Yours at Midnight (8 page)

“Some guy ran a red light and I smashed into him. I went through the windshield.”

“Christ,” Quinn said.

“Joseph suffered a closed and open head injury,” Lyric said. “Plus his face took a beating.”

Shimmering red lights, broken glass, and mangled metal flashed through Quinn’s thoughts. He’d never get the images of that night out of his head. He flinched. “How’d the other guy fare?”

“He didn’t,” Joseph said, barely above a whisper.

Lyric put a hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “The driver was drunk, and he’d already been cited for two DUI’s.”

The last stretch of gauze unraveled. Quinn stifled a gasp. Joseph’s shaved head looked like a road map, scars neatly aligned and numerous. Other flesh wounds were still raw.

“You feel guilty about that?” Quinn asked, suddenly feeling protective of Joseph.

Joseph looked up at him in surprise. “I killed a guy.”

“No. He killed himself and almost took you with him.”

Lyric stared at him. Her beautiful eyes looked into his, like her heart was reaching for him…and she understood. “No one else has put it that way.”

“Maybe because no one else has been in an accident like Joseph and I have.” He moved his gaze to Joseph and sat down next to him. “I lost my twin brother in a car accident. He was driving. I was in the passenger seat.”

“Sorry.” Joseph looked down at his lap.

“It’s taken me a long time to stop blaming myself for what happened, Joseph. In fact, I’m still not quite there. Don’t be like I was.”

Joseph looked at his mom, who sat in a reclining chair in the corner of the room. “I haven’t been the best son,” he muttered. “I’ve gotten into a lot of trouble and haven’t tried very hard at school. But that’s going to change now. I think I survived for a reason, and I’m not going to blow it.”

Quinn dropped his shoulders. The tight, painful knot that had sat in his chest since the night of the accident evaporated. The kid was right.

“You know what, Joseph? That’s excellent advice.”

…

Lyric couldn’t keep her eyes off Quinn.

If she thought he’d snap or withdraw or pale when he saw Joseph, she’d been mistaken. When he’d slid into speaking Spanish just a moment ago, making both Joseph and Mrs. Garcia laugh, she hadn’t felt the least bit left out. She’d only felt admiration.

“You’re slipping,” Quinn said, gently using the back of his hand to lift hers up while they finished wrapping a new gauze bandage around Joseph’s head.

“Thanks.” She glanced over at Mrs. Garcia. The fifty-something single mom had dark circles under her eyes, but for the first time in weeks, the lines around them and the deep creases in her forehead were less pronounced.

Because of Quinn.

He handed her the silk tape. She taped down the gauze. “It’s looking much better,” she said to Joseph. “A few more days and I think you can go without this. Marissa will be back on Monday to check on you.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Quinn shook his hand. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will.” Joseph scooted back so he leaned against his headboard. He picked up his pencil and math book. He’d told Lyric he was trying to catch up with his high school classes over the winter break so that when he returned to school he wasn’t too far behind. The head injury had caused some minor memory lapses, but thankfully nothing more serious.

Mrs. Garcia stood and hugged Quinn. He hugged back, letting go only when she stepped away. She spoke very quickly in Spanish, then led them toward the kitchen.

“You were amazing back there,” Lyric whispered to Quinn.

“So were you.” His hand brushed hers, sending desire and so many other emotions through her that her knees shook.

Lyric eyed the medications on the kitchen counter. “I’m sorry for the confusion.” She lifted the prescription pain medication that Mrs. Garcia had gotten from their primary care physician. “I’m going to take these with me so there are no more mistakes. I want you to only give Joseph Tylenol from now on.” Lyric had spoken to Joseph’s doctor and confirmed that the stronger pain relief was probably to blame for Joseph’s nausea. Especially if taken without food, and Joseph had told Lyric he hadn’t had much of an appetite.

Mrs. Garcia’s eyebrows creased.

