Double Dare (3 page)

But for some reason, he didn't think this was a normal event for her.

Even so, something had to be done with her.

He leaned Quinn's limp body back onto the front of her car and held her in place with his knee. Grabbing her clutch—purse, bag, whatever the fuck they called them—he dug through it for her wallet to find an address.

Nothing. There was nothing in the bag but a tube of lipstick! What the fuck? What was the point of carrying the stupid thing, then?

Women!

He threw her car keys into the bag and, with a grunt, hefted her over his shoulder. She was facedown, and her dress was draped over her head, covering her upside-down torso completely. Which, from what he could see, left most of her bottom bare.

He shook his head when he noticed her pantyhose halfway down her thighs. And she had no shoes on. Not his problem.

As long as law enforcement didn't spot him in this predicament, he was golden.

He strode quickly across the parking lot to his Dodge Dually and opened the back passenger-side door of the crew cab. He tossed her in the back and slammed the door shut.

He contemplated dropping her off on someone's doorstep. Maybe even his sister's. That would be good payback for dragging him to this nightmare. But he thought better of it.

No. He would deal with little Quinn.

It would be his pleasure.

And possibly hers too.

Quinn groaned at the splitting pain in her head. The high-pitched whine didn't help. Where was that coming from?

She didn't want to open her eyes, because her bed still felt like it was moving. But she had no choice. She had to get the wretched noise to stop.

She shuffled around in the warm sheets and rubbed her face with a hand, before reaching down to scratch her…

Quinn's eyes popped open in horror. She was naked. She never slept naked. Her hand traveled lower until she touched the springy curls of her pussy. She was definitely naked.

And, holy shit, that wasn't her ceiling either. She sat up suddenly and gasped.

This was not her bedroom. This wasn't a bedroom of anyone she knew.

She looked around. The walls and the ceiling were made of logs. Smooth, stained, glossy logs. The floors were wood planked, and there was a window over the bed. She squinted at the sunlight glaring through the glass.

In the corner was a pile of pink taffeta…

Oh shit.

Now she remembered.

The dare.

She had gone through with it.

No. Wait. He had turned her down flat. She at least remembered that part.

Crap. Maybe they had dared her to screw some other guy, and that guy hadn't turned down a free piece of ass.

Oh no. It could have been anyone! She closed her eyes and started to do inventory of all the possibly single guys at the reception. There hadn't been that many. Had there?

Crap, she better not have gone home with a married man. She was going to kill Lana and Paula. Why didn't they stop her? They knew she didn't do these types of things!

She looked around for something to wear, but all she could see was that dress. And she'd rather be naked than put that thing back on. She spied a dresser and, with the sheet wrapped around her, went over to pull open a drawer. T-shirts. Mostly in black. She grabbed one and shook it out, looking at the size. It was large enough to cover her and then some.

Now, where was her underwear? Nowhere to be found.

There was no way she was going without underwear. She could be in a psycho's house, and she might have to make a quick escape. She was not going to be running out into the wild butt naked. She wanted something covering her goodies.

She dug in the next drawer down, pulled out a pair of men's boxer-briefs, and put them on. They were way too big, but they at least covered her like shorts. Sort of. If she didn't count the big, gaping slit in the front.

She couldn't believe she was in this situation. This was so unlike her.

Dumb. Dumb. Dumb!

She went to the door of the large bedroom—it had to be the master bedroom, especially with such a massive bed—and quietly opened the door to peek out. The coast was clear; the long hallway was empty, and she could see light at the end of it. It might be her chance to escape.

She tiptoed down the hallway and passed a bathroom with regret. She really needed to relieve herself. But it would have to wait. Priorities, she reminded herself. She crept farther down the hallway, and she realized the high-pitched sound had ceased.

The scent of fresh ground coffee wafted over her.

A pan clattered. Someone was making breakfast. It sounded like the kitchen was the next entryway down the hallway. She would have to try to sneak past it without getting caught.

But the curiosity was killing her. Who did she end up going home with last night? What had they done together?

Okay, did she really want to know?

She pinned herself against the wall, chewing on her thumbnail worriedly, and peered around the doorway into a huge kitchen.

She sucked in a breath.

Logan Reed stood at the stove, the hard lines of his back shifting as he messed with something in front of him. She was mesmerized by the powerful ripple and flow of his muscles under smooth, sun-bronzed skin.

His deep voice snapped her out of her trance. “What are you doing? Get in here and help.”

The breath rushed out of her. He hadn't even bothered to turn to face her. He just knew she was there.

She straightened up and stepped into the doorway. The man was barefoot and bare chested, with only a pair of soft, worn blue jeans encasing his lower body.

Her pussy pulsed, and her breathing became shallow.

“Well, c'mon. Don't just stand there.”

She took a tentative step farther into the kitchen.

“Coffee's brewing. Grab yourself a mug.”

He turned, and Quinn bit her bottom lip until she tasted blood. His hair was loose this morning, framing his face. It was long enough to brush past his shoulders.

Had she said she hated long hair? Oh, she'd have to rethink that one, for sure.

His chest was dark and lightly covered with hair from his well-sculpted pecs down his abs—oh God, he actually had abs—and disappeared into the front of his jeans. Visible veins popped out from his biceps, since the muscles were so distinct. And the tattoos…

He had a tribal band circling his left bicep, and the one on his right looked like a white stalking tiger. Yes, it was a white tiger, and it might have had green eyes. She wouldn't know for sure until she got closer.
If
she got closer.

