took one step, not touching her, just to stop her. “Come home,” he said. “We can talk.”

“I don’t want to talk, Bill.” Her voice was flat again, not pretending any more, he’d known that laugh was fake, and now she was just saying she didn’t want to, like she didn’t owe him, like it wasn’t her fault—

“I want to talk,” he said, and crowded her closer, liking the way she stepped back—now she was paying attention— so that he moved closer and closer again until she was up against the building, nowhere to go.

Now she’d talk to him, damn it.

“Stop it.” She put her hands out to wave him away. “Just stop it. This is stupid.”

She shoved at him a little, and it made him mad, she was shoving him away, but it made him want her, too, her hands on him, and that was wrong, this wasn’t about sex, and then she said, “Bill,” and tried to move around him and he caught at her wrists to hold her there.

She shut up then, she knew he was serious, she was going to listen this time.

“Just tell me what I did wrong so I can fix it and you can come back.” He heard his voice, and it sounded thick, like there was a lump in his throat, the way people sounded when they were going to cry, and that wasn’t his voice at all.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” She tried to twist her hands away and he held her tighter, felt the fragile bones in her wrists crunch together, saw her take a sharp breath, frown at the pain, and thought,
Now you’ll listen,
thought about shoving her against the wall, shoving himself against her, just to feel her again, just to—

“Let go, Bill.” Her face was wrong, she was frowning at him, she was all wrong. “It just wasn’t right. It’s nobody’s fault.” Her voice shook a little, and that made him tighten his hands again. She looked afraid, she was really paying attention now, he could talk to her now. “Let go of me,” she said, and he watched her try to be calm, that was his Quinn, nothing she couldn’t handle, nothing she couldn’t make all right. Except this. He was the one in control now.

She squirmed under his hands again and he felt hot, felt like pushing at her, pushing against her, all her softness was supposed to be his, it was his—

“This is ridiculous, Bill,” she said sharply. “You’re hurting me.”

That’s the only way you listen, he wanted to say, but he couldn’t waste the time, he had to make her see—“What wasn’t right?” he said. “You owe me that, what was so goddamn wrong you had to leave? You just tell me that.”

“Bill, I don’t like this.” She tried to make her voice firm, he could tell she was trying, but she quavered anyway, and he thought,
Good. Good
for somebody else to feel some pain instead of always him,
good
for her to know who was in charge. “Let me go,” she said, and he felt the heat flare again because he wasn’t going to. She was just out of luck because he wasn’t going to.

“I don’t
like
letting you go.” Bill had to push the words out, his throat was too tight, she had to understand, he’d
make
her understand just how
wrong
she’d been to leave him in that
tomb
of an apartment. He shoved her into the brick again, bouncing her with his words to make her listen. “I don’t
like
coming home and finding you not there.” And watching her through windows,
always shut out,
that was her fault. He pulled her up and shoved her into the brick harder. “I don’t
like
never seeing you. I don’t
like
the way you won’t look at me, the way you treat me like I’m not even
there,
so I guess we’ve
both
got some things we don’t like.”

“I’m going home.” Quinn tried to jerk her wrists free, but there was no way, not anymore, he’d had enough, so he pulled her close and then shoved her really hard against the building to make her listen, and her head smacked against the wall, and she cried out and blinked back tears, pain, he knew about pain, and he was glad.

He pressed her wrists into the bricks, one hand on each side of her head so she couldn’t turn away, putting his face close to hers so she’d have to look at him, have to see him. “I did everything right, I was everything you needed, and you left me because of that damn dog. You were happy with me,” he said, and her voice choked as she said, “Bill—”

“You
were,”
he said, “you
were,
you
were,
you
were
—” He shoved her wrists into the brick on each
were,
glad she winced when he did it, breathing heavier each time she did, glad she was paying attention, feeling really good, feeling really really
good,
but when he pulled back to shove her into the wall again, she wrenched herself away, throwing herself sideways, trying to get away. He said,
“No,”
and grabbed at her shirt, but she wouldn’t stop, he felt it give suddenly, and then she was running from him, limping and stumbling, her shirt was in his hand and her bare back was pale in the dark night as she ran, and all he had was her shirt, that was
wrong.
He yelled, “Goddamn it,” and threw the shirt away to run after her, to get her back, she couldn’t get away again, she was not going to get away again.

He caught her in three strides, grabbing at her bare arm, feeling her warm flesh under his fingers as he yanked her back and yelled,
“Stop running from me.”
He swung her around—she was naked, almost naked, one of those loud bras, awful pink, she was so round, he reached for her, wanting to dig his fingers into her—and she screamed,
“No!”
and kicked out and caught him on the knee. The pain shot to his groin, the knee gave way, he buckled to the pavement, losing his grip on her as he went down, grabbing out again even as she stumbled back and ran again. He tripped to his feet and went after her, just as a truck came around the corner, and his mind screamed
No
just like she had because the truck slowed down.