Читать книгу The Prince's Cinderella Bride - Amalie Berlin - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

“MORE TO RESTORE?” Quinn’s words came slow and low, as if tension and gravity made him pause for a breath after each word.

“Repairing areas with vascular damage.” She clarified, “They did what they could the first time, but it didn’t heal properly. The surgeon is confident he can restore full function, but Nettle—Ben—won’t talk to anyone about it. I even tried once, early on, because the staff GP said he’d gotten nowhere either. The psychiatrist also had no luck. He shut me down really quickly.”

Quinn took it in dead silence.

Was he getting it? She couldn’t tell if it was his usual tactic—letting the bad wash over him like water off a duck’s back—or if he was processing. There was concern on his face, but his silence didn’t give any hint to his thoughts. She’d have to put it to him straight.

“I think if you talk to him about the procedure and why he should have it, he might listen...”

He reached behind him and rubbed the back of his neck, finally pulling his gaze away from her for a moment. “He’s talking a little, but I don’t want to push him. It’s a delicate balance, right now.”

Like Quinn was talking a little. It was only an opening, but one she’d never got before. Talking about problems, at least his friend’s problems, might be within his capabilities. He hadn’t said no. He just needed convincing.

Anais stood and dragged her chair closer to him, close enough that their knees almost touched.

“He’s got a chance at a normal life if he has the procedure. I doubt he feels like getting married knowing he won’t be able to father children, or...be...with his wife.” Don’t linger on the sex, even if she knew Quinn would definitely get that rationale. “I think that particular injury is an even bigger one mentally to him than his legs. It’s the reason for how you found him, I’m sure of it.”

Quinn’s expression hadn’t changed—concerned, maybe a little out of his depth and horrified at the idea of talking to his friend about something so personal. But what got more personal than asking your friend to cut your dangling fingers off?

She kept going. “With the surgery, he could have a normal life. We can work with him on his mobility—his life won’t ever be entirely normal because he’s a double amputee, but he could have a family.”

A family. Something she’d wanted with Quinn. Something she still wanted, but had never been able to picture with anyone else. The word had become like a weapon, a word that could hurt them both. But if she couldn’t reach Nettle, she had to reach the person who could.

Whatever it took.

Before she could think too much about it, she took his left hand, forcing him to look at her again.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his stormy gray eyes sliding from their hands to her eyes, but lingering heavily over her mouth.

He started to pull away.

“Wait!” She transferred his hand to lie on her palm and traced the jagged edge left after the blast. “If you could have back these parts that were taken from you, if you could have them, fully functional, wouldn’t you want it? I know this was terrible for you, and I haven’t—” she swallowed “—I can’t close my eyes without seeing it.”

Her throat squeezed so hard she could barely breathe, let alone talk. Blessedly. Those weren’t the words she’d needed to say. This wasn’t about her. It was about him. About Ben.

“Imagine you could have a place for your wedding ring, the next time you married.” She felt tears slip as she said the words. “Wouldn’t you want that? I know...it didn’t...go the way...either of us hoped it would, but sometimes...”

“I have no desire to get married again.” The words dropped like lead.

A sharp jerk pulled his hand from hers and she lifted her eyes to his, not even trying to hide the tears quivering in her vision.

She’d messed it up, yet more proof they never knew how to talk to one another. This wasn’t supposed to be about them. How had it become about them?

Pressure on her neck made her lift her head, and the next instant his mouth covered hers. The moment stretched out and she measured it in breaths and heartbeats. One breath she was in her chair, the next she was in his lap, her sluggish mind struggling to catch up.

All she knew in that moment was an ache that seared into her. His mouth, hot and desperate, on hers echoed the frenzied need crouching in her own breast since the moment she’d heard his laugh. She was a silly, naïve twenty-year-old again, starved for his kisses, for his touch, for the heat of him against her.

When she opened her eyes, it hurt to see him. His brows were wrenched, as if touching her hurt more than helped. As if he tortured himself with every kiss, but couldn’t stop.

She didn’t want to stop. She didn’t want to feel him shaking or the mingling of pleasure and bitter need that twisted her insides. But she couldn’t stop.

Her arms came around his shoulders, pulling him close, reveling in his solidity, the breadth of him. His face had matured; his body had as well. He was a new man, but still the same.

His arms around her waist bent her toward the floor, and he paused only long enough to shove chairs violently away, making a space for them.

There was no way for reason to intervene, not when his unfamiliar and heady mass pressed her into the cold wood floor, and his hands began frantically pulling at the material separating them.

Her tank top came up and her front-clasp bra popped open at his insistence. He only took his mouth from hers to turn his attention to her breasts.

Her breath left her and she moaned so loudly that he lunged back over her, covering her mouth again with his own, absorbing every tortured gasp he ripped from her.

Before she registered movement, he’d stripped her from the waist down. She could only hold his mouth to hers, needing his kisses to continue blocking out the world. Needing to fill her lungs with him.

