The Sweet Under His Skin (42 page)

Thank fuck it was dark. "You got it, Chuckles," he replied. "Now shut up and go to sleep."

Chapter Twenty-Five

Arielle was watching Calvin head off down the driveway, waving until he was out of sight. Quentin stood behind her, hands on her hips, watching the kid too. Then he wrapped her up in a hug, wondering how to broach this.

"Can I ask you to do something?" he started with.

She set her hands over his where they were linked on her stomach. "Of course."

He kissed behind her ear before saying it. "I want to lock you in the clubhouse to keep you safe. I know it sounds extreme, but…I don't want to risk people coming here with back up next time."

She stilled in his arms and he knew she was absorbing all this. She was always so damn controlled, he had no idea how she did it. He certainly wasn't capable of keeping it together like that.

"We'll be safer there?"

"It's a building surrounded by barbed-wire, CCTV, and a locked gate. Half the club lives there round the clock. No one would be dumb enough to walk in there gunning for you."

She took a deep breath. "Shit..."

"I'm sorry, babe."

She shook her head. "It's not your fault."

Now it was his turn to inhale. "I killed that guy. That might have made this even worse."

She was already shaking her head. "He broke into my house. He was trying to drag Jolene out. If I couldhave… if I knew how to use a gun… I should have just shot him… That's the only reason you had to do that."

He waited a moment, resting his head on hers. "Think Calvin will mind?"

She laughed at that. "Are you kidding? He'll be over the moon."

"Really?"

Arielle turned in his hold, settling her arms around his neck. "I think he's fascinated by your…world. It's not something he's already read about in a book. He thinks you guys are cool."

Quentin grinned. "Well, aren't we?"

"You're scary," she said instead. It made him stop smiling. "I have visions of being a woman sitting at home while her husband's in prison for life."

"You're thinking of marrying me?" he teased. "Wow. Chicks really got one thing and one thing only on their mind."

She shook her head and looked away. "I'm scared of being left behind like that. Alone. Especially if just knowing you puts me in even more danger than I already am."

"Babe." That brought her eyes back to him. "This is why I want you at the clubhouse. If you can put up with those assholes, that is."

She nodded, puffed out her breath. "Are you okay? After doing ... what you did?"

Shit, she was worried about his psyche after breaking that asshole's neck. "You're okay, Calvin's okay. That means I'm okay, babe."

One of her hands dropped down, tracing over his Sergeant at Arms patch. "You gotta keep me safe, Quentin. Because last night I realized I want to live. I don't want to die." Her voice caught and before he knew what was happening she was outright sobbing.

"Arielle," he said stupidly, bundling her against his chest. "Baby. Where's this coming from?"

"I don't think I was all that worried about living. I'm so tired of being sick…and then that guy was choking me and I realized that I didn't want that to be all there was. I wanted to live."

Quentin cupped her face in his hands. "Scares the shit out of me to hear you say that, babe."

She shook her head. "I thought it was just a funk that would pass. But it kept getting worse and worse, I was pushing you and Calvin and Thelma away. But that's not what I want. I don't want to be alone. I don't want to die."

His heart was hammering in his chest and he pressed her so close to him he was sure she could feel it. The panic was instant and fast, just like when she fainted. She was shaking, crying, the feel and sound of it doing its best to scrape the skin right off of him.

"I ain't going anywhere, Arielle," he promised. "I'm sticking with you to take care of you."

"But what do you get out of it?" she sputtered. "I can't be the only one that benefits. That's not fair."

He felt himself smiling despite the fact she was terrifying him. "I get you, Arielle. You get me. I'm the one that's better off. Trust me."

Arielle paused in the doorway, eyes surveying the room. It had a slanted ceiling, double bed, beat up arm chair, two small tables and its own bathroom. A closed closet door was the only mystery. Like his house, Quentin's 'dorm' room held no clues as to his likes or dislikes. No framed photos, no decoration. The only items that said anything about him were a couple nudie magazine photos he was currently unsticking from the ceiling.

"Not the best education for Calvin," he was muttering as he picked at the tape.

