Chapter Five
Alessandra
I wake up Saturday morning feeling panicked and excited at the same time.
As I hop in the shower and wash my hair, my thoughts return to my evening with Quinn. . .for about the thirty-fifth time in the two days since then. The way he took me in his arms and kissed me with such passion, and then we traded flirty comments in Italian. . .it was all so unbelievably sexy. I can already tell I’ll have a hard time keeping my cool on this date.
After stepping out of the shower, I dry off and slip into the fuzzy purple bathrobe my mom bought me last Christmas, and wrap my long, dark hair up in my towel.
What does one wear on a day date? And a classy day date, at that. Something about the sound of an Italian artists’ exhibit tells me that Quinn will make sure our breakfast outing is fancy, too. I love going out for breakfast, and thinking about the kind of breakfast food waiting for me on this date makes my stomach growl.
After a lot of indecisiveness, I finally settle on a pale blue wrap dress and strappy tan sandals. The dress makes me feel sexy by hinting at just the right amount of cleavage, while the mid-calf hemline makes me feel sophisticated enough to be worthy of admiring centuries-old works of art.
I throw my mostly dry hair into a loose side braid, swipe on a couple coats of mascara, and finish applying a layer of pinkish nude lipstick just as I hear a knock on my door. Grabbing my purse, I take one last look at myself in the mirror, adjust a stray bra strap, and hurry to the front door to greet Quinn.
When I open the door, for a moment I forget how to breathe.
Quinn Kingsley will be the death of me.
I’ve only ever seen him in a suit, and if that sight was hard to handle, Saturday-morning-casual Quinn is simply too much. Dressed in dark-wash jeans and a tan cashmere sweater that perfectly outlines his chiseled chest and shoulders, he stands there smiling at me, his massive frame taking up my entire doorway. A pair of sunglasses hang on his collar, and just the faintest bit of scruff perfectly defines his jaw.
Jesus, his sex appeal is off the charts today.
“Buongiorno, bellissima signora,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss me on the cheek. Good morning, beautiful lady.
All right, that’s just not fair.
“Buongiorno, signore,” I reply, shyly tucking my hair behind my ear. Part of me wishes I could think of something sexier to say, but honestly, it’s impressive I’m able to get any words out, let alone Italian ones.
When we arrive at his car, Quinn opens the door for me, shutting it gently after I swing my legs inside. On the drive to the café, we continue chatting in Italian, mostly about what we want to eat for breakfast.
The whole time we’re talking, I can’t help but watch the way he smiles a little every time he speaks, proud of the Italian sentences he’s able to string together. For as mature and experienced as Quinn clearly is, I love seeing little glimpses of the youth still in him. Like how he squints his eyes slightly when he’s trying to think of the right word, or the look he gives me just before kissing me…
“Alessandra?” Quinn’s voice breaks through my thoughts, just in time to stop me from entering a full-blown fantasy.
“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I was thinking about conjugations.”
He smiles and reaches over to take my hand in his. “What’s it like to have such a big brain?” he murmurs, raising a playful eyebrow. “I can only imagine what’s going on in there.”
My stomach drops at his touch, and I feel a familiar tingle between my legs.
Oh, you have no idea.
• • •
After finishing our coffee and scones at the café, Quinn and I walk through the exhibit at the museum. The paintings are breathtaking. I took a couple of art history classes in college, so as I stand in front of some of the paintings we talked about in class, I can hear my professors’ voices explaining the intricacies of the brushstrokes and the significance of the time periods when the pieces were painted.
Quinn, as usual, is perfect throughout the exhibit. I was worried that he might be the kind of date to stay right by my side the entire time, to insist on making comments on the art every five seconds. I’m used to stupid college boys who took me to museums because they thought it would make them look smart, only to talk the entire time and only really look at one or two paintings.
But like every other time I prepared for Quinn to disappoint me, he reminds me that he is, without a doubt, the most mature, sophisticated man I’ve ever dated. He held my hand while we wandered together, listening as spoke about the paintings I'd studied in school. He’s sweet, and thoughtful, and smart. In short, he’s perfect. And me? I’m determined to match him in sophistication and maturity.
As we near the end of the exhibit, Quinn returns to my side, placing his hand on my lower back to guide me to the exit. We walk to the car, my hand on his arm once again, discussing our favorite paintings. He teases me a little about how excited I am that they have a Botticelli, but I can tell from the crinkles in the corners of his eyes that he really is just teasing, and that part of him is genuinely impressed.
