Page 29 of Wraith’s Promise

Chapter 11 - Quinn

I'm still kneeling on the floor of my bedroom with tears drying on my cheeks, looking at this man who just held me while I cried about the most painful thing I've ever experienced and didn't flinch, didn't pull away, didn't tell me I was being too emotional the way my father always did when I dared to complain about anything.

He didn't see me differently. Didn't decide I was broken or less than or not worth the trouble.

He called me family.

This could really lead somewhere: to a relationship, to my own family, to everything I thought I'd lost when that doctor told me my body had betrayed me in the most fundamental way. And if there's even a tiny chance of that, if there's even the smallest possibility that this man and his daughter could be mine in all the ways that matter, I'll put everything I have on the line for it.

We're still kneeling when Dean reaches up, tucks strands of hair behind my ear again, but this time he doesn't stop there. This time he leans in and kisses me, his hand coming up to cup my face, so large it covers my whole cheek and jaw.

I lean into his touch and something in my chest cracks wide open, because when was the last time I felt a man's hand on my face, and it wasn't to hit me? When was the last time touch meant safety instead of pain? Did that ever happen? I can't remember it if it did.

I've been kissed before, sure. Had boyfriends, had lovers, had the guy three years ago who cheated and taught me that leaving immediately was the only self-respect I had left. But I've never been kissed like this, like Dean's pouring everything he feels into it, like this kiss means something beyond just lust, like he's claiming me and offering himself all at once.

We get up somehow, still kissing, stumbling toward the bed. My back hits the mattress and he follows me down, his weight settling over me in a way that should feel confining but doesn't. His hands find my hips first, gripping hard enough that I feel the strength in his fingers, then slide to my thighs, touching me through my sweatpants like he's trying to memorize every curve, every inch.

"You have no idea how badly I've wanted to touch you," he breathes against my mouth. "Since the moment you opened my door in those fucking pigtails looking so beautiful and harmless."

"Then touch me," I tell him. "Don't hold back, Dean. I want everything."

His hands tighten on my thighs, and he grinds his hips against mine, letting me feel exactly how hard he is through our clothes. "Everything?"

"Everything."

My hands go to his shoulders, his back, feeling muscle shift under skin as he moves against me. I want more. Need more. Need to touch his actual skin instead of just cotton.

I pull at his shirt and he helps me, sitting back just long enough to yank it over his head and toss it aside.

Fuck, he's hot.

Lean and toned, chest defined without being bulky, six-pack abs that flex as he breathes hard above me. There are scars scattered across his torso. One along his ribs that looks old, another across his collarbone that's more recent. Evidence of a life lived hard, of violence survived.

I run my fingers down from his collarbone to his sternum, tracing the lines of muscle, the ridges of scar tissue. Down further to his navel, feeling his abs contract under my touch, and I want to do so much more than just look.

"You're staring," Dean says, voice rough with amusement.

"You're worth staring at."

I pull him to my side and use the momentum to roll, straddling him before he can react. Now I'm on top, looking down at his handsome face flushed with arousal, his gray eyes dark with need, his hair messy from my fingers.

"What are you doing?" he mutters, voice low and dangerous.

"Making it up to you for being such a gentle man," I tell him, and run my hand down his stomach again, lower this time, until I reach the obvious bulge straining against his sweatpants. I palm him through the fabric, and he bucks up into my hand with a groan. "For holding me while I cried. For not seeing me as broken. For making me feel like I matter."

"You do matter," he says fiercely. "Quinn—"

I squeeze him gently and his words cut off with a sharp inhale. "Let me do this. Let me show you how much I want you."

He makes a sound that's pure surrender.

I climb off him and move to the edge of the bed, positioning myself between his legs. My hand grips his cock through the fabric, stroking slowly, feeling it throb and pulse under my palm.

"I want to see what you're hiding," I tell him, looking up at his face. "I want to taste you, Dean. Want to make you feel as good as you make me feel."

He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't make me ask twice. He lifts his hips and starts pushing his sweatpants down, eager and unashamed, and I love that. I love a man who's not afraid to show how badly he wants something, who doesn't play games or pretend to be unaffected.

I help him, tossing his sweatpants aside, and then there's just his boxers between me and what I want. The outline of his cock is clear through the thin fabric: thick, long, straining toward me like it has its own agenda.