The Sweet Under His Skin (34 page)

"I'll take care of your heart," she whispered, and he heard something thick in her voice.

He caught a tear with his thumb before it got too far down her cheek. "Hey, no tears here. This is good Arielle. It's so fucking good I'm not even questioning it."

"Okay," she answered, which wasn't an answer.

"I can't even being to tell you how fucked-up you got me." Not smooth, but it was the best he had at the moment. "If you knew, you wouldn't be crying. You'd be laughing your ass off." That got a better response. Arielle grinned then nestled into his side again. "I'm in trouble," he muttered, arm behind his head as his eyes closed. "So much sweet-tasting trouble."

Chapter Twenty-One

Quentin dropped off to sleep but Arielle just couldn't. Her heart was still racing, her body still lit up, and her face wouldn't cut the smile. All because this biker from next door made it safe for her to drop all walls and enjoy herself. That thought on its own nearly made her tear up again.

It had been wonderful, yes, but scary as well because she wasn't just hot for him. If that had been the case she would have shut him out months ago from blind fear.

He snuck in on her, just a bit at a time. Letting her know he thought she was attractive, blatantly. She didn't know men actually did that, but from him she loved the attention. And being great with Calvin was the final nail in the coffin of her resolve. Hell or high water she was ending up in his arms, she just hadn't realized it until right then. And with everything else she had going on…he could give a shit. He just wanted her. So she let it happen, no thoughts of whether or not what she was doing was right. Or weird. Or wrong. She just trusted him, and was so glad she had.

Amazing.

Astounding.

The kind of sex where your body would never be the same again. The kind where she was now completely ruined for other men because they couldn't possibly compare. The kind of sex that only existed in books, or so she thought. The kind of experience everyone was searching for.

The kind of sex that meant she didn't open her eyes until 11:23 AM the next morning. She frowned at the alarm clock, not wanting to move because she might wake the man currently serving as her pillow. But no amount of blinking changed the time.

Then she heard the front door open.

"Shit," she whispered, sitting straight up and feeling around the covers for her T-shirt. Where the hell had it gone?

"Morning, baby girl," came a rough, warm, low and terribly sexy greeting, but she was too much in full freak-out to really appreciate it.

"Thelma and Calvin are back," she hissed, brain torn between figuring out where her clothes ended up and how to explain away the fact that Quentin was there.

"So?" he mumbled, pulling her back down into the covers with him, winding an arm around her waist and actually cuddling her.

"I have to get up," she returned, pushing at his hand and trying to sit up.

"What’re you more worried about? Thelma knowing I'm here or Calvin knowing I'm here?"

She sighed, eyes scanning the floor. She saw the T-shirt she'd been wearing as pajamas and leaned over him to snag them up, making him chuckle in the process. He shoved the covers off the both of them and she jerked away, grabbing for the sheet to pull it up to her chin.

He sat up, completely naked and just as comfortable that way as she'd ever seen him. "Should I scurry through the window? The bike's in your driveway and I've got my shirt and cut in the living room, babe."

She didn't know what a cut was but it sounded bad. She hoped it wasn't a weapon. "Shit."

"Arielle, you're a grown woman. Thelma knows that. And Calvin's"—he waved his hand—"nine. He knows where babies come from. I've had that talk with him."

"Oh... You did what?" Arielle tried to keep herself covered while sliding the T-shirt up her arms. Quentin pulled the sheet away, and just as she was about to give him a mouthful he completely floored her.

"Don't cover up, babe. Not from me. I've worked too hard to get this close to you."

Her arms flopped into her lap, T-shirt half on, and she stared at him, the kindness in those blue eyes enough to take her breath away. "Quentin…" was all she had to respond with.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, hand running up over her head to the back of her neck, where he reeled her closer before kissing her.

Oh God. She had to remember to not kiss Quentin Bayle in bed when she was supposed to be hurrying. And certainly not when she was naked. And he was naked with that rock-solid godly body. And he said she was beautiful. And his hands were warm and his lips tasted amazing... She pushed him back. "Quentin, that door doesn't lock. It's broken."

His grin was slow and…dammit, far too sexy. "Really?"