"I'm sure he's seen it before," she said, entering the room and setting her bag on the bed. Quentin had already tossed Calvin's stuff on the armchair. The last thing she'd done before leaving the house was call Calvin's school and tell them that Quentin Bayle would be the one picking him up the rest of the week.

The lady on the other end of the phone not only knew who Quentin Bayle was, she sounded absolutely horrified. So Arielle was fully expecting a visit from child protective services at some point.

"Sheets are fresh," he told her, balling up the girlie image and tossing it in the trash can. "You can bet Mandy had the place scrubbed top to bottom."

"Don't you want to keep that?" she asked, pointing to the garbage.

He shook his head. "Nah. Why?"

She shrugged. "You had it up there for some reason."

His smile was sly. "Don't need it anymore for that." He tapped his head. "I got you up here now."

Arielle shook her head, face warm. "Quentin, that's disgusting."

"No it's not."

She tilted her head. "I'm not having this conversation with you."

"You're not going to convince me that you never touch yourself, Arielle."

"Not having this conversation," she reminded him, even as he approached her with that smirk that made her heart trip and her tummy feel loose.

He pressed his lips to hers softly, hands sliding around her waist to her back. Of course she responded, hands on his chest, kissing him back as goose bumps rose along her arms.

"That's okay," he mumbled. "I'll touch you as much as you want."

"Quentin—" he cut her off with a hard, wet and incredibly hot kiss, tongue in her mouth, hands on her ass and her entire body mashed into his.

"Oh, um. Sorry."

She pulled back but Quentin didn't let her go. There was a girl in the open doorway in ripped and skin-tight jeans. Her tank top was snug, and the neckline was very low but laced up over the abundant cleavage she was lucky enough to have. Her hair was done up and out to the nines, make-up applied a little thick but the overall effect of it all was certainly sexy.

Arielle felt herself shrink into her own skin, shoulders rolling forward, mourning her own missing bosom. She'd seen these women when they came in the clubhouse; there were at least a half dozen of them milling about and, apparently, cleaning and delivering towels.

This one's eyes were wide, she looked a bit uneasy interrupting them. Not so uneasy that she didn't give Arielle the obvious bitchy scan up and down, however.

"What?" Quentin asked.

"Clean towels," she said, voice small. "Mandy asked me to bring them by."

"Bathroom," he instructed with a head jerk. She scurried off to do as told.

"Who's that?" He shrugged, dipping his head to kiss her. She avoided it. "Who is that?" she repeated low, but the girl was back and darting out the door, closing it behind her.

"I don't know her name," he said dismissively. "Why?"

She shrugged now. "I don't know. What are these women doing here?"

Quentin stepped back and took a deep breath. Arielle had the impression she was about to get more education.

"They help Mandy keep this place in order. And they…they entertain the guys."

Arielle's stomach rolled and her neck felt like something was crawling up it. "Entertain?"

"I think you know what I mean."

She sighed. "They're here to have sex with."

He nodded. "Yeah."

"And…they've…all had sex with you?" Quentin sat on the bed, rubbing his brow. She knew the answer to that question. "Oh God…" she whispered, hating that this made her want to cry. She shook her hands like something disgusting was stuck to them, and she paced towards the bathroom door.

"Arielle—"

"All those gorgeous, hot-to-trot tramps out there," she muttered. "You've slept with all of them, right?"

Quentin's hands hung between his knees. "If that counts blowjobs—"

"Of course it counts blowjobs," she hissed.

"Then…yeah. I have."

Her stomach rolled again. "I'm going to be sick."

"Arielle—"

She was running for the toilet already. She yanked the lid open, dropped to her knees and waited. Nothing came up. She was just freaking out.

"Babe?" She was crying. Again. Fuck, she was a mess. "Arielle?" He came closer, crouching next to her. "Baby, that was all before you. Now it's only you."

She nodded, closing the lid and resting her head on her arm. Quentin picked her up, limp and embarrassed, carrying her back into the bedroom and setting her on the bed. He took off that vest, set it on the chair, then crawled onto the bed next to her, pinning her in place by laying half on her.

