Twisted Together
Page 36

Q tore his mouth from mine. “Wash, so I can take you out on a date.”
I shivered, fascinated by his perfect lips, craving them between my thighs. I wanted what he’d given me last night. I wanted to be bitten, dined upon—his banquet of choice forever.
Words vexed me—they skipped and darted from my mind as lust clouded—making me mute and needy. “And…and if I don’t?” I cupped his balls through his boxers.
Q shuddered, dragging me closer. His proximity sent fireworks detonating in my stomach. “If you don’t, I’ll f**k you against the window. Everyone on the street will see you writhe for me. Strangers will see you come.” Imprisoning my jaw, he growled, “Do you want that? Are you a secret exhibitionist, Tess, because I’d gladly show off what I have in my bed. I’d happily sink deep into your heat and mark you in front of men who will never know the extreme f**king joy of being inside you. I’d love to thrust hard, smashing you against the glass, knowing husbands of other women got hard seeing how incredible you are—how responsive you are—how damn f**king sexy you are.”
Oh. My. God.
My heart stopped beating. I lost complete control over my thoughts and senses. The mental images Q painted set my blood blazing with gasoline. His voice was so powerful I felt the bite of chill from the glass on my ni**les. I could feel the slimy surface, scrambling for purchase as Q pounded into me.
I’d never thought of being watched before. I’d always been rather shy about my body, conscious of imperfections, but Q made it sound erotically delicious.
I bit my lip, deliberating. How can you want people to see something so private, Tess?
I didn’t have an answer, but my body melted, liquefied, burned at the thought of Q delivering his threat.
A loud knock shattered the carnal awareness thrumming between us.
The freedom of thought shattered, sending my mind reeling with fear. Who was there? Were we safe here?
My instincts weren’t on high alert for myself—but for Q.
“Fuck,” Q muttered. With a harsh hand, he pushed me away. “Get showered, esclave. Your outfit for tonight is here, and I personally want to dress you in it.”
I didn’t remember the shower. I didn’t remember much of anything apart from the replay of Q having his wicked way with me against the windows in full view of strolling couples. I didn’t pay attention to the hot water licking over my sensitive skin, or the shakiness of my hand as I applied mascara or blow-dried my curls. And I certainly didn’t give power to my over-active instincts. I wouldn’t ruin tonight by being afraid of nothing.
But I did remember striding into the bedroom, wrapped in a fluffy towel, and stopping dead at the sight of Q.
Would he ever cease to amaze me? I’d never get used to how darkly handsome he was, with his widow’s peak, luminous pale eyes, and sculptured cheekbones.
He was a festival for my eyes: black leather loafers, perfectly ironed grey slacks, crisp silver shirt, open blazer, and no tie.
I couldn’t latch onto the seamless thoughts in my head.
When is his birthday? I want to buy him a shirt that matches his eyes.
Where did he get those clothes?
It isn’t fair he’s so beautiful—I look like a homeless runway on his arm.
I must’ve done something right to deserve him.
The thought I decided to go with was: “Is there another bathroom in this suite?”
Q shook his head, smiling wryly, enjoying my tongue-tiedness. “Yes. His and Hers. Now come here. I have a surprise for you.”
I glided forward, noticing he’d drawn the curtains. I sucked in a breath as he hooked a finger around the knot in my towel. “It’s only fair I dress you, seeing as I stripped you before.”
With a sharp tug, the towel unravelled, pooling at my feet. My blood scorched to have him, kiss him, but at the same time, I loved the tease—the knowledge he was taking me out on a date, and I wouldn’t be able to ravish him until we got back.
Guiding me toward the bed where two packages existed, he positioned me at the foot of the ginormous mattress, and opened the smaller box.
I swallowed hard as he pulled out a matching set of purple lingerie.
Purple.
The same colour I’d bought in the hopes of seducing Brax. I swayed as every little change in my life sucker-punched me. It felt like a different universe where I’d laid my heart open and tried to be honest with Brax. It felt like a century ago I’d thrown away an innocent vibrator all because he’d been hurt and scared.
