Parker (The Stewarts of Skagway #5)

Chapter 8

Parker

It’s not that I didn’t want to invite Quinn into my room last night. Part of me did, especially after that kiss we shared at the Legacy and the dozens we shared in the limo after dinner.

But I also know myself. Too much change all at once scares me.

And I don’t want to be scared of whatever is happening between me and Quinn. I don’t know if he’s what I want, but I definitely want to keep exploring things.

So when he dropped me off at my door, we kissed again— and it was long and lingering and almost enough to make me change my mind —I thanked him for the date and told him I’d see him in the morning.

“Tomorrow night,” he’d said as I unlocked the hotel room door and pushed it open.

I’d turned around to look at him, feeling very desired and, therefore, pretty saucy. “What about it?”

“I want to spend it with you.”

“Yes.”

He’d grinned at me, a look of pure happiness with eyes sparkling, dimples deep, and freckles dancing. “How about we stay in?” he’d suggested. “I’ll come here at six? We can order room service and watch a movie?” “Sounds like heaven,” I’d purred, leaning forward to kiss his lips one more time before sliding into my room and locking the door behind me.

I’d leaned against the door, the living room of my suite dark but for the lights of the strip through the window. Kicking off my heels, I’d stepped over to the couch and fallen back on it with a dramatic sigh.

It was the best date I’d ever had.

Hands down.

No contest.

With Quinn Morgan.

Laughing out loud, I’d headed to my bedroom, changed into my pajamas and dreamed extremely dirty dreams about Quinn all night long.

This morning, as I head downstairs to the final day of the convention, I feel…happy. I feel like I’m glowing. I feel a rush that sluices through the same vein as a crush, an infatuation, and—I think, maybe—falling in love.

And while, yes, I’ve dated several men during my twenty-two years on this earth, I’ve never been in love. It’s totally new to me, and with someone I’d never imagined liking , letting alone loving.

I wonder, as I step off the elevator and walk with the crowd of vendors toward the convention hall, if Quinn’s ever been in love with anyone else or only with me. The thought of him loving me, and only me, since we were children, is so unbearably romantic, it makes me sigh aloud…something that Skylar Jones, whom I hadn’t noticed next to me, doesn’t miss.

“Doesn’t someone look happy today?” she says in a sing-song, taunting voice.

Surprised to find her walking lock step beside me, my smile instantly fades. “Is happiness a crime?”

“No,” she says lightly, then adds, “Quinn Morgan must be a damn good fuck. Sorta figured he would be.”

Now, let’s be so serious here. I swear. I drink. I’m not a virgin, and I’m no prude. But Skylar Jones is a dirty-mouthed cunt who needs to mind her own business, and that’s a fact.

“Shut your mouth, Skylar.”

“You gonna make me?” she asks.

“If I have to,” I say. I’m bigger, stronger, and younger than Skylar, so I assume I’d win in a fight. That said, I’ve never hit another woman, and I don’t love the idea of starting now. “But I’d prefer it if you just walked away.”

“You know,” she says, “it’s weird. Because a couple days ago, when I had lunch with Quinn, he said he was friends with your brother, who’d be pissed if he ever made a move on you, but that making a move would never happen because you hated his guts.”

“You don’t know me,” I tell her. “Or him.”

“I know what he said.”

“Maybe he lied.”

“Maybe he’s not friends with your brother?”

“No. He is.”

“And maybe your brother would just love seeing the two of you together?”

I stop walking, face her, and cross my arms over my chest. Sawyer probably wouldn’t love it, but I’m not telling Skylar that.

“Because you clearly don’t hate his guts,” she finishes, mirroring my stance.

“You’re a shit-stirrer and a nosy bitch who needs to back off.”

“And you’re another goody-two-shoes, holier-than-thou Stewart who thinks her shit doesn’t stink.” Skylar takes a step toward me, getting into my space. “You think you’re so much fucking better than me?”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling at her. A laugh follows. “Way better.”

