Chasing Me

  Chasing Me

  Sex on the Beach #2

  Dedication

  "If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you." ~ A. A. Milne "Pains of love be sweeter far than all the other pleasures are." -- John Dryden To all my readers who are chasing something wonderful.

  I hope you find it.

  Prologue

  JAMES

  IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A LOVE STORY.

  Right?

  Yeah, I know, I didn't believe in that shit. Lust? Hell, yeah. Love?

  No fucking way.

  Yet here I am, alone in my apartment, on my knees, staring at a closed door. 'Cause she left me. For good this time. And if she was smart, she'll never take me back, because all I do is end up hurting her and screwing up her life. She deserves better, and that's not me. Yet the idea of another guy putting his hands on her makes me want to roar like the animal I am and beat the life out of him. Quinn's always affected me that way.

  I remember the first time I saw her.

  A one-piece swimsuit covering her slamming body, eyes dark and mysterious as she met my gaze with that haughty look I'd get to know and adore. In that moment, I fell head over fucking heels and never looked back.

  I knew she was out of my league, but I didn't care. Looking back, I wonder if I hadn't pursued her, would things have turned out differently? Is it Fate that determines our choices in life? God? Free will? Or just plain old innate selfishness?

  I got her, of course. There hadn't been a girl I wasn't able to seduce. Problem was, she seduced me right back, body, mind, and fucking soul. She possessed me, tormented me, and showed me a world that was so bright and pure I was almost blinded.

  Quinn made me feel alive again, reconnecting me with a part of myself I thought I'd buried years ago. She looked right into my sorry soul and loved me anyway. Didn't she know after such a drug I could never settle for less? Didn't she realize no matter how many times I screwed up, or broke her heart, or bent her to my will, I'd never be able to let her go?

  If I hadn't known such intensity existed, would it have been better for both of us?

  I don't pretend to have any of the answers. I never did. All I know is when she left me in Key West, I had to make a choice. The week we spent together in Key West was a sliver of a possible future, a future filled with more meaning than I'd ever had in my pathetic twenty-four years. I could change my life and go after her, into another dimension I had no experience with. I could leave my friends and my shit behind and start fresh, and become the man I wanted to be for her. A man she seemed to glimpse in my eyes, even though I still worried day after day if that man even existed.

  Now, I know he never did.

  But it's too late. I followed her to Chicago, enrolled in art school, and swore I'd be everything she wanted. For a while, it was as perfect as I imagined. Then, like I always do, I made a wrong choice and watched my future and the love of my life disappear in a cloud of smoke that choked my lungs and reminded me of my limitations.

  Yeah, did you think this was a fucking love story?

  Sorry to dissuade you, but you better go down to your local bookstore and pick some other shit up. Unless you're like me, and believe true love, the real kind, isn't nice and sweet and pure. No, it's dirty, and sinful, and messy. It's like ripping a chunk of flesh from your body and watching yourself bleed out in slow, helpless intervals until you thankfully pass out.

  No. This isn't a love story. But it's the only story I got.

  Let's hope the ending hasn't been written yet.

  Chapter One

  QUINN

  "HEY, QUINN, THEY NEED YOU IN ROOM SEVEN!"

  I nodded, my sensible loafers squeaking over the polished floor of the senior citizen home, passing the night nurse who was struggling with Mr. Pearson to swallow his meds while he screeched that they were trying to poison him and begged for someone to save him.

  I hardened my heart, though I just wanted to throw Nurse Crotchet off him and give him the lollipop I carried in my pocket for those freak-outs that my patients seemed to have. But the last time I had challenged her, she threatened to tell the supervisor I was a problem, and I didn't need any issues when graduation loomed so near.

  I took a right and swung into Mrs. Apple's room, trying not to wince at the shrieks echoing down the hallway. I'd been working at the center for a year now, and had gotten to know all the patients on a one-to-one basis. I took my job seriously, even though I was only paid minimum wage and considered a part-time basic caretaker, but if I did well, I might get a permanent position while I waited for a full-time opening at the New Beginnings Rehabilitation Clinic.