"Don't do that," he pleaded. Firmly. "Don't make me feel bad for shit that isn't personal against you."

"I'm surrounded by gorgeous women who have all either fucked or sucked you, Quentin." She fought to look away from him, but he held her by the chin again.

"Hey. I know to you it seems like they mean something. But they don't, Arielle." She sniffed. "And it doesn't mean that what we do means nothing. With you it's completely different. It’s something else. You gotta know that."

"I've been with four men in my entire life. Counting you."

Quentin sighed. "Babe, I can't take it back."

"I know. But you understand why this bothers me," she said softly, wiping her eyes.

"I have chased and waited and taken my time with you, Arielle. I am…completely gone for you."

She was calming down, and she raised her hand to play with his hair. To distract herself. "Shit. I'm sorry. How can you put up with me? I'm a mess."

"Maybe I should have warned you about the corpse crawlers. That's a tough thing to explain."

"Corpse crawlers?" Oh God, that was what they called them?Dead Men… corpse crawlers… Right. Clever. She sighed.

"I'm gonna spend a lot of time apologizing, Arielle. Don't make me apologize for shit in the past that doesn't matter anymore."

Of course, she knew very damn well he hadn't been a choirboy. He acted like a man that got whatever or whoever he wanted. It was the fact that they hung out here all done up, accessible and open for business that was bothering her.

"Those girls out there aren't gorgeous," he assured her, damn near reading her mind.

"What?"

"They've all got fake hair wound up in the real shit."

"My hair isn't real," she reminded him.

He raised his eyebrows, suddenly all don't get smart with me. "Even your wig is your real hair, Arielle." He had her stumped there.

"Their faces come off in a strong rain and sweat. I can stare at yours all day and it's permanently there and beautiful every minute of the day."

"Quentin—"

"Your smile is so gorgeous it brings me to my knees, babe. They can't do that with all the teeth whitening and no-smear lipstick in the world. Their fingernails ain't real, and they sure as hell can't dig them in my back like you can with yours. Colored contacts and half a pound of make-up and their eyes can't stop me dead in my track like yours can."

Her eyebrows came together and her nose gave that I'm gonna cry tingle again. "Quentin, don't."

"When you kiss me, you're kissing me, babe. Not the club, not the patch, it's for me." He lowered his forehead to hers. "And when you come, I know it's real. You're not putting on a show, I know it's the real thing." Again, her cheeks were flaming. "So if you want to compare yourself to someone, I think you gotta aim higher than that. Those girls are here because they're lonely. And when we're lonely that's handy to have around." He kissed the tip of her nose. "I ain't lonely anymore. And I sure as shit can't go back to that after having all this
sweet
with you."

Arielle was stunned into complete silence. It wasn't because he had her pinned in bed, his fingers trailing along her neck and collarbone in a way that was incredibly erotic. It wasn't the heat of his body on hers. It wasn't even what he had said.

It was the fact that it was all true. She could see it on his face, deep in his eyes. He meant all that. And again, he didn't lie about those women and didn't hide anything from her. So it all had to be true.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"You never have to be sorry with me, Arielle."

This time when he kissed her, something changed. It was back to that incredibly soft, lip-touch kiss that had seemed out of character for him, but now she knew it was absolutely authentic. And with a small thrill of victory she also knew that she was the only one getting this kiss from him.

When the kiss grew into something more heated other women were the last thing on her mind. He was helping her pull her shirt off over her head, his hands and mouth back to paying his own kind of worship to the cleavage she still had as well as her tummy, sides and hips when there was a knock on the door.

"Fuck," he mumbled, resting his face in the centre of her chest. "If we're quiet maybe they'll go away."

She bit her lip not to laugh, but she was pretty frustrated by the interruption too.

The knock came again. "You in there, Quentin? Bishop’s orders. In ten."

"Fuck," he repeated, then raised his head and shouted "Okay—I'll be there. Asshole." There was a chuckle as someone walked away from the door.

"Oh my God," she muttered, covering her face. "Who was that?"

"Sounded like Gage," he said, sounding plenty annoyed as he climbed off of her, looking very, very sorry.