“This is the only thing you want to give him,” Quinn said in English, holding up the over-the-counter bottle of pills. He repeated the sentence in Spanish—at least, Lyric assumed he repeated the same thing.

She wanted to kiss him for speaking both languages.

Mrs. Garcia nodded. “
Gracias
.”

He nodded. “I’ll take a look at your front door now.”

Quinn moved across the family room. Lyric couldn’t pull her gaze off him as his hands got to work on the lock. He knelt, and she caught a glimpse of smooth, tan skin when his T-shirt lifted. The muscles in his arms flexed. God, she itched to run her fingers over every inch of him. Everything about him was strong and masculine and rough around the edges. And she wanted to press her body against his.

He stood and said something to Mrs. Garcia in Spanish. Mrs. Garcia hurried away, and Lyric’s eyes met Quinn’s. They focused on each other for several seconds. Her insides liquefied at the desire shimmering in his look. When the corners of his mouth lifted into a slow, easy smile, she knew he saw
her
desire.

Mrs. Garcia interrupted them when she hurried back in and waved a screwdriver. Five minutes later the door was fixed. Mrs. Garcia beamed. She thanked them both and wrapped Quinn in another appreciative hug that did crazy things to Lyric’s heart.

“Nice work back there,” Lyric said on the walk back to her car. “I knew your mouth was talented, but I had no idea you were so good with your hands, too.”

She bit her lip and looked down the street, away from Quinn. She’d just said all that out loud, hadn’t she?

“Really?” he said amused. “You don’t remember my hands? Because they sure remember you.”

Her body heated. Instant body blush.

When she didn’t answer right away—probably because her tongue had stuck to the roof of her mouth and she was picturing his hands all over her—he added, “Guess I need to refresh your memory.”

Definitely.

Not
, the sane part of her brain said. Lyric flirted and touched like it didn’t matter. But deep down she wished for the happily ever after he couldn’t give her. His life was somewhere else, and she’d never ask him to give it up.

“My memory is just fine. I remember you left, and I remember you’re leaving again.” She winced. She’d said all that out loud, too.

Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut around him?

At the car, he took her arm and spun her against the back passenger door. The hard pressure of his body made her knees shake. All thought of keeping her distance fled.

He snaked his right arm around her and braced his left hand on the roof of the car. “I have something to say to you.”

“O-okay.”

“I like you, Lyric. A lot. I always have. The main reason I came back was because of you. I needed you to know I didn’t mean all those things I said to you, growing up. I didn’t mean to make you hate me. I didn’t mean to leave you like I did.”

“Quinn.” She placed her hand on his chest. His heart pounded under her palm. Hers thumped loud and steady in her ears.

“Let me finish. I hated being second best to Oliver. Especially when all he did was lead you on, and you still liked him more than you liked me.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Truly sorry.” She’d always pushed Quinn away. Always. She’d pushed him away the night after Oliver’s funeral, too—and been mortified by her actions. Mortified that what they’d shared had changed her world. He hadn’t just had sex with her. He’d
loved
her that night, with all his heart and soul, and it terrified her.

She hadn’t deserved it.

“I know I’m only here for a few more days, but I want to make the most of them. With you. I think you’d like that, too.” His cocky, yet somehow endearing tone did things to her body that no one else could.

She needed to tell him the truth about Max
right now
. But she couldn’t get the words out, because that would push him away again. And she didn’t want that. Not anymore. Not ever again.

How was she going to do this?

“I would like that,” she said.

Chapter Eight

“Pizza delivery,” Quinn said, strolling through the front door like he lived there. He flashed a smile at her before he turned an affectionate gaze on Max.

Lyric lost her balance and fell against the kitchen counter for support. His smiles seriously ruined her for anyone else.

He put the pizza box down on the coffee table, took three large strides, and kissed her. Right on the mouth.

She pushed his chest. “Quinn!” She darted a look at Max. Yep, he was watching them, his little nose scrunched up and his eyes narrowed. “You can’t just kiss me like that in front of Max,” she whispered.