  Usually I liked the center and found both the staff and residents pleasant. Most people think of senior centers as smelling of old people and disinfectant; white hospital gowns and patients shuffling down corridors with a mad look in their eyes. Unfortunately, there were too many state nursing homes, but this residence catered to the elderly who still had their functions and were able to make sense of where and who they were.

  The cheerful yellow walls were set off with paintings and framed words of ancient wisdom, hopefully allowing the residents to think of the positive things in life rather than why their son or daughter hadn't visited them in too many weeks.

  But I pushed all these muddled thoughts from my head and stopped at Mrs. Apple's bedside. "Quinn! There you are, sweetheart. I don't want to go to bed yet. I'd like to read in my chair please, but they're giving me a hard time."

  I smiled and did my normal routine, plumping and smoothing out her pillows, and pretending to fix her blankets. "It sounds like a wonderful idea, Mrs. Apple, but remember you need some extra sleep tonight? You're having blood work super early in the morning, and they won't let you eat or drink. When you read, you always get thirsty."

  The eighty-year-old scrunched up her face in deep thought. I kept up my busy motions, knowing she craved attention at night, when the demons came by to visit. "I forgot. Didn't I have my blood work yesterday?"

  I tried not to grin, because she was damn sharp. "This is a different blood test. Oh, your nail polish is chipping off. How about I re-do them tomorrow? What color do you think you'd like?"

  She lifted her hands, heavily veined with brown spots. But her nails were squared off with pretty pink polish that sparkled under the dim light. A soft smile curved her lips. "Something different. Maybe purple?"

  I shook my head and made a tight crease in the sheets, bringing them up to her waist. "Well, my goodness, you are getting a bit wild on me. Do you want to give Mr. Foster a heart attack? He already can't keep his eyes off you."

  She cackled out a giggle. "Stop playing with me, child. Everyone knows he's having a thing with Emma."

  I raised my brow. "For real? How come no one told me?"

  "You can't keep secrets."

  I gasped. "I'm a great secret keeper!"

  Mrs. Apple surrendered to the pillow and let out a sigh. "Everyone knows you break under duress. Your heart is too kind." Her lids slid closed, an effect of the mild sedative she'd just received. "Why aren't you with your young man? He must miss you."

  I brushed the stray silver hair from her forehead. "He's waiting at home for me. Good night. Sleep tight."

  "Good night, Quinn."

  I made sure to tiptoe out and pull the door closed. Pushing past a tired sigh, I glanced at my watch. One more hour to go. After a full day of classes, and the night shift this week, I was ready to collapse. I hadn't spent any quality time with James in a few days, and I missed him. Funny, in the past months, he'd become my rock in a pit of shifting sand. I'd changed since returning last year from Key West, when our idyllic week spent in the sun, fiercely falling hard for each other, blew up when I
found out he'd made a bet with his friends to get me into bed. When I got on that plane and left him behind, returning to my normal routine in Chicago, I'd gone through the motions with an empty ache in my gut.

  And then he followed me to Chicago.

  A shiver bumped down my spine. I'd never forget that moment I saw him strolling across campus, his midnight hair blowing in the wind, pale-blue eyes trained on me with a raw possession and claim that still got me hot. He'd come for me, to make a life in Chicago and see if we could make it together. To me, there'd been no choice but to forgive him and give him a chance. I mean, I loved him, heart and soul. The way he overtook my body with just a dominating glance, the way he tenderly stroked my hair from my face, or made me laugh. The way he held my wrists, and pushed between my thighs while he whispered how I belonged only to him. He'd taken away every choice, and given me only one. Him. Completely.

  James Hunt was my everything.

  On cue, my phone shook in my pocket. I slid it out, glanced at the screen, and hit the button. "Hey, I was just thinking of you."

  His low chuckle rippled my nerve endings. "Was I naked?"

  How was it possible I still blushed when he spoke dirty to me? "No. At least, not yet," I teased back.