“Hungry?” he asks, opening my car door for me once again.
“Starving,” I reply as I climb into my seat. That scone from earlier was good, but it was nowhere near enough to hold me over.
“There’s a farmers’ market on the way to my place. What do you say we swing by there to pick up some fruit and cheese, maybe some good bread, and make ourselves a Mediterranean lunch?”
I nod enthusiastically, shifting in my seat as my stomach grumbles at the thought of our meal. And at the idea of seeing where he lives.
At the farmers’ market, Quinn leads me deftly through the stands, pointing out which vendors have the best bread, the most perfectly aged cheese, the freshest fruit. It’s clear he frequents this market often, and I swoon a little at the thought of Quinn wandering here alone on the weekends. Once again, how in the fresh hell is he still single?
Everything feels so perfect when I’m with him. It’s been the kind of day my friends and I used to dream about in college, where the smart, sexy, sophisticated man orders all the right food, asks all the right questions, and listens to what you have to say with genuine interest.
The more time I spend with Quinn, there’s this little niggling thought forming in the recesses of my mind, and it’s telling me that I’m less excited about my move to Italy. Which scares me because that one-way ticket is what I’ve been dreaming about my entire life.
Back at his place, Quinn makes our items from the farmers’ market into a beautiful charcuterie plate with such ease, I’m starting to worry that he’s almost too sophisticated. What could he possibly see in a twenty-two-year-old like me—who can barely make mac and cheese—let alone artfully assemble hors d’oeuvres?
“Bravo,” I murmur as Quinn places the platter on the table in front of me.
“Grazie.” He smiles, popping a grape into his mouth, my eyes watching his every move.
How does he make eating fruit look so sexy?
I tear off a piece of the Italian bread, place a small slice of Parmigiano Reggiano on top, and take a bite of the combination, closing my eyes and moaning softly as the cheese hits my tongue. I thought I knew what good cheese tastes like, but this? This is better than anything I’ve ever had in my mouth before.
When I open my eyes, I look up to see Quinn staring at me, one eyebrow raised.
“What can I do to make you make that sound again?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly.
Composing myself, I smile at him, that same familiar tingle between my legs. “For starters,” I murmur, placing my elbows on the table and leaning forward so Quinn can steal a glance down the front of my dress, “you could give me another piece of that cheese.”
His gaze wanders lazily over my body, moving from my eyes to my chest and then back up to my face. Watching him take in the sight of me makes me feel like my skin is on fire, and I relish the slow anticipation of what comes next.
Taking a slice of cheese between his thumb and index finger, Quinn raises it to my mouth, looking at me expectantly. We lock eyes and I open my mouth, the tingle between my thighs quickly becoming an ache. He places the cheese on my tongue and I moan again, louder and more satisfied than before. If this is a game of seduction, I’m determined to win.
I chew slowly, keeping my eyes trained on Quinn’s. He watches me with a fire in his eyes I’ve never seen before. I raise an eyebrow, daring him to make the first move.
“Fuck it,” he growls, abruptly standing and pulling my body up against his. All at once, he crushes his mouth against mine, his hands moving firmly over my hips.
Rising to my tiptoes, I respond to his kiss, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders. As our kiss deepens, he picks me up, placing my legs on either side of his hips as he marches us over to his couch, his lips never leaving mine. Gently, he lays me on the couch, pausing to look me over once more before descending over top of me, his mouth moving to my neck, where he coaxes small moans from me as his tongue moves over my skin.
With one arm supporting his body weight, Quinn lets his other hand roam freely, gently massaging my breast before finding the tie of my dress and slowly pulling it undone. I can’t believe how patient he’s being, each movement purposeful and unhurried. I’m used to the kind of guys who barely wait two seconds before shoving my head down to their lap. But from this position, I can’t even reach to unfasten Quinn’s jeans, and he doesn’t seem to care at all.
God, it’s going to be hard to leave this man behind.
As the thought passes through my mind, Quinn slips his hand inside my dress, running his fingers over my stomach and down between my legs, pausing just before my soaking-wet panties. For a moment, he stops kissing my neck, raising his head to look me in the eye.
“Is this okay??” His voice is raw and husky, and the sound of it sends a chill racing through me.
“Si.”
He dips his fingers under the elastic of my panties and between my swollen lips. I gasp as he massages my clit with small, circular motions, and he places his mouth on mine again, kissing away my increasing moans.