“I can’t?”

“No.”

He turned. “Hey, Max. What’s going on?” He patted the top of Max’s head as he sat down at the dining room table.

“Driving my cars.”

Quinn picked up a yellow Matchbox car from the few Max had lined up on the table. Lyric remembered he’d loved cars as a kid—so much so that as he’d gotten older, he’d painted those intricate model ones that took hours to finish. “I had one just like this. It was my favorite race car.”

“Wanna play?”

“I sure do.”

“Tomorrow,” Lyric said, putting a hand on Max’s shoulder. “It’s time for bed now. I’m sure your cousins are wondering where you are.”

“But I want pizza.”

“I’ll save you a piece.”

“Two?” he asked, standing up on the chair.

“Sure.” She put her hands under his arms, but he twisted and reached for Quinn.

“I want Quinn to take me.”

Quinn caught him and lifted him off the chair. “You got it, pal.” He winked at Max and, for a second, looked taken aback when Max looked right at him.

Oh God. Lyric’s heart pounded while everything else inside her went still. Had Quinn finally noticed they had the exact same eyes?

“Any special directions?” Quinn asked, and she sighed with relief. But his question and ease with Max burned through her like a wildfire. He wasn’t put off by a three-year-old’s demands, and wanted to do things right.

“No. My mom or Ella can get him situated. Come here, you.” She put out her arms.

Max didn’t let go of Quinn, instead leaning sideways to kiss her goodnight. “’Night, Mama.”

“Goodnight, sweetie. I love you.”

For a long beat Quinn didn’t move. His eyes held hers like she might vanish if he stepped away, and he’d do anything to stay frozen in that moment.

She tilted her head and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

That broke whatever trance he was in. “Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.”

She tracked their exit, Quinn’s very nice backside setting her teeth on edge.

To keep herself occupied until he got back, she went back to making trifles for the party tomorrow night. She layered sliced strawberries in the bottom of a glass serving bowl—and thought of feeding them to Quinn one at a time with her mouth. The next layer of angel food cake made her fingers sticky, and she thought about Quinn licking them. The third and fourth layers—whipped cream and vanilla pudding—had her thinking about smearing it all over their bodies and feasting on each other.

Dammit. She’d combust the second he walked back through the door if she kept this up.

She moved to the couch and lifted the lid of the pizza box. A carbohydrate feast ought to cure her—or at the very least, stop the lust long enough for her to get a grip.

Then Quinn walked in the door, mid-bite. Wicked twinkle in his eyes, kissable mouth, strong arms, and she dropped the pizza. Right on her lap.

She couldn’t ever remember her body thrumming with so much sexual tension. So much need.

He took care of the distance between them and picked up the pizza between her legs. His thigh brushed hers. She couldn’t breathe.

“Hank Jr., Joey, Lola, Troy, and Emma all say goodnight,” he said, as if the electricity between them didn’t exist. Jerk.

“You remembered all their names?” Potent pulses of contentment drugged her.

I’m drunk on Quinn
.

“Yep. And Max gave me a really wet kiss. I think he likes me.” He took a bite of the pizza. His words reached the deepest part of her.

She knew Max liked him. She’d seen it written all over his face when he was with Quinn. That’s why before this went any further, she had to tell him her secret. Maybe Quinn wouldn’t hate her for keeping it. Maybe he’d forgive her, since he’d come back asking for his own forgiveness.

Maybe he already suspected and was waiting for her to tell him.

Part of her had wanted him to figure it out on his own. Shouldn’t he
know
Max was his son? Feel it? And was he so clueless about kids’ ages that he couldn’t put two and two together?

A nervous chill stretched across her shoulders and down her arms. Her secret didn’t only affect Quinn. Her family would be livid with her for keeping this from them. It was one thing to tell them it had been a stupid one-night stand. Quite another to reveal it had been with Quinn. Vivian and William would be hurt as well. She’d denied Quinn’s parents’ their rightful place as grandparents.