  "Too bad. 'Cause I was thinking of you. And you were definitely naked. You also had a bottle of chocolate syrup in your hand. Now, what do you suppose you were doing with that?"

  "Wouldn't that be awfully sticky and hard to clean up afterward?"

  His laugh vibrated through the phone. "Practical to the end, my Quinn. I'd make it worth the cleanup."

  "Bet you would. How was class?"

  His pause spoke volumes. My heart beat in my chest, but I tried to remind myself he needed to find his way, and all I could do was support him.

  "Fine."

  Lying by omission. I pushed harder. "Did you work on portraits today?"

  This time, he let out an irritated breath. "You don't need to worry about me. I never expected this to be easy, or waltz into art school while my teacher declared me the best-kept secret and promised me fame and fortune."

  "Damn, I did."

  His laugh broke the tension. "Yeah, would've been nice. Still coming over? I made some pasta for you."

  Exhaustion didn't matter to me as much as sleeping entwined with him, the sound of his heart beating against my ear. Our places were relatively close, and most nights we spent together, but my dad would freak if he thought we were living together. Besides, we both needed our own space for now. "Definitely."

  "Good. I'll see you in an hour."

  "James?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Love you."

  His voice dropped. "Prove it when you get here."

  The click sounded in my ear. I pushed my cell phone back into my pocket and headed toward the kitchen for cleanup duty. The minute I saw James's portraits, hidden in the attic of his mansion in Key West, I knew he had exceptional talent. The way he was able to capture the emotion on the strangers' faces made them no longer strangers. He'd refused to do anything with his art, hiding it from his friends and parents, until he showed up in Chicago, ready to try. Enrolling in the up-and-coming art school--Brush Institute of Art & Design--was key. Admission was tricky, and just the fact that he was in proved he had talent.

  Unfortunately, he wasn't used to strict discipline with his classes, especially basics he'd already mastered. His teacher seemed to be on a crusade to tear him down in front of his other classmates, making the past few months difficult. I wished I could help in some way, but he was determined to take care of things himself. I think it had to do with his past responsibilities, or rather, lack of them. He'd been a college dropout, huge partyer, and frat-boy extraordinaire.

  But I believed in him. Always did. Always would.

  We were in this journey together, and the future was bright. I'd finally graduate from Chicago State, begin internship at the rehab, maybe work on my master's in social work, while James took the art world by storm. Sure, it wouldn't be easy. I'd learned in my life long ago that nothing was, but I also believed that hard work paid off. Paying my dues.

  All in all, not such a bad deal.

  I lifted my chin with determination and focused on getting through the next hour before getting some well-needed rest.

  Chapter Two

  JAMES

  I HUNG UP THE PHONE AND stared with disgust at my current drawing. The lines were bold enough, the light and shadow contrast decent, but something was missing. The element of emotion and intensity that usually transferred onto the board and gave the sketch life.

  This was bullshit.

  I grabbed the half-finished drawing and shoved it into the closet, slamming the door in a toddler tantrum that made me choke. I was tanking, and pissed off. When I got into Brush Institute, I thought it would be the first step into making my art into a career that would be productive one day. I mean, let's be honest, I'm a literal spoiled rich boy who lives off his parents' money. Funny, it used to bother me before, but not enough to change things. Now, with Quinn in my life, desperate to make an impression on her and her Dad, each obstacle before me seemed harder.

  My admission test placed me at a high entry point, which meant I got to skip a lot of bullshit classes for beginners. Guess my book studies and years of practice on my own had given me a good start. But when I tried to get into the more advanced classes, my current teacher from hell blocked me.

  Ava Goodridge.

  She was both talented and recognized in the art world for her fierce manner in watercolors and bold sketches of the male form. Not my usual cup of tea, but she was a force of creativity and energy I couldn't deny.

  Unfortunately, she fucking hated my guts.

