Chapter Twelve
“Your brother wants to come see you.”
Quinn took her phone off speaker and lifted it to her ear. A pang of…something…tightened her stomach. “Mom, no. Impossible.”
Her mother sighed. “Honey, he’s lonely at Foundations, and I think a change of scenery would do him wonders. You’ve got a big villa all to yourself.”
“I’m lonely, too”—spending evenings by herself, reciting lines to an empty room and regretting an apparently unrequited attachment to a certain hard-assed trainer tended to do that to her—“but I’m not on vacation. I’ve got less than two weeks to finish prepping for my role, and I don’t have time to entertain Callum. Besides, I’m not an addiction specialist.”
“You don’t need to be. They have them on Paradise Bay. You just need to be a supportive sister.”
“His doctors recommend shuttling him here for a change of scenery?” Frustration leaked through in her tone. “Because nobody from Foundations reached out to me with the request.”
“Of course not. To them, he’s simply another client, and they recommend he stick with their program. But you know how much it would mean to him, and you’d be a positive influence…”
“Gee, Mom, remember how well it worked out last time I tried to be a positive influence?” She meant Callum falling off the wagon and ending up back in rehab. Her parents had no idea he’d messed her knee up in the process.
“A week, Quinn. I’m not asking you to let him move in with you again, but surely you can spare him one measly week?”
“I can’t, even if I thought it was a good idea.” Unfocused energy propelled her up from the sofa, and into the kitchen. “I’m here to work. An entourage isn’t permitted.” She didn’t even want to think about how Luke would react if her brother suddenly arrived on the scene. Tempting as it was to give in to family pressure, and, yes, her own chickenshit desire for a buffer, or a security blanket, or a way to distract herself from the harsh truth that she’d fallen head-over-heels for a man who saw her mainly as a debt to repay, she couldn’t do it. She’d have to cope with her bruised heart on her own. Since her awkward apology on the beach, Luke had been making it easy—or diabolically difficult—by keeping their interactions steadfastly professional and otherwise keeping his distance.
“Callum is not your entourage. He’s your brother, and he loves you.”
She jerked the refrigerator open. “I love him, too, which is why I told him I’d treat him to a vacation here, or anywhere else he wanted to go, once he finished his program and I finished the movie.” Bottled water and raw broccoli spears were not going to fill the gnawing hole in her gut. She slammed the fridge and sagged against it. “A few months from now, he’ll be nearly a year clean and sober, hopefully reclaiming his life, and I’ll have time to actually hang out with him. Deferring until then gives us both something to look forward to.”
“A reward months away isn’t going to cut it. He needs something now. Imagine what the last several weeks have been like for him, stuck in the same place, surrounded by the same faces. You know as well as I do, a stagnant environment depresses creative souls. And depression undermines his recovery.”
“His constant urge to escape from whatever’s going on in his head undermines his recovery,” she argued, and approached the fresh goody basket some uninformed member of the housekeeping staff had left on the kitchen island. “He’s made progress, but he’s coming up on a milestone, and shit’s getting tough. His commitment is wavering.” She placed the small bunch of bananas on the counter. “This is so textbook even I can diagnose it.” Two apples followed. “He needs to buckle down and learn how to deal with life—including the inevitable boring, lonely, and depressing parts—not look for a quick, painless eject out of a situation he doesn’t like.”
“Easy for you to say, Quinn. You’re steadier than he is. You always were, right from the start. You don’t have his flashes of brilliance, but you don’t suffer the same lows, either. He came out of the womb needing more support. More attention. And if he can’t get it from the people who care about him, he’ll satisfy the craving somewhere else, in a less positive way.”
The double-edged words barely stung her anymore. In Ann Sheridan’s eyes, Callum would forever be the fragile genius, and Quinn the determined worker bee, overcoming her natural mediocrity through sheer strength of effort. And to an extent, their mother saw them fairly. But fair or not, she didn’t have enough strength to be her brother’s safety net. “So what you’re saying is, if Callum quits rehab and relapses, it’s my fault?” The empty feeling in her stomach yawned as she waited for a reply. She picked a mango from the basket and squeezed it like a stress ball.