Realizing we’re at her table, I leave her there, calling insults at my back, and continue to my own station like I haven’t a care in the world. I’m not letting Skylar Jones get under my skin. Not today, Satan.

I take the tablecloth off my table that covers my brochures and giveaways, and neaten everything for today’s new wave of travel agents.

“Hey, Park.”

I look up to find Quinn standing at my table. I can’t help my smile. I feel it bloom all on its own, and I do nothing to stop it.

“Hey, Quinn.”

He grins at me. “Thanks for last night. I had a great time.”

“Me, too,” I tell him. “Everything was perfect.”

“You still up for tonight?”

“Dinner and a movie in my suite? Yeah,” I say. “You?”

“I’ll be there,” he says, turning to walk away.

Suddenly, he spins around, leans over my table, clasps my cheeks in his hands and kisses me soundly. I’m caught off-guard, leaning over the table to meet him halfway, one foot off the ground, reaching for his shoulders to keep me steady. When he breaks off the kiss a moment later, he’s trying not to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” I ask him, pretending to scowl.

“You,” he says. “Never thought I’d see the day when I’d kiss Parker Stewart, and she’d be left wishing for more. I wish I could tell my twelve-year-old self not to give up hope.”

“Cheeky,” I say, boxing his ears gently. “Twelve-year-old you was a menace.”

“Tell me I’m right,” he says, biting his lower lip, his eyes shining with happiness. “Tell me you want more.”

“You’re right. I want more,” I whisper. Leaning away from him, I make shoo-ing motions with my hands. “Now git! I’m working.”

He winks at me as he strolls away, and oh, my heart , but I can feel myself falling. I’ve seen his charm offered to a hundred different women throughout my life, and I’ve always rolled my eyes when he turned it on. Maybe because I wished it was directed at me? I don’t know. But now that it’s mine? Sigh . It’s lovely.

“So!” I look up to find Rick standing at my table, his shiner a real pretty shade of plum. “You and Morgan, huh?” “Fuck you very much, Rick Jones,” I say in the sweetest, most polite voice imaginable, offering him a genuine smile as I run my eyes over his face. “Looks like you got punched in the eye and good. How big was the other guy?”

“Fuck you back, Parker Stewart,” says Rick in the same nasty, sing-song voice that Skylar used earlier. “You hated him, now you like him. He was a menace, now it looks like you’re fucking him. That makes you a low-rent whore.”

My smile disappears as I flinch, fisting my fingers by my sides. “You’re gonna want to take that back. Now.”

Rick places his palms on my table, leaning toward me, smirking like the asshole he is. “Or what?”

“Or she’ll hit you again,” says Quinn from behind him, his fury barely contained. “And I’ll hold you down if she asks me to.”

Rick straightens up to his full height, which is still a lot shorter than Quinn, and turns to face him. “You fighting her battles now?”

“Hell, yeah,” growls Quinn, his nostrils flaring and eyes dark as spruce in December. “Anytime she needs me. And sometimes when she doesn’t.”

Rick looks at me, then at Quinn, then back at me again. His voice oozes annoyance when he mumbles, “Sorry.”

“Just go,” I tell him. “And don’t come back.”

Rick gives me a look of pure hatred, then sidles around Quinn to walk back to his table.

“You okay?” asks Quinn. “I saw him head over here and wanted to be sure—”

“I’m fine,” I tell him. “I had it under control!”

“You did…but I care about you, Park. I told you. I’ve got your back.” He tilts his head to the side. “Also, I learned something interesting just now.”

“Oh, yeah? What?”

“I’ve sparred with you a million minutes in my life. Verbally, I mean. And oh, man, I know what you look like when you go head-to-head with me. You’re all bright eyes and brilliant, egging me on while we go back and forth. It’s like a game. Like a game we both love to play. But just now? With Rick? You took no pleasure in it. None. All you wanted was for him to go away.”

