Chasing Me Read online

  I wanted to pull my cock out and plunge inside her tight heat with one deep thrust. Instead, I lifted my head from her tits, and studied her gorgeous face. Eyes closed, lips parted as pants of breath escaped, she was all mine and crazy for me. She deserved to be with a man who was controlled, not one who'd go right to a rough, intense fuck against the door.

  "Come with me," I said roughly, tugging at her hand.

  Those eyes widened in foggy confusion. "No, here. Right now."

  I growled low in my throat, barely hanging on. "You should have a bed."

  I tried to step away, but she grabbed me hard, grinding her hips against my erection until I gritted my teeth, knowing I'd never make it to the bedroom now. I shoved down my underwear, pushed her back, and lifted her high. She shook with excitement, but I made sure I was back in control.

  "Bossy girls get punished," I said in her ear. My fingers swiped her wet slit and she gave a low moan, her hips lifting for more. I pushed two fingers slow and deep, thumbing her clit with teasing brushes, not allowing her to get off until I'd driven her out of her mind. "Tell me you're mine."

  "I'm yours. James, please." She twisted in my grasp, and I took her mouth in a long, deep kiss, my tongue thrusting in the same tempo as my fingers. Her nails dug into my shoulders, begging for more, but I refused, trying to wring out every sweet, hot moment before she came. Not able to wait another second, I replaced my finger with my cock, bareback now, since we'd both been tested and she was on the pill. Her pussy squeezed me tight as I pushed in slow, inch by inch, until I was buried balls-deep inside. Lifting her right leg higher up for better penetration, I pulled in and out of her, watching her face, desperate for orgasm, desperate for me to give her pleasure, until she shook and begged and writhed beneath me.

  "Harder," she gasped, banging her head against the door. "Rougher."

  I refused, giving her what she deserved, my adoration and control, so I kept the slow, steady pace, fighting off my own orgasm until I felt her pussy clench around me. At that precious moment, I ground my hips harder against her clit, and she came, screaming my name, milking me dry. I shouted and gave myself up to my own climax, the silky heat of her skin, and musky scent of arousal drowning me, until she slumped downward and I caught her in my arms.

  Wrecked and sated, I carried her to the couch and lay down for a few minutes. Her hair spilled across my chest, and her thighs were wet from my come. She snuggled against me, and in that moment, I knew I'd never love anyone the way I did Quinn Harmon, ever again.

  "Did you really make pasta, or was that just an excuse to lure me over?"

  I laughed, pressing a kiss against her temple. "I really made it. Rigatoni and Newman's sauce. Organic, and proceeds go to charity. Oh, and there's bread, too."

  "Sounds so good. But I can't move."

  I rolled over, running my hands over her luscious, naked body. Her slim hips and long legs were lithe and strong, her breasts extra sensitive to any wicked thing I wanted to do. And her pussy was heaven, trimmed neatly with a perfect landing strip for my tongue. "I'll serve you. Stay here. Don't put on clothes."

  I made her a plate, warmed it up in the microwave, and cut a thick piece of Italian bread. Then I carried it back to her and watched her eat, her gratitude for the simple meal and caring I took making my heart clench. Funny, I'd grown up with private chefs and five-star restaurants, never having to cook in my life. Since I'd moved to Chicago and had to make do on a tight budget, I learned the importance of pasta, clipping coupons, and getting excited over a sale. I was also more satisfied than I'd ever been, finding the food I cooked and paid for the most enticing meals of all.

  Right then, I realized I had everything I ever wanted. My one-bedroom apartment sported a worn cream carpet, garage sale furniture, and a tiny bathroom with a leaky faucet. The kitchen had an electric stove, refrigerator that hummed loudly day and night, and cheap linoleum floors with a tiny table and two chairs. The lights were dim, the walls a chipped mud-brown, and my art room was now my living room instead of an entire attic pooled in sunlight.

  And I didn't give a shit.

  I had Quinn.

  That, in my, mind was worth everything.

  Would I have changed anything if I had known what lay ahead?

  I'd never know.