Tenacious, unhesitating, he pulled her legs around his hips, and launched himself into her.

Dizzy and breathless, only his mouth kept the broken sobs of her regret and need from echoing through the whole facility.

Like a wild thing, he set a thundering pace, hollowing her out and tearing down those carefully constructed walls of protection. Anna was gone. Anais was too. All thoughts gone. Nothing left but this need to get closer, to wrap her legs around him and pretend that the years in between never happened. Forget the bad times. Forget the end. Even forget the wedding. Pretend she didn’t know it was only lust and anger driving him. This was hate sex for him. That horrible need to be closer. They might never be cured of it but it had been twisted by her leaving, and by his never showing up to begin with.

Still, she hung in that heartbeat where she’d still believed they could have that future she’d so desperately wanted. With this man—the only man who could bullhead through her reservations and convince her to act against her best interests.

He was with her, connected, inside her, but leaned away until it was his idea to return for another desperate, suffocating kiss. That frequent distance kept her from reaching for him until he deigned to return to her.

The last time she’d held him, he’d still been a boy. A decidedly handsome, sexy boy, but now, broad-shouldered and deliciously heavier than he’d been, he still felt like hers. Angry, but hers. Wanting to punish her, but still part of her.

It was wrong. All of it. The sex. Wanting to see him. Wanting to know him... Wrong. Stupid and wrong.

Stretched too taut, the thread of her pleasure snapped, and the first wave of her climax blasted through her, but she was too far gone for moans or any sound. It was all she could do to keep breathing.

When he stiffened and jerked, his broken breaths told her he’d come with her, and there had been no barriers in those few moments. Not even the sort that would prevent pregnancy.

Pretend it was still then. Back when they’d had a future. When she’d have felt only bliss at the idea of having his child. Before she’d learned how much to value a quiet life.

Quinn relaxed against her, his stubble-roughened cheek to her shoulder, rapid breath fanning her hair.

What were they doing? Why had she kissed him back?

Her hands ached to smooth over his back, to relearn the body she’d once known. To comb through his hair, trace his jaw and feel the rasp of his whiskers against her fingertips. She wanted to luxuriate in the tactile experience his body could bring. Just hold on and pretend for a little longer.

Instead, she curled her fingers to her palms to keep from stroking his skin. As soon as she got control of her thoughts, of her mouth—as soon as she could stand the idea of him looking at her again—she’d push him away. Off her, out of her...

No words came from her, not out loud, but it was as if he heard her anyway. Quinn lifted himself, off and away from her, severing their connection before he’d even gotten control of his heart.

On his knees between her legs, still mostly dressed, he rested and silently looked over her naked body. A heated look, at least. He still wanted her. This could be the first in a long, tangled back and forth—something she wouldn’t be strong enough to withstand. Or it could be another sign that it was once again time to run.

She pulled her tank top down to cover her breasts, and scooted back to sit up, legs together. As if that would make her less bare to him.

What could be more heady than knowing how little effort it had taken to have her? A kiss. Just one kiss. And she’d practically begged him.

“I need my shorts.” She didn’t want to crawl past him to reach them, but she would if she had to.

Without a word, he shoved the crumpled garment at her, and climbed to his feet, righting himself. Tucking in. Zipping up.

“If you’re wondering, that was goodbye,” he announced as he bent to look under the desk for his shoe. “That’s all.”

The goodbye she’d denied him.

“Right,” she managed, no words coming to mind that would provide her with the same emotional distance. He’d just announced the end of whatever they’d had, as if it hadn’t ended once already. That was what he’d been doing—ending things?

He’d had a goal, but why had she gone along with it?

Because...chemistry.

Because she was still vulnerable to chemistry. Because in some ways she’d be forever stupid.

It had blinded her before. Blinded him too. They’d tried to build a marriage on chemistry—the height of bad reasons to get married.

If he’d loved her, if he’d ever felt anything for her besides lust, he would’ve listened when she’d tried to tell him about the photos, her blackmailer. He would’ve helped her. Helped them. He would’ve cared what was happening to her. But he hadn’t. Everything always just magically worked out in Quinn Land. Fate was kinder to him than it had ever been to her, and he took it for granted.

One last anger-filled time was his version of goodbye. There weren’t feelings attached. For either of them. She had regret, and chemistry, and that was plenty. How much worse would it be to still love him and have him never able to feel the same?

Even weakness and chemistry-fueled unprotected sex on her office floor was better than that.

Snagging the shoe, he straightened his sock and crammed the shoe back on.

Following his lead, she shimmied into her underthings and stood.

“Are you going to talk to Nettle?” There. Those were words. The thing she’d actually wanted to talk to him about before all this insanity happened.

“I’ll talk to him.”

She turned to grab her shoe and heard the door close.

Whatever. She sat down and put the shoe on.