He’s right, but part of me doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that, so I roll my eyes. “So what?”

“So you liked sparring with me.”

“So what if I did?”

“So maybe you liked me a little when you thought you hated me.”

“So maybe I did,” I tell him, biting my lower lip and wishing he’d leap over this damn table and kiss me again. There’s an overhead announcement about the convention room doors about to open. “Now, get outta here. I’m working!”

I love you , he mouths, pantomiming a heart with his fingers, and though I roll my eyes again, I’m happy. Lord help me, I’ve never been this happy in my entire life.

***

We manage to sneak in a bite together at lunchtime and a long, hot kiss in a defunct, old-fashioned telephone booth off to the side of the food court. We raise a glass of champagne with everyone else at the convention at four o’clock when it’s officially over, pack up our tables, and walk to the elevator hand in hand at the end of the day.

He leans down and kisses my cheek when the doors open at his floor.

“See you at six,” he says.

“See you then,” I say, watching him walk away.

Because I leave for the airport at noon tomorrow and don’t want to worry about packing up later tonight, I make sure that everything I don’t need is packed up neatly and ready to go before I take a shower. When I do, I shave my legs, and my underarms, and around my cooch. It’s been a while since I wanted that smooth, soft, barely-there effect, and I still don’t know what’s going to happen between me and Quinn tonight…but I want to leave my options open. I dress in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt that reads, What Happens In Vegas, Stays In Vegas , then pull my hair into a cute, sloppy bun. At five-forty-five, I pull a bottle of white wine from the wet bar and pour two glasses, sipping on mine as I wait for Quinn to arrive.

Knock, knock.

My heart leaps.

I cross the room and open the door, finding Quinn in the hallway, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but also barefoot, which I fucking love. From his finger dangles the little white bag I threw at him a few nights ago.

“Special delivery,” he says with a goofy grin.

As I take the bag, I nudge the door open wider with my hip to let him in.

“I love this charm,” I tell him, taking the box out of the bag and the charm from the box. I’m wearing the snowflake charm I was wearing last night, but I unclasp the chain so I can add the pink and silver turtle. “Thanks for getting it for me.”

He looks at the charm against my skin, then raises his gaze to my eyes. “Looks fine on you, baby.”

“ Baby ?” I put my hands on my hips, pretending to be tough. “Who said you could call me baby ?”

He shrugs, stepping toward me. His hands land on top of mine, and he pulls me against his chest. His voice is low, almost gritty, when he asks, “Is that okay with you, Miss Stewart, ma’am?”

“Yeah,” I murmur, winding my arms around his neck. “It’s okay with me.”

His lips crash into mine, his hands sliding to my ass, which he cups. I give a small hop, and suddenly he’s holding me in his arms, my legs wrapped around his waist, my ankles locked against his lower back.

We kiss like the world’s ending as he walks us to the couch, where he plops down, still holding me in his arms. I straddle his lap, my knees digging into the plush cushions, my mouth utterly pillaged. His tongue strokes and glides, licking and laving mine as my stomach swirls with something a lot like the drinking spins, that glorious dizzy feeling that, if you just close your eyes and lean into it, can feel like actual heaven.

His hands slide under my T-shirt, running up my back, then pausing when they don’t come into contact with a bra clasp. Why? Because I’m not wearing one. I didn’t feel like it . He’s sitting against the cushions of the couch, relaxing, but now, he surges forward, closer to me, his body flush with mine. His hands run up and down the length of my back, and in the junction of my thighs, I feel his erection straining against the zipper of his jeans. I roll my hips against it, and he groans into my mouth.

And though I want to keep going— Lord knows I do —I break off our kiss and lay my forehead on his shoulder.

Yes, I’ve known Quinn all my life.

Yes, I’m more turned on than I’ve ever been.

Yes, I like him, or love him, or something in between.