  Chapter Three

  QUINN

  I GRABBED JAMES'S HAND TIGHT as we wove our way through the diner and headed to my father's favorite booth. I knew it well. I used to pick him up there many times during his drunken days, trying to force coffee down his throat and get him sober for the day. The memory still haunted me, but Dad took pride in staying in that same booth, still fighting his demons. He's been three years clean now, and though I'd never forget the hellish past, I'd moved forward with him.

  I reached the booth and leaned over to press a kiss on his cheek. "Hi, Dad."

  "Hi, sweetie." He gave James a slight nod, and I tried not to roll my eyes at my father's sudden overprotectiveness. Cracked red vinyl squeaked as we slid into the seat. Familiar sounds and scents swarmed around me; the crackle of bacon, the low hum of morning chatter, the smell of hash browns. The black-and-white checkered floors and ancient juke box in the front gave the place an old Fifties vibe, but lacked the retro coolness to gain the younger crowd. Customers came for a cheap, hearty breakfast, and to recover from hangovers with greasy burgers and strong coffee.

  The waitress glided by. She had dark curls, green eyes, and seemed about my father's age. Her gaze rested briefly on my Dad with longing, but he seemed clueless. Finally, she turned to me. "Get you something, hon?"

  "The veggie omelet. Coffee, please."

  "You got it." James ordered eggs and bacon. The waitress turned to my Dad. "Can I get you anything else?"

  "No, thanks."

  She seemed about to say something else, but he seemed more interested in staring at James. Finally, she walked away, and I let out an exasperated breath. "Dad, the waitress liked you. Why didn't you talk to her?"

  He frowned. "I did talk to her. About my order. You're seeing things."

  "What I saw was her making googly eyes at you," I teased. A giggle burst from my lips at the red flush in his cheeks. Dad was attractive, but he refused to date. He always said his one great love had come and gone, and he was fine with keeping himself busy and sober. He did a lot with Alcoholics Anonymous and the New Beginnings Rehab Clinic I wanted to work at. Dad was an attendee and successful graduate. With his tall build, beard, thick, dark hair shot with silver, and blackish eyes, he had a strong presence. People paused when he walked into a room. Another component that made him a great speaker. He commanded attention.

  "Let's switch the subject, shall we? How are you kids doing?" he asked in his usual gruff voice. I caught his emphasis on kids as he looked at James. I slid my hand casually over and linked my fingers with James, giving Dad a subtle warning. He still wasn't on board with James moving to Chicago to be with me, but he was civil. He tried. Dad didn't want me to get distracted from my career, hoping I'd go on for my master's degree in social work. James, unfortunately, wanted Dad to like him so bad my heart hurt. I kept telling him to be patient, and with time, Dad would come around, but so far his approval had been slower than Congress.

  James shot him a smile. "Good. Art classes are going well. Quinn got another A on her Advanced Psychology exam."

  Dad nodded. "That's my girl. Graduate with honors, and it will look damn good for getting that full-time position at the clinic. How's the nursing home?"

  I stole a piece of my father's toast. "Same. Still don't like the way some of the residents are treated, but it's not outright abuse. Just a bit of meanness."

  "You have a soft heart, Quinn. Keep your eyes open and report anything illegal. I think workers sometimes get burnt out. Another thing you continuously watch for, in yourself and others."

  Dad loved to teach. Usually, his words made perfect sense, but sometimes the past reared up, and I got resentful of him telling me what to do. I'd b
een through Al-Anon and counseling, so I knew those issues would always pop up, but when you spend years taking care of your father and cleaning up his messes, it's easy to get a bit pissed off when he pretends to know everything.

  He'd always been a drinker--an alcoholic--but after my mom died there was no barrier between us any longer. I became the parent, and him the rebellious teen child. Dealing with losing mom and cleaning up my father's continued drunken escapades made me a wreck. Sometimes, I felt like I wasn't going to make it. I just wanted to lie down in a ball under a blanket and never get up.

  But I did. 'Cause I knew my mom was watching me, and wanted me to succeed. I did everything to make her proud. I wasn't very religious, but I felt her with me most of the time, like this presence wrapped around me in a warm hug. So maybe I was more religious than I thought, or more spiritual. It wasn't like believing in ghosts, either. Sometimes, when I had to make a hard decision, I'd clear my mind and ask her what I should do, and most of the times I had my answer.