“I’m saying we’re his family, and he needs our help.”
“I have tried to help him.” She put the mango on the counter and pawed through the remaining items. A couple snack-sized bags caught her eye. “I gave him a place to live.” She plucked out one bag—roasted plantain chips. “When that went south, I gave him access to the best rehab facility my money could buy.” She lifted the other bag—toasted coconut chips with sea salt and caramel. Sweet. Salty. Forbidden. Her mouth watered. “I don’t have anything else to give. Not right now. If Callum stays put, if he realizes nobody’s going to rescue him from himself, I think there’s a decent chance he’ll ride out this phase and learn how to manage the lows.”
“I’ll come with him.”
“That doesn’t change my mind. Look, if you and Dad believe Callum needs a vacation from Foundations I can’t stop you from—”
“Your father refuses to discuss it. He just buries himself in work and says he can’t possibly get away. You know how he is.”
Yes, she did. Her father thought it was a terrible idea, but dodged the issue because he didn’t want to alienate anyone. Quinn scrubbed her tired eyes. “Right. So here’s what’s going on, Mom. Dad’s sidestepping because he hates to be the bad guy, and you know you can’t handle Callum on your own, so you’re trying to rope me in.”
“He wants to come see you. He’s begging me. He says he’s not going to make it if he doesn’t get out of that place for a little while. You’re twins. You have a special bond.”
“He wants to escape. At this particular point in time, you can’t trust him to know what he needs. You have to trust the experts. He can do this, Mom. He can do this if he commits.”
Her mother’s sigh flowed over the line. “You honestly believe he can do this on his own?”
“Yes. He’s not as fragile as you think.”
And I’m not as strong, she silently added.
“I hope you’re right,” her mother replied before she disconnected.
Amazing. Quinn blinked at her now-dormant phone, sitting on the counter looking harmless. Yet, somehow, in the course of a single transmission from the seemingly innocuous device, she’d managed to become solely responsible in the event Callum opted not to stick with Foundations.
The unfairness of it ate at her. She’d been the one to call him on using again. She’d been the one to perform the intervention. She’d been the one to herd him into rehab, and still had the scars to prove it. She was the one who enrolled him in the best facility available, and she was the one hustling to pay the bills. The only thing she couldn’t do was complete the damn program for him. But by refusing to help him leave, she’d assumed all the risk of his failure in the eyes of their family.
Somehow, she’d also managed to open the bag of coconut chips and pour herself a handful. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation.
One little bite. Just one.
The Dirty Games producers would never know. Eddie would never know. Willpower slipped through her fingers like sand. Luke would never know.
You’ll know. Just like you know you’ll finish the whole bag, and probably the other one, too. Do you really want to sabotage yourself for a moment of…of…?
Holy shit.
She dumped the chips on the counter and picked up her phone. Her wallpaper—a collage of the God-awful “Before” pictures Luke had taken the first day—disappeared as her fingers flew across the screen, dialing a number she’d never called but knew by heart. A deep voice picked up after the first ring.
“Quinn?”
“I…um…I know why I ate the cookies.”
“Tell me.”
“For comfort.” To her horror, the reply came out on a sob.
“Do you need comfort now?” he asked quickly.
Jesus. She ought to say no and let him off the hook. If not for the sake of her pride, then because any other man with a hysterical woman on the other end of the line would run for the hills. “Y-yes.”
“I’ll be right there.”
…
Quinn answered the door wearing a silky white Playground at Paradise Bay bathrobe and a wrecked expression. He stepped inside, pulling her into his arms at the same time he kicked the door shut. She buried her tear-streaked face against his chest and clung to him while sobs shook her petite frame. This wasn’t an act, or an attempt to manipulate him in some way. This was real heartache.
