couple of things earlier. It’s been awhile for me.”
“Really? ’Cause I have to say, sugar, you don’t look like the type of guy that it’d be awhile for.”
He grinned down at her. This was stupid on so many levels. So he was visiting from out of town. So she didn’t really, really know him, but damn it. She missed the feel of a man’s hands on her. The way a man’s hands could heat her skin with a single barely-there touch. Quin’s hands were calloused, long-fingered, and reminded her of an artist’s hands. Or maybe it was that stupid paint she’d seen on his jeans when they met.
Quinlan was frowning. She reached up and rubbed the crease between his brows.
“I have a confession to make,” she told him.
“Really? What? You live with your mother? You’ve changed your mind? Please tell me you’re not really a man or something, because then I might just have to cry myself to sleep tonight if that were the case.” He brushed a strand of her hair away from her face, but kept it between his fingers. “I love your hair, weird as that sounds. Blue hair should not be sexy.”
She shrugged. “I like my hair too. Next I think I’ll go purple.”
He chuckled. “You’ll make purple sexy as hell, I’m sure. So confession?”
“No, I’m not a guy, no pickle surprises for you.”
He laughed outright and tugged her closer. “That’s a relief.”
“And if you suddenly didn’t want to come in, I’d understand. Though I too might cry myself to sleep.” It had been way too damned long for her as well. She never did one-night stands . . . or rather she had never. Not before now.
“Confession?” he asked, leaning a little closer to her.
She stepped backward up her front step so that she was closer to his height. “Well, see, the thing is, it’s been awhile for me as well and the thing is . . . I’m serious about not doing this.”
“Not doing this?” He frowned, then nodded. “That’s fine.”
“What? No, I mean, this, yes, but this, this . . .” She huffed out a sigh. “I mean . . .” She motioned between them, then behind her. “Asking guys over. Or only after just meeting them. Or well, the rest . . . something . . . and see, I don’t want you to think—”
He moved quickly, his lips on hers before she had time to think about it. To plan to ask him. To tell him . . .
His lips pressed softly at first, then more demandingly. The . . . whatever was between them sparked, flared and engulfed.
His hand moved from her hair to cup her jaw, his fingers caressing softly on the back of her neck, giving her chills, even as he pulled her closer toward him.
He tasted like powdered sugar and coffee from their midnight snack, he smelled like the promise of sin with a hint of redemption.
To hell with it.
Ella leaned into the kiss, giving him as much as he was giving her. She kissed him back, sliding her tongue along the seam of his lips, teasing, tempting, asking . . . She moved her hands from between them, rubbing her fingers under his jacket, up his crisp dress shirt, soft beneath her fingers. She could feel his muscles beneath his shirt.
“Confession,” he asked against her mouth, licking her lips.
“Um . . .” She kept kissing him as he nibbled on her lips, his other hand moving softly on her arm, one thumb caressing the vein in her neck.
“Your confession . . .” He kissed her again, moving from her mouth to her jawline, kissing softly along her jaw.
“Oh, um . . .” He kissed wonderfully. She’d been kissed before, quite a bit actually. But Quinlan, he was good. No, he was great. She reached up, cupped his jaw and turned his mouth back to hers, where she sealed his mouth with hers and devoured.
He pulled back, his cheeks flushed, his eyes intense. “We should probably get inside if this is going to continue. Not that I’m pressing or . . .” He took a deep breath and raked a hand through his hair. His cane was tucked up under his arm.
“Quinlan, shut up.” Normally,
“Really? ’Cause I have to say, sugar, you don’t look like the type of guy that it’d be awhile for.”
He grinned down at her. This was stupid on so many levels. So he was visiting from out of town. So she didn’t really, really know him, but damn it. She missed the feel of a man’s hands on her. The way a man’s hands could heat her skin with a single barely-there touch. Quin’s hands were calloused, long-fingered, and reminded her of an artist’s hands. Or maybe it was that stupid paint she’d seen on his jeans when they met.
Quinlan was frowning. She reached up and rubbed the crease between his brows.
“I have a confession to make,” she told him.
“Really? What? You live with your mother? You’ve changed your mind? Please tell me you’re not really a man or something, because then I might just have to cry myself to sleep tonight if that were the case.” He brushed a strand of her hair away from her face, but kept it between his fingers. “I love your hair, weird as that sounds. Blue hair should not be sexy.”
She shrugged. “I like my hair too. Next I think I’ll go purple.”
He chuckled. “You’ll make purple sexy as hell, I’m sure. So confession?”
“No, I’m not a guy, no pickle surprises for you.”
He laughed outright and tugged her closer. “That’s a relief.”
“And if you suddenly didn’t want to come in, I’d understand. Though I too might cry myself to sleep.” It had been way too damned long for her as well. She never did one-night stands . . . or rather she had never. Not before now.
“Confession?” he asked, leaning a little closer to her.
She stepped backward up her front step so that she was closer to his height. “Well, see, the thing is, it’s been awhile for me as well and the thing is . . . I’m serious about not doing this.”
“Not doing this?” He frowned, then nodded. “That’s fine.”
“What? No, I mean, this, yes, but this, this . . .” She huffed out a sigh. “I mean . . .” She motioned between them, then behind her. “Asking guys over. Or only after just meeting them. Or well, the rest . . . something . . . and see, I don’t want you to think—”
He moved quickly, his lips on hers before she had time to think about it. To plan to ask him. To tell him . . .
His lips pressed softly at first, then more demandingly. The . . . whatever was between them sparked, flared and engulfed.
His hand moved from her hair to cup her jaw, his fingers caressing softly on the back of her neck, giving her chills, even as he pulled her closer toward him.
He tasted like powdered sugar and coffee from their midnight snack, he smelled like the promise of sin with a hint of redemption.
To hell with it.
Ella leaned into the kiss, giving him as much as he was giving her. She kissed him back, sliding her tongue along the seam of his lips, teasing, tempting, asking . . . She moved her hands from between them, rubbing her fingers under his jacket, up his crisp dress shirt, soft beneath her fingers. She could feel his muscles beneath his shirt.
“Confession,” he asked against her mouth, licking her lips.
“Um . . .” She kept kissing him as he nibbled on her lips, his other hand moving softly on her arm, one thumb caressing the vein in her neck.
“Your confession . . .” He kissed her again, moving from her mouth to her jawline, kissing softly along her jaw.
“Oh, um . . .” He kissed wonderfully. She’d been kissed before, quite a bit actually. But Quinlan, he was good. No, he was great. She reached up, cupped his jaw and turned his mouth back to hers, where she sealed his mouth with hers and devoured.
He pulled back, his cheeks flushed, his eyes intense. “We should probably get inside if this is going to continue. Not that I’m pressing or . . .” He took a deep breath and raked a hand through his hair. His cane was tucked up under his arm.
“Quinlan, shut up.” Normally,
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