The Sweet Under His Skin (11 page)

"And I'm the opposite of that."

She had to laugh. "Yes. I'd say you are." He was done drying his hands, so she set the towel on the counter. "Well, good night, Quentin," she said, not sure what was supposed to happen next.

He tilted his head a bit, almost like he was curious, then took a step closer. Like an idiot, she didn't back away. His eyes ran over her face, and that blue stare was unsettling but not because it was scary.

She felt herself inhale deeply. His hand went to her cheek, then to the side of her jaw, tilting her chin up a bit. His hands were rough, very warm from the water. They felt over-sized on her skin.

Arielle might have stopped breathing. She wasn't sure, she had other things to worry about. Like how his eyes tracked the motion of her tongue licking her lower lip. Why'd she do that? Without knowing how, she found her hands on his sides. Maybe she meant to push him away. Well, she failed.

He was too close. He was warm. He smelled…really good, actually. And that shirt on him was incredibly flattering; she'd noticed how it brought out his eyes right when he arrived.

When his face softened the faint lines at his brow lightened a bit, but she could still see them. They were nice. They gave him a lot of character. He was freshly shaved, maybe that was what she smelled, aftershave. His short hair looked soft and looked a little wild, but it suited his eyes and laugh and smile and presence perfectly.

He lived, smelled, looked and felt unlike anything she'd ever known in her narrow existence. Being this close to all that unbridled life was…exciting, as it turned out.

One of his hands was on her shoulder blade, and it ran downward, pulling her in. She didn't resist; his eyes were on hers and it was like her skin was being peeled raw. Sensitive. His shirt against her bare arms was like a touch of him.

"Um…" she tried to say something intelligent, but that was where it ended.

The hand still on her jaw slid to the back of her neck, reeling her against him, and just as her body collided into his she found her mouth swallowed up by his lips.

There was a lot happening at once. His chest against hers was hard and warm, his arm looping around her lower back strong and tight. A possessive gesture, almost. More aggressive than she was used to.

But she didn't worry about that. Because his mouth, his lips, oh good God that was the best part of it all. Jesus…

Christ.

Aunt Arielle was a sensory experience he never anticipated. Quentin had kissed plenty of women before who were happy to be getting it on with a Dead Man. None of them were cute girl-next-door types who blushed when they realized he was checking out their rack; a blush than ran down their neck and onto the skin in question. Who became breathy and flustered just with eye contact. Who would lick their bottom lip and have no clue how that action could drive a guy insane.

Of course he was aware that her hands were on his waist. He was waiting for her to push him off. She didn't, and when he eased her closer her hands fisted the fabric of his shirt, and he knew she didn't realize she had done it.

She was staring at him. It was making him warm. Making him hard, actually. But he wasn't going to focus on that. He could see her bottom lip was still wet from where she'd licked it, and he pulled her right to him, the mouth that met his sweeter than that store-bought birthday cake.

Something kept him in check, and for some reason nibbling at her like soft-serve ice-cream was more than he thought he deserved. The repetitive motion of brushing his lips on hers, the way she would catch his lower lip between hers, all of it was an amazing give and take. Sure he had her crushed to him, immobilized in his grip, but she had him ensnared.

He parted his mouth from hers reluctantly, to say the least, and gazed down on her. Her face was slack, pink, and she had to blink her eyes a few times to see straight. That was a hell of an ego boost.

Quentin waited for her to tell him what to do. Whether it was to tell him to fuck off, kiss her again, carry her to bed, or kiss her feet—he was going to do it.

But with those flushed cheeks, breathy voice and fucking cute face Arielle didn't tell him what to do. She just whispered, "Quentin," which made him take her mouth again, moaning to finally have his hand in that fucking gorgeous hair, barely believing how warm and alive it was.

To further shock the hell out of him, her tongue swept along his lip, making his arm around her back tighten. Enthusiastically his tongue slid along hers, and her mouth opened to allow him access. Quentin didn't even know a woman could do this with just a kiss. With her hands clutching him, her chest soft against his, her tongue giving as good as it was getting, he would do anything she wanted. Anything. Just to keep her kissing him like this.