  Dad and I finally mended our relationship after he showed me he could stop drinking, but it took over a year for me to begin to trust him again. Now, we met as equals.

  "And what about you, James? Any thought to going back to college?"

  James squeezed my hand. "No, Mr. Harmon, I'm trying to carve out a career with my art. The basic program is a year, so we'll see where I'm at then. If I get into the expo in the Spring, I'll have the contacts I need."

  "No worries with money?"

  I froze. This was the sensitive subject I hated discussing. Even though James was worth millions, he'd decided to stop using his trust fund and refused to take anymore of his parents' money. I was really proud of him, but it was hard to go from the jet-setting life to a small apartment where we really couldn't afford to go out much anymore.

  "Trying to make do. I just got a job at Joe's Coffee shop for some extra cash, so that'll help."

  I gasped. "You didn't tell me about that!"

  James shrugged. "Didn't want to until I got the job. I start Monday."

  The waitress came with our food. Dad pointed his fork at James. "Nothing wrong with hard work in any field. We do what we have to."

  James smiled, but it seemed a bit lackluster. "Absolutely. Besides, I'll be able to make Quinn those designer coffees she loves."

  I tried to eat my omelet, but my stomach was all twisty. Why was I so nervous about him working at a coffee shop? I agreed with my dad. I'd done jobs at all levels and felt proud no matter what it was. But James had already made so many changes. A year ago, he'd been spending money without a care, traveling to exotic places all over the world. Would serving coffee for tips be too much, too soon? "What about the art store that supplies the school?" I asked. "You'd be so good there."

  "Competition is stiff," he said, pushing his scrambled eggs around on the plate. "Only a certain amount of spots, and they were already taken. I put in applications all over town, but Joe's was the one to snap me up."

  I smiled back at him with encouragement. God, I loved him so much and wanted him to be happy. With me. Here, in Chicago. When he first came, the summer was stretched ahead of us, full of lazy mornings and endless possibilities. We spent hours in bed, limbs entangled, wracked in so much pleasure it should have been illegal. But when we both went back to school, things shifted, and the real world settled in. I was used to it, but every day I watched him struggle, trying to get used to a life he'd never known. Even the sex was beginning to change. He was more in control now. Softer. Like I was fragile, and he put me up on a shelf so I wouldn't break. I'd catch glimpses of the wild lover I adored, but then something changed, and suddenly he was full of control and a bit of distance. Like getting me off was his job, and he wasn't as caught up in the fall. It was frustrating since our lovemaking had always been raw and frantic, pushing me over the edge in a way I desperately needed. I was always too much in my head, and James balanced that part, ripping down my boundaries and forcing me into listening to my body. Now? He was so...careful. Now he rarely had sex with me in any other place but the bed. I thought of our last encounter, when I'd insisted he take me against the door, and shivered. So hot. Yet he'd tried to drag me to the bed, saying I deserved more.

  I tried to bring it up, but it was too weird a conversation. I hoped it was a stage, and soon he'd go back to the James that took what he wanted, breaking me down and building me back up through the physical. I ached to see him succeed with his art and want to settle in Chicago with me, happy forever.

  You sound like a Stevie Wonder song. How long can he pretend to want the kind of life you have? When he can have anything at his fingertips just by dealing with his parents?

  Be quiet. We love each other. Doesn't love conquer all?

  Now you sound like MacKenzie belting out her country hits. You're on borrowed time, babe. Enjoy it while you can.

  "Shut up."

  "What?" my father asked.

  James tugged at my hair, his face softening. "She talks to herself a lot," he explained. "Calls the voice her inner bitch. Want me to take her on?"

  I grinned. "Nah, I won this round. She's quiet now."

  And just like that, my worries drifted away under the sting of his gorgeous blue eyes. I took in his bulk, dressed in jeans and a dark wool sweater that only emphasized all those mouth-drooling muscles. His burnished hair fell sexily into his eyes. From his carved cheekbones, arched brows, and lush, soft lips, he was the type of man women followed with their eyes and crushed on. He had this wicked mischief in his gaze that promised a woman the moon and stars and back again.