But this is still so very, very new, which makes it overwhelming, and I’m just not ready to sleep with him…yet. I want to slow down. I want to have dinner and watch a movie. I don’t want everything all at once.

He’s panting in quick, shallow breaths, his chest pressing into mine.

“Could we have dinner and watch a movie? Like we planned?” I ask in a whisper. “Would that be okay?”

“Baby,” he says with a sigh, sitting back against the cushions, but still holding on to me, “that would be perfect.”

***

Quinn

Do I want more?

Of course I do. I’m a fucking guy.

But am I also grateful for where we are, and am I mindful about not fucking up how far we’ve come?

Hell, yes.

If she wants to pump the brakes and have dinner, that’s a-okay with me.

She hops off my lap, runs into her bedroom and comes back with her phone. “I can pull up all the menus from here. What’re you in the mood for?”

You. Clothes optional.

“Um…I’m good with whatever you want,” I say, taking a throw pillow from the corner of the sofa to cover my erection.

Holding her phone under her chin, she takes two mostly full wineglasses from the mini bar counter and hands one to me before sitting down in an adjacent chair. She puts her feet up on the coffee table holding the roses I gave her last night, and I notice her toenails are the same color as the flowers.

“We had Mexican recently…and steak,” she says, scrolling through her phone. “How about Italian?”

“Seriously, Park,” I say. “I’ll eat anything.”

“Pizza and wings?”

Pizza and wings?

Let me be clear, for a man, sex comes first. Always. But food comes second. And in a man’s head—any man’s head—there are few word combinations that hit as hot as these when he’s hungry.

“I think I just fell in love with you all over again,” I tell her.

She shakes her head at me like I’m crazy. “Wild guess, but I’m thinking you’d prefer a beer over that lovely Chardonnay?”

I stare at her for a second, at this goddess of a woman whom I’ve known for as long as I can remember. “Fuck, yes.”

She plucks the glass from my hand, adds its contents to her own with a little splash, then heads to the fridge below the wet bar. When she turns around, she’s approaching me with a Heineken. Stopping in front of me, she licks her lips and asks, “Need a glass?”

Holy shit, she’s sexy.

“B-Bottle’s just fine,” I mumble once I find my voice.

She cracks open the cap with a bottle-opener in her other hand, then runs her tongue slowly around the tight rim of the bottle before offering it to me.

“Fuuuuck,” I murmur, staring up at her, wide-eyed.

“Buffalo wings and meat-lovers pizza?” she asks in a low, sultry voice, before putting her index finger in her mouth and sucking on it.

My cock twitches beneath the pillow. I’m serious. And yes, it’s embarrassing, but I’ve never really seen this side of Parker, and it’s making me crazy. “Cut it out.”

She cackles with glee before falling into the chair beside me. “I’ll order. You choose a movie.”

I take a giant, bracing gulp of my beer while she taps on her phone, ordering us a dream dinner. What do I want to watch? If I could watch any movie with Parker Stewart, what would I choose?

When I was eleven and first realized I was madly in love with her, I would’ve chosen The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, as soon as it came out. I remember seeing a book from that series peeking out of her book bag and wishing she liked me enough that we could watch the movie together.

A few years later, I would’ve chosen Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children , another book that became dogeared long before she started watching the movie on the TV in the lodge every chance she got.

A few years later, I caught The Batman at a local theater, and damn, I wished that she was there next to me, since I knew she was a massive DC fan who all but despised Marvel. How did I know? Because Sawyer loved all things Marvel and wouldn’t shut the fuck up about the fact that Thor: Love and Thunder and Dr. Strange in the Multiverse of Madness were coming out around the same time…and Parker would roll her eyes every time he mentioned them.

I chug a little more of my beer and take the remote control from the coffee table, looking at what’s available on-demand. Movies I know she’d love, and hate, catch my attention until I’ve narrowed it down to three.

“Ready to vote?” I ask her.

She doesn’t look up, tapping on her phone as she places our dinner order. “You choose.”

“Nope. You.”