I miss you, too…
Ah, shit. His heart started to pound, even as his body reacted in the usual ways to the feel of her pressed against him. He felt every line of her through the thin robe. He lifted her into his arms and carried her into the villa, past the chip-strewn kitchen island, and on through to the living area with its oversize, white furniture and view of the dusky courtyard. At the foot of the sofa, he set her on her feet, and then, because he couldn’t help himself, he ran a hand over her hair as he murmured, “Shhh. Stop crying.”
Whoever he is, he’s not worth it.
“I-I can’t.” She coughed the words out, and he heard the utter despair in them.
The door holding back every jealous impulse, every dangerous urge, every complicated emotion he harbored toward this woman groaned to contain them. He cupped her head and eased it away from his chest, then smoothed her hair back from her face. “Yes, you can. Come on. You’re all right.”
Tears continued their steady stream down her damp cheeks. Her wet lips trembled apart on a harsh, semi-hysterical noise somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “I am not all right. You knew as much as soon as Eddie contacted you.”
“That’s not true. Stop crying, Quinn, for both our sakes.” He’d overestimated himself. The robe swam on her, and somewhere between her crying jag, and his carrying her inside, the tie at her waist had turned to a loose knot. The front gaped a little more every time she took a shuddery breath, and the slippery fabric slid like a lover over her breasts, outlining her defined nipples. The fact that she wasn’t trying to entice him didn’t stop his mind from racing. In less than a second, he could have the edge flicked aside to bare those perfect breasts, take one tight peak into his mouth and comfort her until she forgot all about some fuckwit who had the power to make her cry from thousands of miles away.
“It is true.” She punctuated the remark with a watery sniff. “You wanted nothing to do with me.”
Restraint always came easy, except with her. The hinges on his self-control snapped. He spun her around and bent her over the back of the overstuffed white upholstered chair that still bore the imprint of her body. A script was tossed on the matching ottoman. “You think you know what I want?”
Her quick inhale didn’t quite cover the rasp of his zipper as he tore at the front of his jeans. She angled her head so she could look at him. Her eyes were round in her tearstained face as she watched him dig a condom out of his wallet and tear it open. “Luke?”
“Do you?” He rolled the condom on, and then wrapped a fist around his cock and shoved the back of her robe up to her waist. “You think you know what I wanted to do with you as soon as I heard that precise, go-fuck-yourself voice on the other end of a phone?”
She parted her legs and rose up onto her toes. “Do it now.”
“Stop crying, and I’ll do anything you ask.” Don’t think about anyone else while I’m inside you.
“Help me stop.”
The plea barely passed her lips before he drove into her—so deep, he jostled a low, grateful cry from her as she reared up to meet the thrust. He drew back just enough to get a view of how brutally thick he looked lodged inside her smaller, far more delicate body, and then he thrust again, trying to temper the force this time, but still pushing her hips higher over the top of the chair. Her mouth fell open, then slowly closed on a moan as she lowered her head to the cushion.
“You need comfort?” He growled the question.
“Yes,” she gasped, her cheek brushing the upholstery as she nodded.
Every reason why this was wrong faded. He could justify anything, because her tears had stopped. “Take it. Take what you need.”
Use me.
He forced himself to still, and watched her slowly circle her hips, pulling away at the zenith and then sliding back. When she brought her ass close, despite his best intentions to let her do what she chose, he gave in to the imperative to move, slamming their bodies together and sending her scrambling to stabilize herself. She hadn’t quite managed when he thrust into her again. Her toes left the ground. The robe pooled around her shoulders as her body tipped forward. The angle pinned her head and arms to the seat of the chair, and her opportunity for taking ended. This position foreclosed any ability on her part to be an active participant. She could only receive. Whatever comfort he chose to give, in whatever manner he chose to give it. Recipient.
Quinn being Quinn, the limitation didn’t stop her from trying to assert control. “Hard, and fast. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to feel anything but this.”
