Once Touched (19 page)

“I doubt very much that you were the problem, Quinn, or in any way to blame.”

Instead of replying she tipped her beer to her lips. “I'm afraid I can't agree. I'm kind of messed up. I know I look normal, but when the clothes come off and the touching starts, well, I just go kind of numb. Sometimes I get scared, but mostly I'm numb.”

Had Galahad been sent on a quest involving Quinn Knowles, he would have failed. Ethan was sure of it. In a desperate attempt to block out the image of Quinn naked and where on her delectable body he'd like to touch her first, he pinched the bridge of his nose—hard—and almost missed her whispered confession.

“But I felt something when I touched you.”

Slowly he lowered his hand. “Did you now? Interesting. I felt something, too.”

“You did? What—what—” she repeated, and then paused as if gathering her courage. “So what did you feel?”

“Hard,” he said, deciding bluntness would be the most effective tool with her. “No small feat, since I haven't had an erection in months.”

“Oh.” A wealth of emotions stole across her face: embarrassment, excitement, pride…Humor won out. “I guess you're not the only one who's been numb. So, are you cured?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? I may be as sexually dysfunctional as you.”

“So we could be flops together?”

“Misery loves company.”

She snorted. “You seem awfully calm about your, um, condition. I thought men got all weird about that or began popping Viagra like they were Pez.”

He might have replied that he didn't give a shit about a lot of things anymore, his ability to achieve an erection included. Instead he said, “It simplified things.”

He took advantage of her silence as she considered this by saying in a bored voice, “I suppose we could see if our sorry states could be improved. One friend helping another out.”

“So we'd become fuck buddies?”

The intentional vulgarity was an act of phony bravado, he knew. He grimaced nonetheless. “Is that what you kids call it nowadays?”

“And what term would you use, Gramps?”

He raised a single brow in challenge. “How about plain old ‘lovers,' brat?”

“Oh.” The silence stretched between them, and he wished he knew what she was thinking. “But it would just be sex, right? Because, you know, I'm not looking for a relationship. I don't have time for neediness—”

As if he did.

“—and you men seem endlessly needy.”

“I'll do my best to keep any whining and clinginess in check,” he said dryly. “As for the rest, I'm not looking for a relationship, either, so relax.”

“Good to hear.” She took another slug of beer and lowered the bottle. Her gaze raked him. “And how
up
for this
Masters of Sex
experiment are you? Semi? Quarterly?”

“Ha. Very funny. Let's just say you might have your work cut out for you.” He had a hunch that having her focus on his rather significant problem might make her forget her own. “By the way, do you have any condoms?”

“I'm a virgin, not a moron. Of course I do. I keep a supply in my medicine cabinet and change it monthly.”

He tilted his head, intrigued. “Worried they'll expire?”

“Nope. Worried my mother will poke around in it—the statistics on medicine cabinet snooping are outrageous—and ask questions if, one, I don't have any and, two, they sit unused. I also keep some in the bedside table since she's a canny one.”

“You're exaggerating wildly.”

“Only a little.” She brought the beer to her lips and finished it off. “Mom's going to be so disappointed about Josh. She was trying to set me up with him, you know.”

Adele poking around in her daughter's stuff? Wanting Quinn and Josh to date? Both ideas were ludicrous. He eyed her shot glass, her half-empty beer. “How drunk are you?”

“Not even buzzed. I may be a flop at sex but I can drink with the best of them.”

Damned if he was going to let the sex be lousy. Then a stark and uncomfortable realization struck Ethan. He'd never attempted to seduce a woman before. Never had to. A look, a stroke of a finger, a simple “Come home with me tonight” had always been sufficient to get what he wanted.

Trust everything to be different with Quinn. Why was he doing this again? Oh, yeah, because he thought he might die if he didn't touch her soon.

He stretched his legs out long and then patted the tops of his thighs. “Why don't you come here, Quinn?”

She looked at him as if he'd just sprouted a second and even uglier head. Christ, how ham-handed had those guys been with her? Were they the doofus surprise-in-the-popcorn-box types?

“You scared?” he asked quietly.

“Absolutely freakin' terrified.”

He nodded. “You look it. You realize we're not going to do anything you don't like or want or that doesn't feel good.”

She gave a tiny and wholly unconvincing nod in turn.

“You don't need to be scared with me, Quinn. I lived with terror for six months. I saw brave men battle it every waking hour. It sucks and has no place between lovers. Can you trust me and let it go?”

W
HAT HAD SHE
done? She had no clear idea how she and Ethan had gotten here, with him inviting her onto his lap as the first step to possible fornication. She'd needed to vent, big-time. That fact she willingly acknowledged as well as this next one: that for once she'd needed to spill her frustration and anger into human ears rather than fuzzy gray ones.

But she hadn't expected it to come to this. Surely this was the most unusual run-up to sex ever, she thought, eyeing his lap and the brown denim stretched over his lean thighs and the not negligible bulge just inches below his belt buckle.

Was he telling the truth?