“Okay! Dinner will be here in forty-five minutes.” She finally looks up, giving me her full attention, blue eyes on alert. “What’re my choices?”

“You ready for this?”

“Yeah. I’m curious about what you picked.”

“Choice number one: Deadpool and Wolverine… ” It’s a Marvel movie, and she pretends to puke, as I knew she would. “ The Hunger Games …”

“First one?”

“Yep.”

She’ll say no. She’s seen the first movie about a million times…

She shrugs, pursing her lips together. “Don’t get me wrong…it’s a good movie, but I’ve seen it about a million times. What’s the third option?”

It’s the one I want to watch too. Why? Because it’s the most romantic DC movie ever made.

“…or Wonder Woman .”

She stares at me. Takes a deep breath. Stares.

“Giddyap.”

“ Wonder Woman it is.”

“You do know that this is probably my favorite movie of all time?”

I shrug. “I might’ve known that.”

“Which means you offered me a Marvel movie and a movie I can recite word-for-word so I’d choose Wonder Woman .”

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for the Steve-Diana romance.” I click on the remote, choose Wonder Woman from the menu and wait for the movie to load, wishing Parker would come and sit beside me.

“Me too,” she says, her voice a little shy.

“I would’ve thought the whole woman-empowerment angle would speak to you more than the romance.”

“I love the Amazons,” she says, “but I also love it that a super strong, super smart, superheroine can get the guy. They don’t make her choose between duty and love. She gets to have both.”

“Until he, literally, blows himself up.”

“That’s his decision, not hers,” she says. “I like that angle, too—everyone in this movie has their own agency without infringing on someone else’s. Steve makes the choice to die for what’s right. But not before making sure Diana knows how much he loves her. It’s bittersweet. It’s tragic. But it’s also beautiful.”

The Warner Brothers logo sounds triumphant, and I pat the couch cushion beside me. “Come sit with me.”

“I take this movie very seriously, Quinn,” she warns me as she stands up.

“Meaning…?”

“We’re not making out. We’re watching the movie, pausing to eat, and then we’re watching the rest.”

Huh. Shoot. Maybe, for all that she loves this film, I chose the wrong one. But then she sits down beside me, letting her head fall on my shoulder. I put my arm around her, pulling her against my side, loving the small sigh she makes as we get comfortable.

Parker’s sitting next to me. Watching a movie next to me. Cuddled next to me.

And this is just the beginning , I think to myself as Diana Prince unwraps a gift from Wayne Enterprises. My heart squeezes with hope, chased with a sudden and unwelcome burst of worry. Please let this be a beginning , and not just some crazy intermission that sees us returning to our previous acrimony when we return to Skagway.

Her shirt reads, What Happens In Vegas, Stays in Vegas , and I hope— against hope against hope against hope —that it isn’t a predictor of our future. More than anything, I want, What Started In Vegas , Follows Us To Skagway.

***

Three hours later, as the credits run, and despite her no-nonsense instructions when the movie began, she’s fast asleep.

As instructed, we watched the first hour without a hint of impropriety and only paused it to feast on pizza and wings. But no doubt owing to a full belly and a little too much Chardonnay, Parker fell asleep on my shoulder right around the time Sir Patrick revealed himself to be Ares, and I didn’t have the heart to wake her up.

She snores softly against my neck, and though I know I should probably extricate myself from the couch, cover her with a blanket and go back to my room, I don’t want to. I’d rather sit beside her, her head pillowed on my shoulder all night long.

I reach forward for the remote and turn off the TV, leaving us in darkness. But as I lean back, my lower back screams in pain from almost three hours of slouching. I need to shift us both to a more comfortable position if I’m planning to stay.

Hoping that she doesn’t get upset with me when she wakes up in my arms, I lift her head gently, lie down behind her, against the back of the couch, then lower her head, lift her legs onto the cushions and pull her body against mine. Big spoon to her little, I close my eyes, inhaling the sweet smell of her shampoo, and thinking about what I want when we return home.

