In fact, I was just talking myself into staying silent on the subject when Quinn said, “What’s the last thing?”
I licked my lips, my thumbs rubbing circles over the skin on either side of his belly button, my nails hooked into the side of his hips. He felt hot and smooth beneath my hands, and I didn’t want to stop, didn’t want him to stop.
“Janie?”
I had difficulty thinking back to a time when touching him wasn’t possible. The thought of willingly giving that up, giving up his body and the intimacy we’d established, felt like cutting off a limb.
“Nothing.” I shook my head. “It was nothing.”
He was looking at me now, his gaze questioning, his fingers pushing the edges of my shirt to the side and revealing my torso. I was wearing a red lace bra that we’d purchased during our London lingerie-shopping day. His eyes dipped, snagged on the bra, met mine again, and then he removed his hands.
“What was the last thing?”
“Don’t make me say it,” I blurted, shaking my head harder.
He watched me for a long moment, and I could tell he was trying to think back to my original tirade, when he’d pulled me on his lap at the kitchen table.
At length, he tilted his head to the side and his eyes narrowed. “We talked about the prenup, kids, meeting the parents, the private clients, and wearing the helmet while riding.”
“Yep. That’s it.”
“No. There was something else.”
“Quinn….” I removed my hands from his pants to unzip my skirt while I lifted on my tiptoes and placed a kiss on his mouth. “It was nothing, really—nothing worth discussing.”
I witnessed the precise moment he remembered my earlier words, surprise flickering behind his gaze as his eyes refocused on my face.
“You want to wait?” He said the words slowly, like he was inspecting them. “You want to wait until our wedding night?”
“No….”
I kissed him again. My zipper was stuck.
He wasn’t touching me, but he allowed the kisses. “You said something about not having intercourse until the wedding night.”
“I meant discourse, like conversation and debates about the parliamentary system of government.”
He laughed, more of a laugh-huff, and his eyes danced over my features. His mouth smiled the big grin, the one that sent my stomach to my toes.
I decided his new nickname should be Sir McSwoonypants.
Disgusted with my stubborn zipper, I gave up and whipped off my shirt, wrapped my arms around his neck, and pressed my body against his.
Quinn kissed me once, really just a chaste press of our lips together, then untangled my arms from his shoulders. “Now, wait a minute. Not so fast—this idea has merit.”
“What idea?”
“Waiting until the wedding night.”
I stared at him for a beat then said, “Fine. We won’t engage in discourse about the parliamentary system of government.”
He laughed again, but subtly shook his head. “No. Maybe we should wait ’til our wedding night.”
I’m sure I looked like I lost control of my facial muscles, because I could feel my eyebrows do this weird, wiggly thing on my forehead. Also, my mouth opened and closed, my nose wrinkled, and I’m pretty sure I hissed at him. I might have also said, Booooo!
This only made him laugh harder.
When he had finally reigned in his laughter but was still holding his stomach, he took two steps back, leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms over his chest.
Shirtless, pants unzipped, boxers pulled low—he was chocolate cake with chocolate sauce and chocolate ganache, with chocolate mousse and chocolate cookie crust…so delicious.
“How about this?” He paused, an evil glint in his eye, his smile persisting. “How about we make a bet. If you can hold out the entire time, we’ll do the big wedding with all the extra stuff at the end. But….”
Quinn sauntered forward—yes! Sauntered!—and invaded my space, his lips hovering just over mine, his fingers drawing a line from my shoulder to my breast and down my stomach.
“But, if you give in at any point over the next few months, we’ll cancel the wedding and elope within twenty-four hours.”
I warred against my body’s very loud and insistent inclination to surrender, right now, this minute. Because, honestly, I didn’t think I would be able to last.
I stalled by clearing my throat and asking unnecessary questions. “So, you mean that you’ll be trying to seduce me for the next few months? And if I give in then we get married within twenty-four hours?”
“More or less.”
“What do you mean, more or less?”