He had to be. No man would willingly admit to sexual impotence. And she'd given him an erection? The notion filled her with a thrilling sense of power.

“Quinn?”

She dragged her eyes up. His mouth was crooked in a small smile. “I have a face, too, you know. Come here,” he said, his voice easy, almost a sleepy rumble.

She knew what he was doing, recognized the technique. She used it herself on animals wracked with fear. He was slowing everything down, his movements, his speech—she bet even his heart rate was dropping to lessen the chances of startling her. Something like gratitude unfroze her muscles enough for her to smile a little.

And she did trust him, had ever since the night they'd spent with Tucker. Even at his most irascible and prickly she knew Ethan would try to help her with her problem. And he wasn't being prickly now. He was being kind of amazing.

And she'd made him hard?

With her eyes locked on his, she inched toward him and tentatively put her hand on his thigh. His muscles beneath the denim were as unyielding as cement.

“Um, the sofa might be more comfortable,” she said breathlessly.

“You wound me. Here.” He placed his hands on either side of her waist and, as if she weighed no more than she had at age four, lifted her and settled her across his lap. She tried not to squirm, but she was very aware of how many of their body parts were touching and brushing. And those thighs, they weren't merely rock-hard. They were warm. And she was absorbing his heat. She shifted again and her shoulder pressed against the wall of his chest. A memory flashed bright and vivid of his naked torso. Her heart began galloping and there was nothing, absolutely nothing she could do to rein it in.

Fighting panic, she looked up. This close, Ethan's eyes glittered like chips of mica ringed with black. She'd never noticed how thick his dark lashes were, either. She pulled back, wanting him to look
familiar.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” The word came out a weak whisper. “You know, this is incredibly awkward.”

“I know.”

He did?

“We might be completely incompatible.”

She hadn't expected that, had never heard a guy say anything but,
Babe, I'm gonna make this so good for you…
or some equally unnerving variation.

“Yeah.” She bobbed her head manically.

“We're going to have to take this step by step. I think you should kiss me and see whether you like it.” He paused. “And I'll let you know my verdict. We can take it from there.”

Oh. So he might call it off if she was a lousy kisser, huh? The other guys hadn't seemed to think she kissed badly. She could do this, she was sure of it. Frowning, she leaned forward, only to pull up short when she saw that his eyelids were crinkled with mirth. “What?”

“You look like you're going to a funeral. It's only a kiss, Quinn. They're generally pretty enjoyable.”

Goaded, she snapped, “Fine,” and lunged forward, plastering her lips against his, and pressing his head back against the sofa. He made an
mhmmf
sound against her mouth, but she could tell by the stretch of his lips that he was smiling. And suddenly she was, too, and noticing that his lips felt okay against hers and that his breath was warm and smoky from the whiskey. It was good whiskey. Her lips opened and her tongue dipped in for a taste.

One kiss became two. Two turned into three. Then his tongue joined hers in an easy tangling mixed with slow sweeps and she lost count. She wasn't even sure she knew her name anymore. Her world had narrowed to wet heat and pulsing sensation.

He certainly knew what he was doing in the kissing department. He'd let her take the lead, answering her thrusts and glides, then slowly introduced his own moves, probing and drawing her tongue deeper, nibbling on her lower lip as he switched the angle of his mouth, kissing her just a little harder, as if every taste fueled his hunger. His mouth roamed, too, traveling over her face and kissing the arch of her brows, the shell of her ear, the nerve-sprinkled path down the column of her neck to where her pulse hammered, and then returning to her parted lips to catch her gasp of surprised pleasure.

“Do you like me kissing you, Quinn?”

Oh, yes.
“It's all right.”

“Mmm.” He kissed her again, slowly, deeply and then raised his mouth to whisper. “Obviously I have to work on my technique.”

Her lids grew heavy at the idea of him kissing any better.

She felt the brush of his nose as he dropped a beguilingly light kiss on the corner of her mouth. “Do you want me to touch you, Quinn?”

“I, um…” She swallowed hard. “Yes, I guess so.”

He nuzzled the side of her temple where her hairline began. Who knew that was such a sensitive spot? Had no one ever kissed her there or did Ethan have some special power over her? And why was he still only kissing her?

She unglued her tongue to ask, “Do you want to—touch me?”

“I might.”

She was torn between laughing and elbowing him. But either reaction was preferable to the ones she usually had: either a blank numbness that resembled a winter whiteout or a growing unease that made her skin crawl like an army of ants on the march.

“Lift your arms for me,” he said, interrupting her thoughts.

“What? Why?” she asked panicky.

“Because I enjoy seeing what I'm touching.”

She could do this. She'd been naked with Mark and Randall and Tim and she'd liked them a lot less than Ethan. Her arms nevertheless were as heavy as thirty-pound weights as she raised them.

He moved far more quickly. The blouse veiled her for a moment. Then it was off and she fought not to hunch her shoulders.

His hoarse curse had her looking up.

“Damn,” he repeated. “It's possible I've been around goats too much lately, but your breasts are lovely.”