He wanted this taste in his mouth for all time. He wanted her smell in his nose always. He wanted the feel of her breasts and arms and stomach available to his senses whenever he felt like it. He wanted to own every part of her he could.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Excuse me." Arielle flew from his grip like a magic trick, turning towards the sink as Aunt Thelma padded on the linoleum to the fridge. "I'll just get my glass of milk and, uh, go to bed."

It was painfully awkward to stand there with a raging hard-on and racing heart while Aunt Thelma poured some milk, gave them both a smile, then shuffled back to the other room.

He waited a beat, then said quietly, "Arielle—"

"You should go," she suggested, not turning around. "I'm sorry, that's rude but…you should go."

He nodded, hands on his hips. "Right."

"Quentin—"

"No, you're right. You've got a lot on your mind."

She turned then, and he wasn't unhappy to see her cheeks were still rosy and her eyes shone bright. "I…I liked that. I did." He knew she did, he was there for it. "But things are about to get weird for me."

Quentin nodded. "I can't imagine, babe."

"You said you'd help any way you could."

"And I will." Jesus, was that really him, desperate to be told he's a good boy?

"I need you to be a shoulder for Calvin. He won't tell me when something's bothering him, he doesn't want to worry me. But he'll tell you, I know he will. I love that he's coming out of his shell with you. I really like how…you are with him. I can’t give him what you can as a man. So can you be that for him?"

Quentin nodded, rubbing his chin. "Of course. I was already gonna be there for him, Arielle. We'll build the bike, he'll still have some fun kid-stuff this summer. And if his aunt needs anything," he said low, stalking to her slowly, noticing how her chest rose with her deep inhale as he did it. "I'll be here for that, too. Okay?"

She was arching back over the counter to keep distance between them, but it was thrusting her chest towards him. He kept his eyes on her face; it was a struggle but he toughed it out.

"Okay," she whispered, nodding.

"I liked that too," he admitted after a pause, letting his eyes take in her eyes, cheeks, mouth, all of it. "I'm going to want to do that again. But not until you're ready, babe. Because it probably won't stop there. I got a little taste of you just now, and I'm going to be remembering that for a long time to come." She inhaled sharply again, and his resolve was gone. His eyes scanned her chest, which made her inhale again. "I don't know what you're about to go through," his mouth was saying, his mind trying to imagine what her breasts would look like loose and in his hands. "But when you're through it, I'd like the chance to give you something really nice."

His meaning was clear. Her cheeks and neck got pinker and her eyes dropped from his as—swear to Christ—she licked her damn lips again. He tilted her chin up with one crooked finger, brushing his lips upwards across hers, his skin sparking from that lingering touch. She didn't open her eyes before he did, and he felt himself smile. She was so right there with him.

"Good night, gorgeous," he said quietly.

"Good night, Quentin," she whispered, suddenly blinking rapidly.

And to go against what he'd thought of himself up until that point, he did the right and smart thing and got the hell away from Aunt Arielle, taking his aching cock with him.

As he was unlocking his front door he felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket. He pulled it out, shoved his front door open, and flipped the phone open. Bishop didn't text, Bishop preferred to talk.

"What's up?" he asked as soon as he had the call answered, shutting his door behind him.

"Dealing in your neighborhood?"

Quentin nodded as he answered. "Yeah. Skinny white kids. One of them did the finger-gun shooting motion at me. I wasn't wearing my kutte and he didn't know who I was."

"Out of town talent," Bishop surmised. "Heard they're finding a lot of shitty meth on the streets. Two ODs in the last month, one kid almost died."

"Who would send dealers out into Portus Felix without warning about Dead Men?"

Bishop just laughed. "You get three guesses."

"Dante." Quentin should have known sooner it had something to do with the Nazi Lowriders gang.

"Bingo. Skinny white kids? I'm more than convinced now. Get to the clubhouse in half an hour."

Quentin snapped his phone shut, that pissed off vibe returning from before he'd set foot in Arielle and Calvin's cosy little world. He stared out the side window off his darkened kitchen, perfectly in line with where Arielle was still at the kitchen sink, he guessed wiping down the counters or some shit, based on how she was moving. As he watched she stopped, eyes gazing off into the distance, a small smile on her mouth as she touched her lips with one hand.