“You’re thinking way too hard,” he said. “Eat.” He plucked off the last piece of pepperoni and held it to her mouth. His fingers touched her lips and set off fireworks in her belly. “Let’s not talk about kids, let’s talk about why you have what looks like vanilla pudding on your cheek.”

He very slowly bent his head and licked the pudding off with the tip of his tongue. “Mmmm. I was right.”

She choked on the pepperoni.

With a smirk, he grabbed another piece of pizza and relaxed into the couch. His interest in the pizza really annoyed her.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “This is just sustenance to give me some extra energy.” His dark, heated eyes pegged her. “I’ve got plans for you tonight.”

“How do you know I don’t have plans for you?”

She’d do whatever he wanted. But he didn’t know that. Nor did she plan to tell him.

Okay, maybe she would.

“I’m sure you do. But we’re going with mine.”

She didn’t dignify his order with an answer. Instead, she nabbed her own slice of pizza—she needed energy too—and proceeded to pull the cheese into a long string with her fingers. She fed it into her mouth inch by slow inch, her tongue darting out until the gooey mozzarella disappeared. She licked her lips and gave him a look.
Your turn.

He went to the kitchen and flipped one of the pudding cups on the counter into his hand. Sitting back down, he peeled the cover back.

“What are you doing?” She flung her pizza into the box and sat up taller, arms braced, hands curled around the couch cushion.

Please put it on your chest and let me lick it off you.

“Did you know vanilla is my second favorite flavor of pudding? Shit. I forgot a spoon.” He frowned and looked around. Like she kept them lying around? “In case you’re taking notes in that organized head of yours, butterscotch is my favorite.” His gaze settled back on her. “Mind?”

Before she could protest, he clasped her wrist and dipped her pointer finger into the pudding.

Right before he closed his lips around her finger, though, she jerked her hand and spread the pudding across the bridge of his nose.

“You did not just—”

Her finger took another dip, wiped pudding across his chin. She laughed.

He flipped her onto her back, pinning her beneath him on the couch. She squirmed against him. When he lifted her arms above her head with one hand, licked his lips, and squeezed the pudding container so the creamy vanilla dessert spilled onto the V of skin left bared by her shirt, she stopped wiggling. Every cell in her body was turned on, and she wanted to slow down. She wanted to
feel
every little thing.

“Oops,” he said. “I better help you with that.”

Playful, teasing, sexy Quinn kissed her jaw first, then slid delicate touches down her neck. She rolled her head to the side to give him better access. Each graze of his lips sent shockwaves through her. His thigh moved between her legs, and she shamelessly rocked against him.

His tongue burned a path to her chest. “This tastes much better off you than out of a plastic container.” He raised his head. “Or from a spoon.” Then he went back to licking up every bit of the pudding. When he finished, he moved up to her mouth.

The sweet flavor of vanilla filled her senses as he slid his tongue between her lips and showed her again how his kisses rendered her completely his. He swept in and ravaged her mouth with strokes of his tongue that demanded and caressed at the same time.

She arched up, tugged her arms down, and ran her hands up underneath his shirt. Muscle flexed under her fingertips. His skin, hot and smooth and hers for the taking, felt amazing. Better than the last time.

The last time.

“Quinn,” she said, hating to pull her mouth from his.

“No talking.” He plunged right back in and she kissed him back, mindless the second one of his arms snaked around her back, his hand lifting the back hem of her shirt. His other hand skimmed down her side, found her ass, and brought her more firmly against him.

Her body throbbed for him.

But she couldn’t go any further until she told him about Max.

If she didn’t come clean first, she’d feel like what they were about to do was a lie and didn’t mean anything—when it meant everything to her.

She pushed herself up. “I need to tell you something.”

“Tell me after,” he said, his tone husky, impatient. He pulled her onto his lap and cupped her breasts.