His body accepted the challenge and he proceeded to give her exactly what she asked for, keeping the pace furious, even when her breath hitched, and her body stiffened. Even when an orgasm squeezed every part of her until she sagged into the chair, panting and wrung out.
More.
That’s all he could think. Give her more. Make her take more. They’d crossed the line. There was no coming back from this, and he needed to make sure she understood where they stood now. Make sure she looked him in the eye and whimpered his name in acknowledgment the next time she came, so she had no room to maneuver when he asked her the tough questions she’d been evading for weeks. No backpedaling. No throwing up shields. No walking away.
Concentrating on the look-him-in-the-eye part of the plan, he pulled out of her. The abrupt move splashed hot, damp remnants of her orgasm onto her thighs. Her shocked gasp held a note of betrayal, and he felt the sting of it along every inch of his cock.
Prolonged suffering wasn’t part of his plan, for either of them, so he hauled her off the chair, spun her around, and braced her high against the wall. Then, knees bent, he slid into her again. His penetration sent a shiver through her. Her post-orgasmic flush deepened, staining her cheekbones almost the same shade as her lips. Dark-blond lashes sank low over dazed eyes, and her thick sigh of pleasure misted his face.
“Look at me,” he managed to say through the crippling chaos of his own need. And then, he simply closed one hand along the side of her head, the other along her jaw, and tipped her face to his. The mouth he’d been dreaming of hovered less than an inch from his. His lips ached to close the distance. His tongue tingled with anticipation of finally exploring the sweet recess his cock had usurped the honor of entering first. “What did you need tonight, Quinn?”
“Comfort.” She squirmed her hips as she said it, clearly seeking more. “Something to take away the ache.”
He leaned in, offering her more, bringing their mouths infinitesimally closer. “Does this comfort you?” He rocked his hips.
“Yessss.”
Her head tried to fall back, but he kept it forward. Kept their eyes locked. “Good.” He rocked again, giving her a quick, shallow stir, and then let her chase his retreating cock, so they’d both appreciate the honesty of her response.
“Yes.”
The first orgasm had left her sensitive. One hard grind was all she could stand before she dug her heels into his calves for leverage, and lifted.
This time he pursued, pinning her hips to the wall and burying himself high inside her—hilt to clit. She fought it a little, battling the intensity, but then relaxed as he eased back. Her forehead rested against his. Her soft moan assured him that while he might have inflicted more than he thought she could withstand, it worked for her. “When you need comfort, you come to me. Understand? If you feel empty, don’t sabotage yourself to fill the void. Don’t reach for quick fixes that are going to fail you in the long run. You reach for me, Quinn, because I’m never going to fail you. Say it.”
“You. I reach for you.”
He rewarded that breakthrough with a surge of his hips. Her lips were a hairsbreadth from his. He could almost feel them. Almost taste them. “That’s right. I’ll fill every void. Take away every ache. All you have to do is call for me.” He needed to see it. See her lips forming his name.
“Luke. Lu—”
And that was it. More than he could take. After struggling for an eternity to deny himself, the war ended here. He captured those lips while his name still lingered on them. Her mouth moved under his, as demanding, and giving as he’d known it would be. He delved deep. She sealed her lips around his tongue, and speared her fingers into his hair, holding him there as if she honestly feared he could abandon the kiss. She’d learn. He tightened his hold on her jaw and lunged into her again, claiming her everywhere. Claiming everything. Giving everything.
Her hands rushed over him—down his back, under his T-shirt, along his spine—urging him on. A blunt but steady thumping alerted some distant part of his brain that he was buffeting her between the wall and his body, driving into her with more energy than finesse. Fingernails raked his skin.
Too rough. He was being way too rough.
He got a hand under her, supporting her, his fingers sinking into the divide between her ass cheeks. She ripped her mouth from his and whimpered his name as she quivered on the brink of another orgasm.
He buried his face in the curve of her neck, and shot them both over the edge, groaning in surrender as something far too annihilating to be relief shuddered through him.