“I mean that I have no plans to seduce you, but otherwise you’ve got it right.”
“Really?” I eyeballed him. “No seduction plans?”
“That’s right.”
“Then…what’s off limits? I mean, what can we do?”
“Just kiss.”
I’m pretty sure my eyes looked like they were going to pop out of my head, and I know the volume of my voice was inappropriately loud when I said, “JUST KISS?”
If possible, the glint in his gaze turned even more sinister. “That’s right.”
“No touching at all? Like, what you’re doing now?”
Something passed over his features—maybe apprehension, more likely reassessment of the terms—and he conceded. “Kissing and touching are fine. But no….”
“Penetration?” The word emerged as a squeak.
He nodded, watching me closely, and added, “Or oxytocin-releasing genital arousal.”
I studied his features, rolling my lips between my teeth and contemplating the offer. A thought occurred to me. “But this means that you’ll help with the wedding—cheerfully—no complaining or being disinterested about the color of ferns. You’ll voice your opinion.”
He didn’t respond immediately and his gaze hardened, grew distant. Finally, he said, “Okay. Fine. Do we have a deal?”
I pressed for more. “And we’ll go to your parents’ house in Boston for a visit.”
His mouth became a tight line, but he answered, “Fine.”
“Ok, then….” I nodded my head and doubted the veracity of my own words when I said, “I can agree to those terms.”
CHAPTER 12
A bright spot in the wedding-tainted sea of stress came just two days after I made the bet with Quinn when I was able to establish contact with his mother.
I called her.
It was a Friday evening, and I was on my way to the penthouse, riding in the back seat of a black Cadillac Escalade. It was chauffeured by Jacob, my guard until I arrived home.
Quinn and I usually left work together, but he’d indicated—via text—that he would be working late. I wondered if he were avoiding me. The thought was depressing.
I dialed the number I’d requested that Betty, Quinn’s secretary, look up. I hadn’t asked Quinn for it, partially because I doubted he had it. The other reason was because he looked sick to his stomach every time I mentioned his parents.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice sounded from the line, and my brain went blank.
I don’t know why, but I wasn’t expecting her to answer the phone. Perhaps it was because I was used to playing phone tag with wedding vendors. I’d prepared a message; in fact, I’d typed it out, printed it, and now held it in my hand ready to read to her voicemail. Therefore, when I heard her answer live, I felt unprepared and almost hung up.
“Hello?” She asked again, not sounding irritated.
I cleared my throat and forced out a greeting. “Hi! How are you?” Then I cringed when I realized I forgot to introduce myself.
“I’m…fine. And how are you?” Her tone was tempered with suspicion. She likely thought I was a telemarketer. In a way, I kind of was. I was trying to sell myself to her, and maybe sell her on the role of being grandmother to our children.
My throat felt tight. I didn’t know how to talk to women who held a maternal role unless they were my coworkers and my interactions with them occurred within a clearly defined set of parameters, like it was with Betty. Motherly types made me nervous.
I gathered a deep breath and closed my eyes. “Hi.” I repeated, shook my head. “I’m Janie Morris. Is this Katherine Sullivan?”
“Yes. This is Mrs. Sullivan.”
“Right. Sorry, Mrs. Sullivan. I’m….” I held my breath, my heart galloped wildly, and I wondered why I suddenly felt like I was throwing myself off a cliff. “I’m Janie, as I said, and I’m engaged to your son, Quinn. In fact, it just happened about a week ago, the engagement, so it’s all very new. And I’m calling because….” I glanced down at my typed speech and began to read. “…because I was hoping you and your husband would be amenable to future interactions, including but not limited to meeting me sometime before the wedding, having dinner, speaking over the phone, or exchanging emails. As well, I’d like to gauge your level of interest in becoming involved in the wedding in some capacity, perhaps with the planning, but no pressure either way. I understand that you might have some reservations, as I’m basically a stranger and my understanding is that historically, interactions with Quinn have been justifiably strained. Nevertheless….”