She sighed. "Please put some clothes on."

"You sure?" he brought his nose to her jawline, voice low and rougher when he spoke quietly.

"Please?"

He nipped her ear lobe and her eyes closed. "Damn, Arielle, you always smell this good, don't you?"

"Okay," she hissed, pulling away and yanking the T-shirt down. "Clothes, please Quentin."

She got to her feet on the mattress and stepped over him, trying to avoid his hands as they successfully made a bid to grab her bare ass under the T-shirt. She likely flashed the whole show but in panic mode she couldn't care. She found her panties next, wiggling into them and turning back to find Quentin still lounged out fully naked on her bed. Naked and excited, and she couldn't be held responsible for where her eyes went. She'd only felt it the night before, she hadn't seen it.

"Oh God…" she whispered, then shook her head and forced her eyes away. To his face, and the too-proud-and-masculine-to-be-acceptable look he had. Which on him was completely acceptable…and attractive. Shit. "Get up and get dressed, please."

"Okay, babe." He finally sat up, reaching to the floor for his shorts. She tossed the jeans and T-shirt to him next then headed to her dresser to dig out her bra. You know, for decency's sake. She wrangled the thing on under the T-shirt, thankful the shirt was so large, just in time to hear her bedroom door open. She thought someone was coming in without knocking, but felt her stomach drop as she watched Quentin walk out of the bedroom sorting out his T-shirt before pulling it on.

Walking into the hallway and the living room… shirtless.

"Shit," she said it out loud this time, closing her eyes and waiting for the fallout. She pulled jeans from a drawer and yanked them on, zipper just done up as she hit the hallway herself.

"Oh, good morning, Quentin," she heard Thelma saying as she rounded the corner to the living room. "Arielle." Her name was added on with a big shit-eating grin, and Arielle tried to make eyes telling Thelma to play it cooler than that.

"Q? What are you doing here?" Calvin asked, plopping onto the couch, remote in his hand forgotten. His eyes flicked to Arielle then got wider. He was about to ask something else then Quentin started talking.

"I'm here to make you breakfast, Chuckles." He pulled his shirt on, then pointed to Calvin with meaning. "
Fancy
breakfast."

Arielle melted just a little. How'd he know about‘fancy’ breakfast?

Calvin frowned. "Is it your birthday?"

"No. Sometimes you just deserve
fancy
breakfast." He shot a wink at Arielle. "Like when you get lucky the night before."

"Oh God…" Arielle muttered. Aunt Thelma grinned wider.

Calvin frowned deeper. "Did you go to the casino?"

Quentin cracked up and Arielle covered her face with both hands. "Yeah Chuckles. You got it. Hit the jackpot, too." She lowered her hands to just cover her mouth, feeling her cheeks warm. Quentin was smiling at her and the warmth sunk further down her neck and chest. Aunt Thelma was still grinning like the cat-that-got-the-cream. "Let's go buddy, help me make Aunt Arielle breakfast. Okay?"

Calvin got to his feet and followed Quentin without question. She shared another look with her aunt. It was probably too much to hope for that Aunt Thelma still wasn't talking to her, right?

"Aunt Thelma," Quentin greeted her with great familiarity, lowering his head to kiss her cheek before passing by.

"Good to see you again, Quentin," Thelma returned, clearly pleased.

When they were alone Arielle exhaled, flopping into the arm chair and covering her head with her arms. "Shit," she muttered.

"Arielle—"

"I'm sorry," she cut Thelma off, "he's been here the last two days. He's been wonderful to me. I…I couldn't help it."

There was no answer, so when she uncovered her head she was surprised that Thelma was sitting on the sofa across from her, hands on knees and still grinning.

"Arielle honey, where'd your hair go?"

Arielle frowned, then flattened both palms to her head. "Oh my God, that's right. I…I shaved it off yesterday."

"What does Quentin think of it? Like I need to ask."

Arielle bit her lip. "He helped me do it."

Thelma bit her lip too, and her eyebrows rose in a way that meant she was tearing up. "You look beautiful, Arielle. I wish you always looked this…happy."

She must be nuts. "I'm embarrassed," Arielle admitted.