I want to keep moving forward.

I want Parker to be my girlfriend.

I want her to love me as much as I love her.

When the time is right, I want her to move in with me.

And eventually, one day, God willing, I want to see her wearing my ring, a baby in her arms with Stewart-blonde hair and Morgan-green eyes.

I’m not sure when my thoughts become my dreams, but the next thing I know, gold streaks of sunrise make my eyes flutter open, and I find myself still on the couch in Parker’s room, her body still flush against mine, still in my arms. Except she flipped over in the middle of the night so she faces me now. Her chest pushes into mine with every breath she takes, and her sleepy, half-lidded eyes stare tenderly into mine.

I blink at her, surprised to find her so close, then pull her closer, pressing my lips to her forehead.

“Morning,” she whispers, her breath soft and warm against my throat.

“Morning,” I say, my voice gravelly with slumber. “Shhh. If this is a dream, I want to keep sleeping.”

“It’s not a dream,” she says, her lips landing on my skin. She presses them there, against my pulse point, for a long moment. “It’s real.”

“I love you, Park,” I tell her because we leave the bubble of Las Vegas today, and when we get back to Skagway, I don’t want her to forget.

“I know you do,” she says, kissing my neck again.

“I want to make love to you, Park.”

She inhales deeply, her heart fluttering like mad against mine. I can feel it beating through the thin fabric of her T-shirt and mine. “You do?”

“Yeah. Of course. I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember, baby.”

She leans away from me, so her eyes can scan my face, so she can see the truth of my love and longing in my eyes. I hold her gaze steady, and in that look I infuse every drop of love I have for her. Every time I yearned for her. Every moment I fantasized about her. Every second I longed, with every fiber of my being, for the privilege to love and be loved by her.

“Make love to me, Quinn,” she tells me, winding her arms around my neck and pressing her lips to mine.

It takes my brain a beat to register what’s happening, what Parker’s requesting. My body doesn’t require the same time, however. My cock, which woke up fully aware of Parker in my arms, throbs with anticipation, every beat of my heart filling it fuller and making it harder.

I kiss her back, my tongue sliding against hers as I roll her onto her back. Reaching behind my neck, I yank at my T-shirt which pauses our kiss as it’s pulled between our faces. My knees dig into the sofa cushions as I lean up, throwing my shirt on the floor. Parker sits up too, running her hands over my chest, then looking up at me with a little grin.

“You’re pretty cut, Quinn.”

“Nah. Not like your brothers.”

“Gross!” she cries, swatting at me. “Don’t talk about my brothers when you’re straddling me, half-naked with a hard-on!”

I laugh, reaching for the hem of her T-shirt and recalling that she’s not wearing a bra.

“Get half-naked with me,” I suggest.

She raises her arms, and I pull her top over her head, messing up her already-messy bun. Reaching for her hair scrunchie, I pull it from her bun, freeing her long blonde locks, before looking down at her bare chest. Her breasts, the object of my most lustful fantasies of the past decade, are creamy and pink, the nipples standing at attention.

For me. For my attention.

I lean down and lick a circle around one, which puckers against my lips, darkening to a deep rose. Her hands land on the sides of my head, her fingers threading through my thick, black hair, her nails digging into my scalp as I suck on her nipple before sliding my lips to her other breast and doing the same.

She whimpers softly, little moans of pleasure that make my breathing quicken. I slip my hands down her sides, marveling at the softness of her skin, at how toned and taut her muscles are beneath my palms. When I get to the waistband of her sweats, I pause, waiting for permission to move lower.

Her fingers abandon my hair as she covers my hand with hers, pushing my fingers under her pants, under her panties, and over her hips. Leaning up on her knees, she pulls down the pants completely, then lays back on the couch. Her eyes never leave mine as I pull the pants from her legs, place her knees over my shoulders, and bury my face between her thighs.