Quentin exhaled loud. The tingle of
sweet
hadn't kicked in this time, only because he'd been so fucking horny just looking at her. The thought of any asshole dealing drugs around Calvin made him see red. Knowing what other shit came with having dealers in your neighbor, having that anywhere near Calvin or Arielle made him homicidal.

He allowed a small smile that Dead Men Riders didn't like drug dealers in Portus Felix.

This might be kinda fucking fun.

Chapter Eight

Arielle swallowed, and it was like trying to pass a cotton ball down her throat. She almost panicked, then remembered what had happened. Blinking carefully against stark-white surroundings, she licked her lips, her mouth pasty and fuzzy-feeling. She took a deep breath and it felt like someone had parked a piano on her chest. She lived through surgery. Thumbs up all around.

Her environment slid into focus slowly. The first thing she saw was Calvin, already hovering close, like he'd noticed she was waking up. She gave a smile, lifting a hand to muss his hair. It took a lot of effort but she had to do it.

"Hey, Peanut," she croaked, coughing.

Calvin was on it. He snatched a glass of water off a table she couldn't see, holding it with the straw pointed at her. It made her heart hurt even as she smiled, taking a sip and nodding to show it was enough. He made the cup disappear, drawing even closer.

"Are you okay, Aunt Arielle?"

"Yeah, I'm good. How’re you? Miss me?"

"Yes," he answered automatically, making her chuckle.

Then there was a sniffle. Arielle turned her head to the other side of the bed, and Aunt Thelma was leaning against the wall, tears in her eyes and her cheeks wet. Arielle was too zoned out to wonder what could be wrong. "Aunt Thelma?"

"Oh sweetie. Honey." That was all she got before Aunt Thelma covered her face with both hands. What the hell?

"Aunt Thelma, you're scaring her," Calvin said softly, which made the older woman nod with a laugh.

"I know. You're right, Calvin. I'm sorry, Arielle."

Arielle's frown deepened. "What's going on?"

Thelma stared at her, then her grey-blue eyes went to Calvin. "Honey, go wait outside for me, okay? They'll kick us out of here soon and I need to talk to Aunt Arielle real quick."

Calvin did as asked without question, sauntering while still showing some reluctance. When the door clicked shut, Arielle gave Aunt Thelma her whole attention.

"What is it?" Arielle asked, feeling her heart give out a little bit.

Thelma half-sat on the bed, taking Arielle's hand. "The doctors got the tumor out of the right breast."

"Okay…"

"When they got to the left…well, there was more there than they first saw in the mammogram. So they…they had to take the whole left breast."

Arielle's heart sunk further. "What?"

"I'm sorry, honey."

"They said lumpectomy. Can they just do that?"

Aunt Thelma shrugged helplessly. "They did, honey. I'm so sorry."

Arielle's eyes squeezed shut. "Why wouldn't they ask first?"

Aunt Thelma tightened her hold on her hand. "Insurance, maybe? Or maybe it couldn't wait, honey. The good news is, the tumors are gone."

She shook her head. "Oh God..."

"Arielle, we'll see what's possible after your treatments. Reconstruction. It's possible."

"Possible and expensive," she snapped bitterly. "Who's got money for that?"

"Arielle—"

"I'd almost rather they took them both."

"No, sweetie. This is what we've got to deal with. So we will, okay?"

Arielle took a deep breath, not wanting to look down. Not wanting the physical evidence to confirm what Aunt Thelma was saying.

Everything felt normal at the minute, that was the trippy part. She didn't feel like she was missing parts. She brought both hands up, lowering them onto her chest. It hurt, but she was concentrating on her hands. The one on the right came in contact with her breast, and it hurt but it was there. Her left hand kept lowering, settling on bandages, nowhere near level with her right hand.

She sobbed out loud suddenly, hands quickly covering her face. Aunt Thelma was there, kissing her forehead and trying to pull her hands away but she wasn't winning; Arielle wanted to be alone. She didn't want to worry about anyone else, she was going to be selfish and feel sorry for herself for a little while.

"Arielle," Thelma was whispering, kissing her forehead. "My girl, my beautiful girl. Talk to me, honey."