He continues moving his fingers, bringing me to the brink of orgasm before stopping suddenly, moving his mouth to my breast and rolling my nipple between his lips.
“Why’d—you—stop?” I ask between breaths, feeling needier than I have in my entire life.
“Patience,” he growls, softly nibbling on my fully hardened nipple. “It’s called edging.”
I’m about to speak again when he slowly thrusts his fingers inside me, pumping quickly while running his thumb over my sensitive center. Within moments, the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever had in my life washes over me, and I swear I almost black out. As my body slowly stops its spasms, Quinn holds me even closer, placing tender kisses onto my neck and my lips. Almost like he enjoyed my orgasm as much as I did.
Once I regain my ability to breathe, I kiss him back, pushing him up into a sitting position and swinging my leg around to straddle him. We continue kissing, and I move my mouth to his neck, sucking and nibbling before reaching down to unbutton his jeans, and whisper, “Should we move to your bedroom?” I can feel his stiff erection under my hands, and based on how amazing he is with his fingers, I can only imagine the kinds of things he knows how to do with his cock.
Quinn pauses, pulling his face away and placing his hands on top of mine. “I was hoping to take you on a proper date before we did that,” he says, sighing a little at his own resolve.
“I’d hardly call what we just did taking it slow.” I chuckle, experimentally touching the hard ridge through his jeans.
He groans and lifts me off him, placing me gently by his side. “I guess I’m just old-fashioned, but I’d like to take you out first. And not on a day date that started with coffee. I’m talking a nice dinner, dressed up. . .the works.”
That’s unexpected.
I sigh and place my hand against his cheek. “You’re very sweet,” I say, kissing him softly. “I, uh, guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then. You’re cooking, right?” I stand and begin gathering my things.
“Yes, ma’am,” Quinn replies, standing to join me.
“Anything I can bring?”
“Nothing but your presence. And maybe your patience.”
“Oh. Is this something I need to prepare for?” I ask, my stomach churning.
Are his brothers assholes? Do they hate me? Am I causing a scandal in the Kingsley family? Suddenly, I’m nervous about this family dinner.
“No, no. Well, maybe. Actually, no, it’ll be fine,” Quinn says, obviously unsure how to respond.
“Oh, great, now that you’ve removed all doubt, I feel better.”
Quinn chuckles and pulls me into his arms. “My brothers will love you. As will their wives. It’s only that. . .well, sometimes when all three of us get together, it can be a lot.”
“A lot in what way?” I’m curious now and doing my best not to panic.
“Well. . .Gavin is the broody one, though his wife, Emma, has significantly lightened him up. If it feels like he’s being cold to you, don’t take it personally. That’s just how he is.”
I nod, making mental notes. “What about Cooper?”
“Cooper is the family romantic. He and Gavin have a bit of a choppy history, but they’re better now. Cooper married Corinne last year, who is the sweetest little thing you’ll ever meet. They’re still in their honeymoon phase, so try not to let their sappiness annoy you.”
I nod again, remembering Cooper’s playful grin when we met in Quinn’s office. Broody, romantic, sappy. . .there’s a lot to remember, but I’m fairly confident I can successfully navigate their family dynamic.
I place a final kiss on Quinn’s lips before heading to the door. “Thank you for today—the museum, the lunch.”
He nods once and presses a warm kiss to my palm. “See you tomorrow, bella.”
On the way home, my mind is still reeling from the perfect date we had. . .as well as the perfect ending. Looking back, to every date with every man who has shared my bed, there’s honestly no comparison to Quinn. There’s never been a man before him who has pleasured me and didn’t expect quid pro quo. Even though I wanted to go farther with him, I can’t help but smile at his old-fashioned ways which I find a huge turn-on. It’s ramping up my anticipation of our first time together and it’s almost more than I can handle right now. I also have to keep reminding myself that I’m leaving in three weeks…three short weeks. I need a distraction, something that’s going to take my mind off of the predicament I find myself in with Quinn.
I spend the rest of the day cleaning my apartment and picking out an outfit for dinner the next night. If dressing for a day date was tricky, dressing for a Sunday family dinner is even trickier.
As I rifle through my closet, doing my best to find an outfit that says I’m not some twenty-two-year-old bimbo dating your brother for his money, I can’t ignore the concern I have over meeting his brothers…and for the possibility that I’m falling a little head over heels for this man, whether I want to or not.