The Mighty Quinns: Ian

He nuzzled her neck, then whispered into her ear, “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” Marisol said. “But it feels good.”

“Mmm.” The sound was a low growl in his throat as her fingers moved to the zipper on his jeans. His hips pressed against her hand and she could feel the hard ridge of his erection between them. This was all happening so fast, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

His hand smoothed along the inside of her thigh, then back to her hip, brushing against the spot between her legs. The contact brought a moan to her throat and she tugged at the waistband of his jeans, exposing the boxers beneath. Suddenly, it all became so frantic and desperate, as if they were racing against some clock that might unexpectedly signal a return to reality.

Clothes were pushed aside, skin exposed, and Marisol wrapped her fingers around him and slowly began to stroke his stiff shaft. In turn, Ian tugged her thong down and slipped his hand between her legs, his fingers teasing at the soft folds of her sex. She moaned, but then he froze.

“Shit,” Ian muttered, collapsing against her. “I don’t have a condom.”

“You’re a cop,” she said. “Aren’t you supposed to be prepared?”

“That’s the Boy Scouts.” He buried his face in the curve of her neck. “I had one, but I took it out of my wallet.”

“Why would you do such a thing?” Marisol whispered, her fingers still gently stroking him.

“I just didn’t expect to—” He sighed. “It’s a long story.”

And then, the reality alarm rang. She didn’t expect this, either, this wild and irresistible attraction, this dangerous need to feel him buried inside her. “We can’t do this,” she said with a shaky voice. “I—I mean, we can, but we probably shouldn’t.”

He stepped back and nodded. “I usually don’t…I mean, this isn’t the way I…” He raked his hand through his hair, shaking his head. “I don’t know what happened here. I’m sorry, but I—”

“No,” she said, holding out her hand to stop his apology. “It was me. All of these things have been building up and I just needed—”

“It was me,” he insisted.

Marisol pressed her finger to his lips. “It was both of us. So there’s no need for apologies.”

He winced as he pushed himself back into his boxers, then zipped his jeans. Marisol smoothed her skirt down along her legs, pulled the straps back up on her shoulders, suddenly embarrassed that she’d let this all go so far. What had she been thinking? She hadn’t, that was the problem. Using Ian Quinn’s body to put David out of her mind wasn’t the smartest move in the world. She’d been desperate to prove she could enjoy sex without an emotional attachment. But the feelings running through her were proof that there was something more than just simple lust at work here.

“I’m going to go now,” Ian said.

“All right.” She watched as he walked to the door, a maelstrom of indecision swirling inside her. She didn’t want him to leave. She wanted him to strip off his clothes and make love to her, to ease this ache that had taken up residence deep inside her. And she wanted to fall asleep in his arms, wrapped in his embrace, and wake up in the middle of the night to do it all over again. “Good night,” she called, a bit too cheerfully.

He reached for the door, then froze. Slowly, he turned. In a few long strides he was back to her, sweeping her into his arms and kissing her again. It came so quickly, she barely had time to react and then it was over, her mouth damp with the taste of him, her lips bruised.

He pressed his forehead to hers and smiled. “This is going to happen between us,” he said. “It’s just a matter of time. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I know.”

He stole another kiss, then walked back to the door. “I’ll be seeing you, Miss Arantes.” He grinned, then disappeared into the night, the door swinging shut behind him.

Marisol drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. Her thoughts were filled with images and sensations, swirling together until she couldn’t think straight. His mouth on her throat, her fingers wrapped around his cock and the powerful current that had raced between them.

She’d always been comfortable with her desires and her ability to satisfy them when necessary. But before she fell into bed with Ian Quinn, she’d better be ready to handle what came after.

2

“I THINK WE GOT the raw end of the deal,” Declan said.

Ian stared into his coffee, waiting for the caffeine to kick in. He hadn’t slept at all last night. Instead, he’d stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out what the hell had happened between him and Marisol Arantes. It was as if the moment he met her, every rational thought in his head had just decided to take a vacation. She took his breath away, and his ability to control his desires.