“Now would be better,” she somehow managed to say, even as she arched against him and looked up at the ceiling. Her head lolled back; she couldn’t stop her sigh of pleasure. He had amazing hands.

“Stop thinking so hard, Lyric.”

When was the last time she’d done that? She couldn’t remember. At the moment, she couldn’t properly think at all. Quinn’s very skillful palms kneaded and massaged and—

Oh God. His hands were magical too, because the front clasp of her bra opened
before
he lifted her shirt over her head and flicked his tongue across one nipple, then the other. Her bra slipped to the floor.

Okay, maybe she could tell him after.

Afterward he’d be less upset, right? She’d give him the best orgasm of his life, and he’d forgive her because of it.

She didn’t really believe that, but this might truly be the last time she was with Quinn—and, selfishly, she didn’t want it to end. He wasn’t staying past the new year, and telling him the truth didn’t mean that would change. It didn’t mean that he’d suddenly drop everything to marry her and profess his undying love. She hoped he’d want to be a part of her life, to visit and keep in touch with Max.

“You’re thinking again,” he murmured against her stomach, blazing a trail of kisses down to the top of her jeans. His hands, splayed across her lower back, kept her in place.

“How do you know?” She ran her fingers through his hair.

He lifted his head. His eyes, dilated to dark chocolate, skimmed over her. One cocky eyebrow lifted. “It’s a gift.”

“Yeah, one that you’ve used to your cruel advantage over the years.”

“I challenged you because I knew you could take it. Because you needed someone to keep you on your toes.” His breath fanned over her skin, making her wet, needy, anxious. “Want me to stop?”

“No.” The truth was, she hadn’t wanted him to back then, either. He’d always been the one person to make her feel desirable.

“Tell me what you want, Lyric. Because this time I’m going to do it right. This time you’re going to know exactly how I feel about you.”

She shuddered.
I did last time.

“I want you.” Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. She wanted her son’s father. She had since the day she found out she was pregnant. But she’d been too proud, too full of resentment to do anything about it. The truth tasted bitter in the back of her throat.

“To do this?” He cupped her breast, rubbed his thumb across her nipple.

Sensation overcame her. She swallowed her fears and doubts. Nodded.

“And this?” His other hand moved between her legs, and she let out a whimper.

“Yes, keep doing that,” she said, or quite possibly demanded, because if he stopped she’d surely wither and die.

Then everything revved up, their hands all over each other, their mouths meeting to plunder one another. She pushed up his shirt and tossed it aside. He unbuttoned her jeans, started on her zipper.

That’s when she remembered.

She turned to stone.

“What’s wrong?” He semi-froze, only his warm, strong hands moving up and down her arms.

Her scar was what was wrong. After her C-section, she hadn’t healed well, developing a keloid across her lower abdomen. Quinn would no doubt question her about the ugly, raised pink skin and be reminded of her pregnancy. She shut her eyes, trying to picture the scar from his point of view, trying to decide if he wouldn’t be repulsed.

Deciding to come clean.

“It’s just been a really long time.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re doing fine by me. More than fine.” He gifted her with an impossibly sexy smile. His pointer finger raked down her arm and unbelievably, given her state of mind, her body hummed.

“There hasn’t been anyone since…” She turned her head and focused on the corner of the walls. “You.”

He stilled. “What did you say?”

“You’re the last person I slept with, Quinn.” Her gaze might be across the room, but she felt his eyes on her profile with intensity strong enough to make her blood run cold.

For what seemed like forever, neither of them moved or said anything, like the slightest motion would puncture the air and steal their breath for good.

“What are you telling me?”

She finally mustered the courage to look him in the eye. “Max is yours.”

He fell back against the couch, ran his hand through his hair. “That can’t be. He’s two.”

“Who told you that? He’s three. Almost three and a half.” The pain on Quinn’s face—evident in the tight set of his jaw, the deep crease between his eyebrows, the murky depths of his stare—almost undid her.

She had to make this right.