Oh, did she
so
want to get closer.

No! No, she didn't.

His right nipple was pierced, which caught her off guard. She had never seen a man with pierced nipples.

Until now.

“Nice outfit. The mugs are in the cabinet over by the fridge.”

Quinn made herself move, albeit stiffly, to grab two mugs from the cabinet, and she reluctantly moved closer to the man she wanted to throw on the kitchen table and eat for breakfast.

He had turned her down flat last night. What had changed his mind?

“There's aspirin on the table for your hangover.”

She cleared her throat before answering, “Thanks, but I'm okay.”

He had a carton of eggs on the counter next to the stove, and he turned back to crack four of them into a cast-iron skillet. Another first for her: real cast iron. She had never seen anyone cook in one of those before. She had only seen them used for decoration.

“How do you like your eggs?”

“Anything but runny.”

“Easy enough,” he said.

Her stomach felt slightly queasy, but the fried eggs smelled wonderful. She watched his muscles bunch when he flipped the eggs in the pan.

“There's juice in the fridge if you want.”

Quinn shook her head. “Just coffee.”

“It's ready. Help yourself.”

She did and then sat at the large butcher-block table, curling her legs underneath her and pulling the oversize T-shirt over her knees.

He placed two plates of food on the table and sank into the chair across from her, his green eyes pinning her in place.

“Go ahead and eat.”

She ripped her gaze from his and followed the line of his shoulders. “I'm not really hungry.”

“You should try to get some solid food into your stomach.”

She didn't answer but just stared at the gold ring protruding from his dark small nipple.

She was tempted to crawl over the table on her hands and knees and tickle the hoop with her tongue. She had the craziest urge to suck it into her mouth and tug… Where the hell had
that
come from? Why would she think that? She never initiated sex. Ever. None of her former lovers—all two of them—had ever made her even
want
to initiate sex. Especially not Peter.

She broke her gaze away and picked up a fork and took a small bite of egg. Her stomach rolled, and she quickly grabbed her mug to take a long swallow of black coffee. It made her feel a little better.

“It was a rough night.”

Quinn jerked her head up, and their eyes locked. He wore a small, crooked smile. She quickly looked away and blushed. “What…what happened?”

“You don't remember?”

She opened her mouth and looked up again, only to realize he was teasing her. A flash of relief went through her. “Nothing happened?”

“I told you I don't fuck drunk chicks.”

“You have a conscience, huh?”

“Maybe. Actually, if I'm going to fuck someone, I want it to be enjoyable for both of us. Or all of us.”

“All?”

“Depending how many are involved.”

Quinn cleared her throat. “Oh.”

His smile widened, showing off his straight white teeth. He finished off his meal before sliding his chair back across the plank floor. After placing his plate in the sink, he turned to lean back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest.

Shit, even his forearms were sexy.

“Are you done?”

She nodded, unable to answer.

He crossed the room to snag her plate. “Good, because you're not drunk anymore.”He tossed her plate onto the counter and then came to stand behind her chair. Quinn's heart skipped a beat before it resumed thumping furiously. Her breathing shallowed, and her lips parted slightly.

“Your hair looks much better down.” His warm, deep voice sent a shiver down her spine. She refused to turn to face him. She enjoyed not knowing what he was doing, what he was looking at, how close he was, what he was going to do next. Her nipples pebbled, and her breath caught. She never realized that the fear of the unknown could be so exciting. She barely got out, “So does yours.”

His fingers curled over her shoulders, worked their way up into her hair, and massaged against her scalp.

His hands flexed into fists, pulling her hair tight, and he yanked her head back, forcing her to look up at him. Her neck was stretched over the back of the chair, and she looked up into his serious eyes and was afraid.

No. She wasn't afraid. She should have been, but she wasn't. She was titillated.

One corner of his mouth lifted, and he let out a low growl. “Who said you could go into my drawers and borrow my stuff?”

Quinn opened her mouth to answer. But she couldn't form any words. She didn't know what to do.

“Did you have permission?” He gave her hair a slight yank, and she groaned.

It hurt. But boy, did it hurt good. How could that be?

Her breathing quickened, and she whispered, “No.”

Quinn wrapped her hands around his wrists but didn't try to pull him away. It would have been pointless anyway. He had to be three times as strong as her. At least.

“How dare you touch something that isn't yours?”

“I don't know—” Her answer was strained, her neck was getting sore in that position, and the blood was rushing to her head.

“That's right, you like dares.”

“No.”

“Yes, you do.”

Her chest rose and fell rapidly beneath the tautly pulled T-shirt, her nipples hard beneath the cotton.

“Do you dare me to make you pay?”

“Pay?”

“Yes, punish you like this…” He buried his head into her neck, scraping his teeth along her strained throat, brushing his lips and tongue where his teeth had gone. His beard was too short to be soft; it was like sandpaper against her skin.

When his fingers loosened on her hair, she grabbed his biceps, meaning to push him away but pulling him toward her instead. Logan grabbed a handful of the T-shirt and pulled it up and over her head, covering her face, exposing her breasts.

Never having been blindfolded before, she sucked in a breath, and the cotton filled her mouth. She pushed it back out with her tongue and made herself calm down enough to breathe through her nose. His scent was infused into the fabric, and she imagined his cock nestled in the same spot of his boxer-briefs as her pussy was now.