“I don’t like this quote,” I tell her honestly. It means something bad happened. I can imagine her sitting in the tattoo chair, getting it inked onto her body to remind herself that one day things will get better. “Did you get this after your husband died or while you were married to him?”
She swallows thickly and her eyes gloss over. “While,” she says, and I nod once in understanding.
“Your collarbone is so fucking sexy,” I tell her, leaning down to give it a kiss. “So delicate.” I trail my fingers across her chest, to the other side that doesn’t have any ink on it. “One day you’re going to let me ink you right here, and it’s going to be something good. Something that makes you smile.”
Quinn bites down on her bottom lip and sniffles once. “Don’t cry,” I tell her softly. Her eyes flutter shut, so I lift up and give each of her lids a soft kiss.
“I really love your eyes,” I tell her when she opens them back up.
“They’re just black,” she says dismissively with a small laugh.
“No.” I shake my head in disagreement. “They remind me of the night sky…dark and mysterious…the possibilities are endless. They’re just waiting for the bright stars to shine and reflect in them.”
“Lachlan…” Quinn whimpers, but I ignore her. She needs to hear my truths.
Moving downward, I place an open-mouthed kiss to each of the swells of her perfect breasts. “I really, really like your tits,” I tell her with a wolfish grin. She laughs, shaking her head.
I slide my body down the couch until my face is parallel with her stomach. Her hands fly downward to cover her flesh, so I take her hands in mine and pin them to her sides.
“Lachlan, I don’t want to do this anymore,” she pleads, tears suddenly racing down the sides of her face. My heart constricts at the thought of her being so insecure and self-conscious, the idea of me looking at her naked body brings her to fucking tears.
Lifting back up onto my knees, I kiss where the tears are landing. “Because you’re uncomfortable with me seeing you, or because you think you’re fat?”
“I’m uncomfortable with you seeing me because I’m fat,” she admits.
Cupping her face in my hand, I kiss her softly before I pull back and say, “I’m not going to push you tonight because I think just you taking your shirt off and letting me see you like this was a lot for you, but this isn’t over, Q. I don’t think you’re fat. I think your fucking gorgeous, and one day, you’re going to be comfortable enough to let me see all of you. And when that day comes, I’m going to worship every single inch of your body until you’re screaming my name. Got it?”
With a sniffle, she nods, but I need to hear the words.
“Say the words, baby.”
“Got it.”
Ten
Quinn
When Lachlan climbs off of me, I stay lying on the couch, watching as he bends and grabs my shirt. His words are on replay in my head. The way he described my eyes and lips and breasts. Nobody has ever described me in that way. And when I freaked out over him seeing my stomach, he responded with such patience. I looked closely to see if he was mad or frustrated, but all I could find was compassion and want and understanding.
Sitting up, I reach out to take the shirt from him, but instead, he takes my hand in his and pulls me into a standing position, then puts the shirt on me himself. Once I’m back to being covered, I grab the bottle of vodka and pour myself a much-needed shot.
“Bring the bottle and glasses over here,” Lachlan says, so I do. Once I set them down on the end table, he picks me up and sits back down on the couch, situating me across his lap, bridal style, with my legs stretched out in front of me. I lay my head back against the arm of the couch and he leans over and kisses me, starting with my neck, then moving to my cheek, the corner of my mouth, and finally my lips, his beard scratching my chin briefly before he pulls back.
“No more Candyland?” I ask.
Lachlan’s eyes shine with laughter, but he shakes his head. “No,” he murmurs. “I think we’re past needing a card to tell us what to do.” He tucks a wayward hair behind my ear. “It’s your turn. Pick a color.”
“No way. I just went. You pick a color.”
“Fine. Pink. Ask me anything.”
“Hmm…” I think about what I want to know about Lachlan. “When was the last time you were in a relationship, and how long did it last?”
His smile dampens, and his hands encircle my waist. I can feel his fingers clasp together, holding me to him. “That’s two questions,” he says, kissing the tip of my nose. “Her name is Shea. We dated for about three years on and off, finally ended things about six months ago.”