  I grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and sat at the table brooding, waiting for Quinn. From the very first meeting, Ava had looked at my work with a cool disregard that burned in my gut. And instead of approving me for the painting and portrait classes I wanted to take, she denied me. Stuck me in an elementary drawing class, telling me I needed to relearn my mechanics.

  For the past four months, I worked my ass off to impress her. Nothing did. Her suggestions and subtle insults to my work were well known in class. My peers looked at me with sympathy when she used me as an example of what I did wrong on all counts. Didn't matter how I responded, either. If I was quiet and took her shit, she dubbed me a disinterested learner. If I defended my position or tried to explain, she cut me off with a withering glance and told me I was there to get better, not defend crap.

  She tied me up in knots until I questioned everything about what I was doing. But I needed to hang tight, get through the rest of the semester, and show her what I had. I also needed to prove to Quinn that I could take the shit with dignity. I was done with running or looking for the easy way out. God knew, Quinn showed me with her own sense of responsibility and work ethic that she needed a man to match her. Someone worthy of her love. Not a rich kid who depended on his parents' millions and spent his life jet-setting with a bunch of assholes, partying nonstop. No, not anymore.

  I was gonna make sure I didn't fail.

  The door opened. I was used to the slight shock I always got when I looked at her. Something about her gorgeous dark eyes, so open and honest, with the spill of her chocolate-brown hair and amazing body. Her skin was soft and warm and responsive to anything I wanted to do with her or to her. Our sexual chemistry was a force I'd never experienced before. Even standing in a room, it was like a buzz of electricity always hummed between us. Yeah, I sound whipped, right? Funny, I didn't give a crap anymore. She was my drug of choice, and I needed a steady hit, or I'd go bat-shit crazy.

  She pulled off her jacket and hat, tossing it on my worn couch I'd gotten used, and gave me that smile that kicked my heart into gear and made my dick so hard it could cut stone. "I'm hungry," she announced.

  I gave her a slow grin, stalking her until she pressed back against the door, those dark eyes going all intense and foggy. God, I love
d how just my look got her all hot. With Quinn, a few touches and she was so wet for me, her needy groans vibrating in my ear, making me feel like a fucking god.

  "So am I." I reached her, running my fingers through her silky hair and beginning to unbutton her pink flannel shirt. The little catch of breath told me she didn't mind waiting for dinner, and she enjoyed our little games just as much as me. Raw hunger ripped at me. I swallowed the crazy need to tear off her clothes and fling her to the ground, shoving myself deep into her wet heat. Instead, I fought back the intensity and dragged in a breath. Quinn deserved gentleness and worship. Not being treated like an animal. I needed to control my caveman reactions, even if it almost killed me.

  I parted the material and gazed at her simple white bra. She liked to surprise me. Sometimes she'd wear the sexiest, laciest underwear and tell me about it when we were in a public place, knowing it made me nuts. Other times, she played the innocent, with white bra and cotton panties.

  Funny, I think the virginal stuff revs me up even more.

  I managed to calmly flick the clasp of her bra open. Her red nipples were already tight and hard, begging for my tongue, and she arched up like a pretty present just for me. I palmed the gorgeous globes of flesh while she quickly unfastened my jeans with an expert ease that always impressed me. Quinn may have looked innocent and sweet, but she was the hottest, most responsive woman I'd ever been with, her arousal so intense sometimes my cock wept for the feel of her tight, slick folds clasping me in a vise. She also loved dirty talk, one of my favorite things in bed.

  "How bad do you want it?" I asked, tonguing her nipples and sucking hard on the tips. She paused in the act of ripping my pants off, her fingers curling into the rough denim as she gasped, wiggling to get closer.

  "Bad," she moaned. "No teasing."

  I bit down just enough to wrack a shudder from her body. Already, I felt like I was ready to come, and I wasn't even out of my jeans. She made me insane with the drive to mark her, possess, claim. Thank God she wore stretchy yoga-type pants, so I was able to yank them down with one hard tug. She stepped out of them, and sure enough, there were the cotton panties covering her sweet pussy. I smelled her arousal, and when my hand palmed her over the fabric, they were already damp.