She snorted with sudden, helpless mirth and felt a spurt of gratitude that he'd dispelled her anxiety—even temporarily. “Maybelle's got a fine pair of teats, I'll have you know.”

“That may well be.” His smile was wry. “I guess I prefer ones that aren't hairy.”

Her laughter caught and became a soft gasp as he placed his hands over her. She felt the heat of his palms through the lace of her bra and her nipples grew pebble-hard and aching. Her gaze flew to his.

His gray eyes glittered mesmerizingly. “You're perfect, Quinn,” he breathed, sounding as stunned as she felt. Then his mouth captured hers and he kissed her as if it had been years since he'd last tasted her.

Urgently his mouth devoured as his hands caressed, stroked, and kneaded. She should have been recoiling, but she was caught in the currents of pleasure swirling through her and pooling deep and low. An insistent, demanding pleasure, it made her arch into him.

He'd already unclasped the catch of her bra, dragging the lace over her breasts and the straps off her shoulders and down her arms until they slipped free. His hands returned to her, cupping the undersides of her breasts and lifting them so he could suckle, drawing one nipple and then the other into his mouth, laving their sensitive tips with his tongue until she cried out helplessly, pressing closer.

She hadn't realized that one of Ethan's hands had quit her breast until she felt his fingers skimming up the length of her bare thigh. She jumped and then somehow, rather than creating more distance, his hand was there, touching her through her panties, rubbing the silky fabric against her cleft as her center clenched and pulsed.

“You're wet,” he whispered roughly and pressed a kiss against the inside of her breast.

“I—” She whimpered and instinctively tightened her thighs, closing them about his strong fingers. “Yes.”

“That's good, Quinn. Really good.” His voice was a rich rumble.

She didn't know about that but then coherent thought fled as he slipped beneath the elastic to find her slick flesh. He stroked, gliding, probing, and circling, setting her nerves afire, enticing her hips to follow his fingers in a dance that left her dizzy. Everything inside her spiraled in faster and tighter circles, its nexus where Ethan's fingers caressed. And when his mouth latched on to her nipple and raked it with his teeth, she spun off as pleasure burst wildly inside her. She came with a broken cry.

Boneless, she collapsed against him, wracked by tremors even as his fingers quieted, cupping her soothingly. His other hand stroked her hair, which had somehow come loose from its bun. “Has anyone ever given you an orgasm, Quinn?”

In answer she rubbed her forehead back and forth against his chest. “They tried to,” she whispered.

She felt the warmth of his breath against her hair as he kissed the top of her head, the tightening of his biceps as he drew her to him even more snugly, possessively. Then, in a move as disconcerting for its fluidity as for its lack of warning, Ethan rose to his feet, lifting her with him. Wordlessly he strode toward her bedroom.

A short distance, it was long enough for her fears to come crashing in, breaking through the sensual daze created by his kisses and the shattering release he'd given her.

It made her remember that this was more than a high-octane make-out session. This was more than being brought to climax with an ease that was actually kind of disturbing—why had Ethan succeeded and no one else? This was about her losing her virginity, having another person
inside
her.

This was about no longer being herself.

Okay, she'd achieved an orgasm in his arms—the man must have magic in his fingers—but that didn't mean she could do
this.
And somehow, because she'd managed the one, it made her imminent failure that much worse. It would become a true disaster rather than an awkward flop. And no longer would she be able to label herself sexless, which would leave seriously hung up—screwed up—the only remaining designation.

And Ethan would know.

The cotton quilt felt cool against her shoulder blades and the middle of her back as he laid her down in the middle of her bed. His hands went to the waistband of her skirt and she shivered as his fingers brushed her stomach.

His gaze burned. So did his words. “Quinn, I want to see all of you and touch you everywhere. Will you let me?”

The temptation to babble an excuse as to why this—him and her naked together—was a supremely, colossally bad idea was nearly irresistible. But she would not be a coward. Not with him.

Her tight nod made the muscles in her neck ache.

The skirt and her panties came off awfully quickly, in one long sweep down her legs and past her bare toes. And then she was buck naked and he was hunkered by the edge of her bed, taking her in with those eyes that missed nothing. She realized she hadn't even managed to unbutton his shirt while they'd been on the sofa.
Lame, Quinn, really lame.

He was nodding and for a second she thought he was confirming her assessment. Then he said, “You're as beautiful as I thought.”

“What?” she said, momentarily distracted. “Wait. You mean you've thought about me? Naked?”

“Of course. You're stunning, Quinn. Effortlessly sensual.”

Effortlessly sensual, huh?
It boggled the mind.

As he spoke, his fingers had gone to work on his shirt, undoing the buttons. He didn't bother with them all, simply opened the shirt wide enough to pull it overhead and toss it next to a chair. She had a moment to note the flex of muscles over his ribs, the breadth of his shoulders, but then he stood and his hands went to his belt buckle. Her mouth went dry when, with the same alarming efficiency, he unfastened it and unsnapped his jeans, shucking them off along with his boots and socks. He stood before her, narrow-hipped and muscle-thighed, the entire package encased in black knit boxers.