Q leaned closer, diving into my eyes. “Tess…?”
I forced the memories to fade, but there was one question refusing to disappear. I wanted to know the answer. I wanted to finally acknowledge how all my dreams came true in a way I’d never suspected. “If I said to you I used to have a vibrator and made myself come with the thought of some unknown master biting my shoulder and striking me with a whip—how would that make you feel?”
I knew Brax’s response: I don’t have to f**k you to be a man, Tessie.
I didn’t know Q’s and I wanted to. Desperately.
Q’s forehead furrowed, holding out the lacy bra. “How would that make me feel?” His head cocked. “Is that a trick question?”
I laughed quietly, hiding my nervousness. “No. I honestly want to know.”
Q tossed the bra on the bed, before planting his large hands on my hips. “I’ll tell you how that makes me feel. It makes me f**king hard at the thought of you getting yourself off. I can picture your flushed cheeks, taste your wetness, hear your pants.” His head dipped, kissing my neck. “I adore the thought of you fantasising about the exact things I’ve done to you—almost as if you were always meant to be mine.”
Pushing me away, he held up the knickers and dropped to his knee. I obediently stepped into the lingerie as he held it, shivering as he pulled them up my legs. “I should’ve had Alonzo buy something else for us tonight,” he murmured, positioning the lace between my legs.
“What?” I breathed.
“A vibrator. I can’t get the damn image out of my head of watching you come and then using it on you all over again.”
I didn’t need wings. Q made me fly with words. He wasn’t unsure, or jealous at me seeking pleasure on my own. He wasn’t prudish or tame. He was perfect. He was mine.
And I never wanted to lose him.
“When will you marry me?” I blurted.
Cringing, I let Q thread my arms through the bra straps, then held up my hair for him to clasp it. The roles had changed—it wasn’t Q pushing me anymore but me pushing him.
Q didn’t answer. Instead, he opened the last box, lifting out the sexiest, demure dress I’d ever seen. A seamstress’s work of perfection with silk and netting in every shade of grey possible.
Silently, Q helped me into it. The sleeveless gown kissed just below my knees, cocooning my body like air.
He stepped back, nodding. “I’ll marry you when I’m damn well ready, esclave. But tonight, I’m taking you to dinner.”
“Chose anything you want.” Q smiled.
I looked at the menu again, frowning at Italian. Knowing French gave me a benefit—I was able to get the gist of the word, but I didn’t have Q’s aptitude for foreign dialects.
Carbonara with horse? No, that can’t be right.
Parmesan shredded with rabbit? Could be, but I didn’t want to risk it.
Placing the heavy menu onto the table, I said, “You order for me. I have no idea.”
Q chuckled. “You know, letting me order for you is a turn on. Knowing you trust me enough to give me control over what you eat makes me hard.”
I crossed my legs, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the sharp clench at his voice. “Behave. You’re the one who wanted to do this. Not me. I would’ve happily dined on you all night.” In the safety of our hotel room.
Hearing how prolific Q’s business was on the news unsettled me. I didn’t want to be in public anymore. I didn’t feel incognito or unimportant. I felt watched.
His eyes narrowed, fingers gripping the menu harder. “You’re the one who has to behave, esclave. I’m more than happy to have you as my entrée.”
A waiter appeared from nowhere, interrupting the rapidly budding lust between Q and I. “You ready to order?”
I smiled, glancing around the fine-dining restaurant. It wasn’t large and each booth ringed the perimeter of the room—a red velvet curtain draped on either side of each seating area, giving patrons the sense of dining alone. The hypnotic piano and violin serenade plaited effortlessly with the ebb and flow of diner’s voices. Not to mention the amazing scents of garlic, herbs, and fresh pasta filling the space like a tastebud-tempting haze.
Q gave me a glance before reopening his menu and reeling off in perfect Italian.
My core tingled at the lyrical tone of the man I would marry. So accomplished. So distinguished. So very, very different behind closed doors.