Ian took a sip of his coffee, looking over the rim at his younger brother. “I know. It was a sucker bet. Marcus knew he’d be the one to win. He’s stuck all alone on that boat for the summer, anchored offshore. He might as well be living in a monastery in Tibet.” He set the coffee down and poured an extra measure of sugar into the cup, then slowly stirred it. “Maybe we ought to give up right now and pay him the money. Why torture ourselves?”

“No way,” Dec said. “We can’t let him win. We just have to last three months, until the end of the summer. If we manage for that long, then at least we’ll break even.”

“Why did we agree to this again?” Ian asked.

“We’re supposed to take the time to learn a little more about women,” Dec said. “And maybe a little bit about ourselves. A guy really doesn’t know himself until he faces adversity, right?”

“We’re not crossing the North Pole here,” Ian said. “Or climbing Mount Everest. You make it sound like celibacy is going to be life-threatening. There are a lot of guys in this world who go three months without having sex.” Hell, Ian had gone five months, until last night. Though, technically, last night hadn’t been full-on sex, the fantasy had been real enough when he’d found relief in the privacy of his own bedroom.

“Not by choice,” Dec said.

Ian had to give him that. He’d never in his life made a conscious decision to avoid women. In turn, he had always seemed to be surrounded by attractive ladies—until he moved back to Bonnett Harbor two years ago. Now, a day after he had vowed to give them up, Marisol Arantes waltzed into his life with her dark eyes and her kissable mouth and a body that begged to be touched.

The squawk of Ian’s radio interrupted his thoughts and he grabbed it from the clip on his shoulder and pushed the button. “Quinn,” he said.

“We’ve got a traffic problem on Bay Street,” Sally said. “Delaney is over there and he says he needs backup. Wilson is tied up with an MVA out on the highway. Can you go over there and help him out?”

“Tell him I’m just a couple minutes away.” Ian stood and grabbed his wallet from his back pocket, then tossed a five onto the table. “Duty calls,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

The squad car was parked in front of the diner, and as promised, it only took a minute for him to pull out into traffic and head over to Bay Street. Sally had been right. Cars were jammed in both directions, odd for a town that had only three stoplights. He left the patrol car at the back of the jam and hopped out, then walked up through the crowd of people and cars.

The majority of the people were gathered around Gallerie Luna, Marisol’s shop. Ian groaned inwardly, surmising the cause of the congestion. As he approached, the crowd surged toward him, everyone talking at once, Mrs. Fibbler in the middle of the bunch. He held up his hands to quiet them. “I know what you’re going to say. And I’ll take care of it. Now everyone move along and get your day started.”

“It’s disgusting. Our children shouldn’t have to look at that!”

“It’s art!”

“Please. If that’s art, then that parking meter over there is art.”

“Ladies! Move along now. I told you, I’ll take care of this.”

When the crowd had cleared, he walked to the front door of the gallery and pressed the buzzer. At first, there was no answer, but then the door opened a crack and Marisol looked out. She smiled sleepily, squinting against the light. “Hi,” she murmured. “What time is it?”

Ian glanced at his watch. “It’s a little past eight.”

She frowned. “In the morning?”

“Yeah,” Ian said. “Can I come in?”

Marisol brushed her hair back, then rubbed her eyes. “Sure.”

She stepped aside, then closed the door behind him. She was dressed in an oversize T-shirt that nearly reached her knees, hiding the tantalizing curves of her body. The shirt was covered with splotches of brightly colored paint. Her legs and feet were bare.

Ian found himself reacting the same way he had the first time he’d walked into her gallery. But he fought against the fantasies that tickled at his desire and focused on the business at hand. It wasn’t easy. Marisol wore her beauty with a careless disregard for the effect it had on those around her. On him. Even in a T-shirt, with streaks of paint on her chin and hands, she was the most gorgeous creature he’d ever seen.