"For what? You're a consenting adult." Arielle shook her head. "You look great, honey. The color in your cheeks is back. Your eyes are bright and lively again. He's almost as good for you as your treatments will be."

Arielle sniffed. "Aunt Thelma…" she paused. She didn't have that girl talk friend anymore. A few of the ladies at the Town Office might have been close enough for that but now that she wasn't working with them they were just…former co-workers. Aunt Thelma really was all she had. "I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"Him," she whispered back. "He's going to hurt me. He's going to break my heart, I know it."

Thelma got to her feet then knelt in front of her to hug her. "Arielle honey, sometimes I just know things too. And I know that a man asking a nine-year-old to help him make
fancy
breakfast and build a motorcycle is not going to hurt you like that."

"Thelma—"

"A man that helps a girl shave her hair off isn't just hanging around to love her and leave her. A man who looks at you when you're at a low point and still decides to be there the next morning has more on his mind than getting his rocks off. And a man who wants to wait to make sure you're ready is ready to be more than just another night."

Arielle had to smile. "You're so wise, Aunt Thelma."

"And you're braver than you think." Thelma pinched her cheek. "Now. Let's hope you earned us all a really good
fancy
breakfast."

The wind rustled leaves. Gravel crunched under his boots. Birds were making a ruckus on top of the grain silo to the east of a ramshackle two-story farmhouse with white clapboard siding that was sagging like the green-shingled roof just decided it was done and was slowly taking the rest of the house with it. Grass stood waist-high around the foundation and the shrubs were taking over the flower beds.

Quentin, Gage, Colton, Dillon and Bishop were all cooling their heels out of the sun in an old stable that was almost scarier than the house it matched. Thank Christ it hadn't been used in decades—that stink in this heat would have been less than pleasant. The doors were closed but a missing board about five-feet up afforded a view and a firing position.

Their bikes were hidden away with them in the stable, the van that Gage drove parked around the back out of sight. Everyone was quiet, but Quentin's head was humming loudly with the urge to cut this Reuben bastard off at the knees. Half his energy was being spent watching out for the dealer that was still tied to a chair right in the middle of the stretch of dirt and gravel between the house and stable. The other half of his energy was fighting off his biggest distraction at the moment.

Now that he was away from that house, and Calvin and Arielle, he was…worried. Fucking scared was more like it. The same elephant was sitting on his chest as the one that parked there the second Arielle fainted in front of him. His own natural reaction to caring about someone.

Walking around dealing with the scum of the earth day-to-day wasn't a problem for him. It hadn't been, anyway. With someone to worry about, someone you want to have around, to protect…it was already exhausting. And he couldn't shake the feeling that, somehow, he was going to end up letting her down and maybe even losing her.

And not only because of the scum factor, either. His eyes narrowed on that piece-of-shit dealer and knew this was one thing he could absolutely protect her from. He'd tear men limb from limb if they so much as sneezed around her. He couldn't protect her from him though, and he had a long history of being a fuck-up.

Breaking him out of his own head, two black SUVs rolled up the dirt drive, and Quentin just gave a short, "They're here."

He felt his brothers fall in next to him, and they watched three men get out of one vehicle and four out of the other. They may have been outnumbered but at least they had the element of surprise so far.

That is, until the dealer started squealing like a stuck pig and gesturing to the stable with his head.

"Eight counting the dealer," Dillon reminded them and Quentin heard safeties release as he grabbed his own piece from his back. "Six of us."

"That's him," Colton pointed out, cold and level. "That fat fucker with the hat. That guy matches the dealer's description of Reuben."

He did, too. Heavy set, about six-and-a-half-feet tall, Mexican. Which was interesting since the neo-Nazi fucks were taking orders from him.

Without another word Reuben's hand came up, gun appearing almost out of nowhere, and plugged one into the dealer's head.

"Make that seven," Dillon, ever the smart ass, pointed out.

"Still doesn't feel fair," Quentin chimed in.

Colton was grinning, so was Bishop. It was Bishop who shut everyone up. "You two can let them shoot you if it'll make you feel better about the odds."

The seven assholes started walking their way, and Quentin frowned. "They're not even taking cover."