The waiter nodded, jotting down what seemed like copious amounts of food. Once finished, he bowed, took our menus and left to relay the order.
Q surveyed the restaurant, his shoulders tense.
I leaned forward. “Exactly how much food did you order?”
He focused on me. “I ordered every starter available. I figured we can share and taste a bit of everything.” His gaze flashed on the word ‘taste’. I crossed my legs, trapping the ripple between them.
Something rubbed against my ankle; I jumped.
Q chuckled under his breath. “Subtle, Tess. Really subtle. How am I supposed to play footsies with you if you leap a f**king mile?”
I laughed—I couldn’t help it. “Did you just say footsies?” I flung up the tablecloth, pretending to search. “Where’s my sadistic master—what have you done with him? He would never utter such a word.”
Q leaned forward, stealing my hand. His face darkened. “I’m right here, esclave, and you’d faint again if you knew the things running through my head.”
“What sort of things?” I whispered, caught in his web like a stupid butterfly who stared death directly in the face and didn’t do a thing to stop it.
“Things like laying you on this table, throwing up your dress, and eating you in front of everyone.”
My throat snapped closed; heart went wild. I tugged my hand away. Q’s fingers latched around my wrist, keeping me prisoner. “Tell me. I’ve seen every inch of you. I’ve been inside most of you—and soon to be all of you—and I’ve murdered men who dared steal you away.” His thumb drew little circles on the underside of my wrist disrupting my ability to concentrate. “What exactly is conversation etiquette for a first date, if we already have…history.”
Our drinks arrived.
Q leaned back, letting me go reluctantly. We waited for the waiter to place a tumbler of whiskey for Q and a fancy cloudy martini for me. Q nodded in thanks as the man left.
Swallowing away the desire Q had conjured, I pretended to be heavily interested in my drink. Peering at the liquid, I asked, “What did you order?”
Q grabbed his glass, swirling the whiskey, sending fumes of malt and alcohol in my direction. He took a sip, visibly relaxing as the spirits hit his tongue. “I ordered you a lychee martini. Drink up, Tess. I plan on taking advantage of you tonight and you need to be sufficiently intoxicated—as first date rules tend to imply.”
Once again his eyes cast around the restaurant, subtly, quickly, but now I’d noticed his awareness every nuance was obvious.
I took a sip, surprised at the sweet but very strong concoction. “You don’t have to get me drunk to have me in your bed tonight.” I fluttered my eyelashes, enjoying the game he’d started.
His gaze was deadly serious, boring into mine. “What if I want you drunk? So I can ease you into accepting another part of what I want to claim?”
Holy hell, I couldn’t think when he looked at me like that. It didn’t matter a thrill of fear darted into my stomach, spreading, shivering with apprehension.
Anal.
Q wanted to claim all of me and that was the last part unconquered. I took a gulp of the martini, not to obey, but to steady my nerves.
Q smirked. “Good girl. Knew you’d come around to giving me what I want eventually.”
I couldn’t make eye contact. I wasn’t ready. And I both loved and hated the panic he’d instilled—which would remain the rest of the dinner—knowing what awaited the moment he got me back to the room.
Needing to change the subject, hoping he’d forget all about it, I muttered, “The hotel—you keep a long standing room there? Why?”
Q blinked, taking a sip of whiskey. “I had a lot of business dealings in Italy last year. We expanded rather heavily into the Italian market, and I needed to oversee a few…complications.” His jaw ticked; he tried to hide it by swallowing another mouthful of alcohol.
“By complications…you mean girls?” I kept my voice low, looking around the restaurant. The beauty of the booths bordering the perimeter meant no one looked directly at us and were too far away to eavesdrop.
It didn’t stop Q from never relaxing or glaring at the waiters as if they were assassins.
His face tightened, but he nodded.
“How many?”
“Four last year—before I met you.” He took another swallow, before placing the heavy glass on the table. “Je ne veux pas en parler.” I don't want to talk about it. Running a hand through his hair, he added, “We’re on a date—not talking business. So, tell me. What have I been missing out on by not putting myself on the market.”