Showering, changing, and going home would help. Get the scent of him off her. Clothe her far too bare form. Drink tea while not letting on to Mom that anything was wrong. And sleep...

Leaning over the desk to get her bag, she noticed the large envelope she’d prepared for this talk.

He’d left without the literature. Of course he had.

Snatching the envelope from her desk, she ran out after him.

Just before he got to his car, she made her way through the door at the front of the building. “Quinn... Prince Quinton.”

Get it together.

He turned and looked at her, left the car door standing open and met her halfway. “What else?”

“You forgot this.” She pushed the envelope into his hand—the lights in front of the building harsh against the falling darkness.

No contacts. No freaking real clothes. Hair back. Proof yet again that fate refused to do her any favors.

Except one thing: no one was really about to notice her eye color, or how closely she resembled the former Princess. No one outside his employ, at least. Five cars parked in front of and behind his. How much security did he need to come to a rehabilitation center for soldiers?

“It’s literature on the procedure. How it’s done. Case studies. So you can prepare your talk.”

With Nettle. It was on the tip of her tongue to call the soldier by his last name again—it was a distance tactic she’d been relying on, and had noticed it bothered Quinn—but she couldn’t take a single drop more drama and hostility between them. Not until she had time to think. Until she had time to prepare for the possibility that she could’ve just irresponsibly conceived with her ex.

Once his hand closed on the envelope, she spun and headed back inside. Shower. Shower first stop. Then get the hell out of there.

* * *

When Quinn had agreed to come home, he’d thought it would go a little differently.

Summer had arrived, so naturally he’d assumed there would be loads of parties to attend where he would meet women. Drinks. Philip would fill his schedule with meetings, dinners, and appearances, telling him what to do, when, where, and what was expected of him. All that.

All he had so far was news of his grandfather’s terminal illness, a friend who’d tried to kill himself, an ex-wife he couldn’t keep his mind or his damned hands off, and now a tricky emotional situation he was utterly unequipped to deal with.

And a distinct lack of drinks.

Slamming the door to his penthouse, Quinn tossed the envelope Anais has shoved at him onto the counter, and made a beeline for the fridge.

He grabbed a tumbler, threw some ice into it, and turned toward the liquor cabinet, only to stop. That route out of his kitchen had been blocked by large lidded plastic crates. Stuff he was supposed to deal with too. Seven years’ worth of junk that people had just been sticking into crates for him...and he’d been ignoring for every leave.

But it was better duty than that penis conversation.

He backtracked and went the other way around the kitchen to reach for the rum, which would at least get the taste of her out of his mouth.

Instead of kissing her, he should’ve asked how to start this conversation.

He drained the glass entirely, felt his stomach lurch, and put the glass back down.

The man knew what parts were malfunctioning. It was his body. They’d told him that he could probably get it fixed. He knew these things already.

How would Philip handle this task?

Something heartfelt. Make an appeal to his better nature—whatever that would amount to.

He poured himself another glass and took another pull on the rum, and put the tumbler down.

Anais had never approved of drinking, for any reason. No wine with dinner. No beer after an arduous exam. Strip poker was fine, but not with shots. Not for her. And when she’d gone he’d thrown himself into spirits whenever the opportunity presented itself. Boot camp and deployment had probably saved him from becoming an alcoholic that first year.

He should watch the drinking since she’d strayed back into his life.

He turned his attention to the first crate, lifting the lid and riffling through its contents.

At the bottom of the stack of papers requiring his attention was a large yellow envelope, crammed with documents.

He flipped it over and read: Divorce of Prince Quinton Corlow and Princess Anais Corlow née Hayes.

Right. Bloody timely. He flung the packet over his shoulder in the vague direction of the sofa, and went back to the crate.

Gifts.

Books.

Things to be looked at later, when he’d not drunk enough rum to make his eyes go blurry.

A photo album filled with pictures taken during their whirlwind marriage.

Half a crate’s worth of quasi-attentive sorting painful garbage was enough for one night. There really wasn’t enough rum in his place for further torture.

Flopping one leg over the edge of the crate, he pushed the remaining material to the far end to make room for what he had to put back in.

A white-handled gift bag tumbled out of the moving pile of stuff, hit the bottom of the crate and spilled a small unopened package wrapped in pale blue paper and a silver bow onto the floor.

His heart stopped the moment he saw it.

It must’ve been the first crate the palace staff started packing for him. Copies of divorce papers. The gift he’d bought Anais for their first anniversary—the one they hadn’t made it to—an engagement ring she’d never gotten before the wedding because they’d impetuously eloped.

He swallowed, then kicked the small box back to the side. Stuffed into a crate by someone who didn’t know its value. He put it right back there, suddenly too bitter to care about the small fortune buried under papers by his boot.

Enough of that.

He began dumping the bits he’d sorted out right back into the crate. Too much. All too much to deal with tonight, when all he really wanted was a shower and some sleep.