Free Yours at Midnight by Robin Bielman Page A

tasted or felt better. The last time they were together, they’d been filled with grief, spite. This time it was desire, admiration.
    His other hand cradled her head. He deepened the kiss. Her hands slid around his shoulders, down his chest, and lifted his shirt so her fingers could run over his abs before settling on his back. She clutched him, and hell if he didn’t want to take her right then and there.
    “I like your muscles,” she managed to say on a quick breath.
    “I like your everything,” he said against her mouth.
    She opened her eyes. The kiss turned more tender as they gazed at one another like two people desperate for this to be more than just a physical connection.
    Quinn relished the familiar feelings that stirred, and devoured her again. Her tongue mated with his in a duel for dominance. He let her win, following her every stroke and flick until he was mindless with sensations so good, he backed off. If he didn’t stop, he’d strip her from the waist down and push inside her.
    Her eyes dipped to his hard-on. She dragged her pointer finger down his chest. “I think I made the wrong decision,” she said.
    He chuckled. “I’ll forgive you. Tomorrow. Right now I’m going to go take a cold shower.” He took a step back.
    “So, uh, that means I’ll see you tomorrow?”
    “Absolutely.” He retreated another step.
    “How about tomorrow night? I’ve got to bake for the party, and might need a taste tester.”
    “Only if I get to taste you, too.”
    Her cheeks reddened. Her nipples, already quite visible against her T-shirt, peaked. “Umm…”
    Two strides and he had her pinned against him again. She let out a breathless sigh. “I’ll be here—ready and at your service. Make sure we’re not interrupted.” He kissed her. Quick. Possessive.
    Something for her to think about until he showed up tomorrow, ready to ring her bell.

 
    Chapter Seven
    Quinn knelt at his brother’s headstone. Four years tomorrow. Myriad emotions surged through his bloodstream. Four years that sometimes felt like fourteen. Four years that sometimes felt like no time had passed at all.
    The sun did little to warm his back. Drab, dark clouds flitted across the sky in patchwork with the somber blue.
    He didn’t expect to feel solace this morning, but that was the only thing he could think of to explain the newfound quiet in his head. The past few days—of taking himself less seriously and getting a few things off his chest—had helped.
    Lyric had helped.
    She’d reignited that foolish dream of his—the one where he woke up every morning with her in his arms. With her effortless warmth and compassion, she’d given him the one thing he never thought he’d get back: hope. Her forgiveness fueled his own.
    He’d tried talking to Francesca once—two years ago on New Year’s Eve—but she’d been more concerned with her cocktail dress than his feelings about his dead brother.
    Probably why he’d picked her. No risk of heart damage there.
    “Quinn?”
    He stood and turned. “Julia?” She’d cut her long brown hair so it hung at her chin now, but there was no mistaking her big round eyes. Seeing her brought back a slew of emotions.
    “Hi. Wow, it’s good to see you.” She hugged him.
    “Good to see you, too. It’s been a while.”
    His brother’s old girlfriend looked happy . Her smile reached the corners of her eyes; her face glowed like she’d just returned from a tropical vacation.
    She glanced down at Oliver’s grave. “Yeah, it has.” She bent and placed a small bouquet of daisies on the long blades of grass intruding on his brother’s marker.
    “What are you doing here? I mean not here , here. But Oak Hills,” she asked. “The last I heard, you were in New York.”
    “I’m still there. Just home for the holidays.” He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he shoved them in the pockets of his jeans.
    “Your parents must be thrilled.” Had she kept in touch with his parents more than he