About Last Night (About Last Night #1)(68)

But then he sauntered over to me, sweater in hand. I bit the inside of my cheek and watched him approach me slowly, as if he were approaching a spooked animal. “Mia.”

I wrung my fingers together and looked at a spot on the wall behind him.

“Mia. Look at me, baby.”

Damn him and his highly hypnotic voice. I looked at him.

His eyes crinkled in the corners and his lip twitched. His strong hands gripped my hips and he pulled me into him. I had no choice but to go to him, or risk falling over. He squeezed my hip with one hand, massaging slowly, while catching my chin between his thumb and finger, lifting my face to meet his eyes. “Baby.”

He’d draped the sweater over his shoulder. I stared at it and whispered, “I don’t like you buying me things.”

His smile stretched. “I got that.” Then he sobered. “But maybe if I explain why I bought it, you’ll get over it, accept it, and thank me.”

I closed my eyes, trying hard as I could to ignore how domestic this scene felt. I also tried to ignore how right this felt. His lips hit the apple of my cheek and he spoke softly, “I was out this afternoon, went down the strip for a new suit. While I was there, I spotted this soft thing, so I went over and felt it, and I thought to myself, ‘I wonder how this would look on Mia.’”

This wasn’t fair. And I felt like crying. With every additional moment, I fell deeper and harder for Matt Quinn. How dare he make me love him? It was almost cruel.

His breath warmed my skin. “The lady at the store asked if there was a special lady in my life that might like it, and I thought, ‘Well, Mia is about the most special lady I know.’”

That was it. I was f*cking doomed. Tears prickled behind my closed lids and my throat strained with emotion.

The hand at my hip slid around my back, pinning me to him. “I told her to wrap it up, because all of a sudden, I couldn’t leave the damn sweater there.” His fingers moved soothingly up and down my back. “Not when it was made for you.”

Gah! He was good. My voice hoarse, I spoke softly, just loud enough for him to hear. “Thank you, Quinn. I love it.”

He kissed me then; his lips were cool and he tasted of mint. It was short and sweet. “You’re welcome.”

Blinking away tears, I silently led him to my bedroom, where the TV was on. He slipped off his shoes, laid the gorgeous sweater across the chair at my vanity, and then without permission, he lifted the quilt and let himself under the covers. As he did this, he groaned quietly, and it was only then I saw the strain on his face.

I climbed in next to him and tucked myself into his side. He ran his fingers down my arm, but stopped when I blurted out, “I want to talk about your job.”

He stilled a moment before resuming the comforting motion. “What do you want to know?” He sounded tired, but I was too curious to care at that moment.

With my cheek on his chest, my hand resting on his taut stomach, I took in all the warmth he had to give, wrapping a leg around his, wanting to turn us into a Quinn-Mia-pretzel. “How do you do it?”

He stayed quiet a moment before responding carefully. “From a young age, sex was my drug of choice. I guess it sort of seemed natural when it transitioned into a job. It felt like I’d won the lottery, actually.”

He snuffled a laugh through his nose, and I smiled, asking quietly, “Do you think you’ll ever quit?” He didn’t answer, so I tried again. “Don’t you ever want more?”

His arms tightened around me as he answered, almost as if he was scared of my reaction to his reply. “I’m not looking for more, Mia.”

And there it was. My reaction was to hide my thoughts in complete silence. My mind mocked me. Did you think he’d confess his undying love for you and quit his job? He f*cks women for a living. Of course he wouldn’t settle for one woman, especially if that one woman is you.

Which, of course, meant that I needed to rub salt into the open, gaping wound in my chest. “How many women do you sleep with a week?”

He sighed. “Depends.” He was trying to brush me off.

I should’ve heeded his discreet warning. I asked quietly, “How many?”

Regardless of what he said, he did not sound proud when he admitted, “Minimum three a week. Hour long sessions. Maximum of six.”

I swallowed hard, staring into the bright, moving images on the TV. “And they all come to you for sex?” He grunted. The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them, “But don’t you feel dirty?”

Quinn went rigid under me. “About as dirty as the socially awkward girl with self-esteem issues must’ve felt hiring a hooker to deflower her.”

Oh, damn. Thems were fighting words. And I totally deserved them. But those words cemented a decision I knew I needed to make. I snuggled into Quinn, feeling his body relax against mine. “Sorry.”

He placed a kiss at my hairline. “Me too.”

We watched TV for a little while longer before Quinn’s breathing steadied as he slept. I silently reveled in the feeling of being the woman he came to when he needed a brief break from his hectic life, the woman he thought about when he went clothes shopping. He called me his special lady. And yet, somehow, that wasn’t enough for me. The sad truth was it never would be. Not unless he gave me all of him.

Decision made, I buried my nose into the crook of Quinn’s neck and breathed him in, falling asleep as close to him as I could possibly get. I never wanted to forget the feel of him, the smell of him. It was bittersweet, this time together.