  And boy, did he deliver that promise.

  My father cleared his throat, which meant I'd been staring at James again, so I focused back on my plate.

  "What do your parents think of art school, James?" my dad asked.

  James stiffened, averting his gaze. "I don't talk much with them, sir. I called my father to let him know, of course, but we don't have much contact."

  Dad frowned. "That's concerning. They're your parents. I'm sure they want the best for you. I know if Quinn moved and made a huge career change, I'd like to be kept abreast."

  "It's different with James," I interrupted. "He's been on his own for years. His father said it's either college or join him in the family business."

  Dad raised his brow. "Sounds fair to me. Responsible."

  I squirmed in my seat with annoyance. "Dad, you don't understand the history. James has a right to make his own decisions."

  "Not if his parents are paying."

  James shoved the plate away and gave a tight smile. "You're right. Listen, I'm sorry, but I have to run. Mr. Harmon, it was good to see you again. I completely forgot I told some of my classmates I'd join them for a painting session."

  "James--"

  "I'll be back later, and we'll spend some time together."

  "But"

  He leaned over and pressed a kiss on the top of my head. Threw down a few bills on the table, then walked out of the diner.

  Unease slithered through me. "What are you doing?" I hated the almost satisfied look on my father's face. "Talking about his parents upsets him."

  "Quinn, I didn't mean to upset the boy. But as a parent, I thought I'd stick up for them. As far as I can see, they've paid for his education, he's dropped out of three colleges, refused to work in the business, and gave them a big screw-you. Does this sound right to you?"

  I closed my eyes and fought my temper. "You don't understand the history. What about us? We had our own patches of trouble. How would you feel if some other parent was chiding me for not giving you the proper respect when you didn't deserve it?"

  Dad jerked back. Hurt flickered over his face.

  Ugh, I hated being bitchy. "I'm sorry, Dad. Forget it. Just don't mention his parents when you see him again. Okay?"

  "Fine. Whatever you want. I just want what's best for you. You know that, right?"

  I sighed. "Yes, I know. But James is best for me. He makes me happy."


  He nodded then grabbed the bills off the table and gave them to me. "Here, breakfast is on me. Give this back to him and tell him I'm sorry."

  I smiled, softening. The thing about my father was even when he screwed up, he manned up and admitted it. "Thanks, Dad."

  He smiled back and shook his head. "Welcome. Listen, I'll be speaking at a special anniversary meeting on Friday night at AA. Can you come?"

  "I think so. Yes."

  "Good, it will be nice to have you in the audience for support."

  "I'll be there."

  We paid the check, hugged, and I started off back to my apartment. The Chicago wind froze my cheeks and stole my breath, but it felt good. Cleansing. I shoved my hands in the pockets of my green pea coat and hoped James was okay. My black boots ate up the pavement, and my mind spun. When we'd first met in Key West, he'd been plain about the truth of his past, calling himself a poor little rich boy. But the pain beneath his words was real and raw. Money didn't buy love or caring, and James's parents barely checked in with him, only wanting him to lead a proper life that didn't embarrass them or put them out. They rarely reached out, and even when James had called them about art school, they'd been cold, telling him he was on his own if he wanted to pursue a ragtag career.

  I climbed the stairs, making my way into the brick building located close to the University. My best friend Cassie and I were going to room together at one time, since we weren't rich like MacKenzie, but we both ended up preferring our own space. My studio held all the basics, which I'd made homey with bright afghans, plants, and plenty of books. The futon did double duty as my bed and couch, and the kitchen had a microwave, stove, and refrigerator, with a small countertop. My television was old, not even a flat-screen, but it worked fine, and I was able to afford cable, so that was good enough for me.

  I shivered, turned up the space heater, and grabbed my books to do some studying before James came over. We'd spend some quality time together, and maybe I'd wear those sexy red panties I'd been saving for a special occasion.

  I pushed away thoughts of sex and James and concentrated on my studies.