Da stepped away, wiping blood from his face. He glared at Quinn with undisguised hatred. “Get oot ma hoose, ye fuckin’ bastard! Yer nae son o’ mine. Dinnae be comin’ back or I’ll beat the life oot o’ ye, so I will. This is yer hame nae mair, ya worthless fuck!”
Quinn jerked awake, the nightmare leaving a tangle of emotions inside him. He threw off the duvet, glanced at the hotel alarm clock. It was oh-six-forty.
Knowing he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, he switched on his security camera and went to the gym to lift weights, working his muscles hard, trying to burn off the dream. He was no longer the boy who’d lived in fear of his old man. He wasn’t helpless and dependent. That night had been a new beginning for him. He’d turned the tables, made his da bleed.
It was only what he deserved.
If his da were still alive, he would have rung him up and thanked him for throwing him out. That night had been the start of a new life. Quinn had worked hard to make something of himself after that, to turn himself into the kind of man his da would have no choice but to respect—and fear.
In the end, it hadn’t mattered. His da had died soon after he’d joined the army, his liver eaten through by drink.
Forget him.
When Quinn had finished three sets of reps for each muscle group, he made his way back to his room, shed his clothes, and went straight into the shower, his mind turning to better things.
Lilibet. The kiss.
He had imagined kissing her hundreds of times, but the experience, as brief as it had been, had far surpassed his fantasies. He relived it, trying to remember all of the sweet details. The heat of her body against his. Her soft curves. The press of her lips. Her scent. Her taste. She’d kissed him as if she truly meant it, as if she were starving for him, as if she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
The memory left him with a raging stonner. Not one to turn down that invitation, he took matters into his own hands, his mind on Lilibet as he came.
Wankin’ is a poor substitute for the real, live woman.
Aye, but the real, live woman was off-limits, and he’d best remember that.
He dried off, put a clean bandage over his stitches, and walked naked back to the bedroom to dress.
A buzz.
His mobile.
He searched for the bloody thing, found it in the living area stuck between two cushions on the sofa. It must have fallen there when he’d been watching the news last night. There was a notification from his security camera, and a text message from Elizabeth.
He opened the security notification first.
There on his screen was an image of him standing stark naked exactly where he was, his tadger and balls hanging out.
Och, shite.
Fighting laughter, he walked over, turned the device off.
Then he opened Elizabeth’s text message.
Shut off your camera!
Chuckling, he was about to send her a humorous reply, something like, “Stop looking.” Then he remembered the dick pics and the harassment she had endured at the Agency. Would she think he’d done this on purpose?
Fuck.
He tapped out his reply.
I’m right sorry I am.
* * *
Elizabeth staredat the screen on her phone where the image of Quinn had just disappeared and then read his apology, her conscience pricking her.
Good. Freaking. Heaven.