9

Quincy

"Isn't that sufficient?" I study her expression closely.

She looks surprised and disbelieving. Is she the type of person swayed by the number of zeros in a figure?

"I'll offer you two million dollars." The words slip out before I can censor myself. As expected, her eyes widen and the color drains from her face. It's clear she's struggling to grasp the magnitude of the sum, which was my intent. Yet, I also feel a sinking sensation in my chest. Is money truly the solution to everything? Can anyone or anything be purchased with money? Please, prove me wrong. Show me you felt the connection when we first met.

But why should she? As she's pointed out, I am a stranger to her. So what if it feels like I've known her forever? So what if my life seems incomplete without her? She is the woman my son almost married.

I'm damned for desiring her. It's nothing new. I've taken lives of enemy soldiers. I've made mistakes that cost my own men their lives. So what if I'm adding another sin to the list that already bears my name?

"If that's not sufficient, how about...?"

She raises her hand. "Let me think... please."

I stand, walk back to the kitchen counter, and fetch a jug of water. When I return and pour her a glass, she appears more composed. She takes a few sips, sets the glass down carefully, and folds her hands in her lap.

"Why?" She lifts her chin. "Why would you offer me money to marry you?"

"Because I already proposed, and you haven't given me an answer." I settle back into my seat.

"So money is the solution?"

"Isn't it?" Please, let it not be. Please, don't tell me you want the money. Show me you're not just another attractive face swayed by money signs. Please.

She purses her lips, a thoughtful expression in her eyes. "I'm not saying I don’t have financial needs."

And there you have it. Money holds sway. It's a bitter truth.

The idealist in me, the one who enlisted in the Marines and was proud to fight for my country; the one who believed in the power of doing the right thing, that man would have said money didn’t mean shit. It was intent that mattered. It was your ability to do good, to believe in a better future, which was most important. I should have known better.

"The impact of a dollar upon the heart smiles warm red light…" I murmur.
Her forehead furrows. "Did you quote Stephen Crane?"
I blink. “Not many people would recognize that.”
She hunches her shoulders. “I remember all kinds of trivia. It’s how my mind works. It’s how I developed a love for poetry.”

I’m taken aback. “So you can match a line from any poem to the poet who wrote it?”
“Mostly,” she says in a cautious tone.

"That’s incredible.”

She looks at me with suspicion. “Are you taking the piss?”
I chuckle. “I am not.”

“And you’re not going to fire off lines from some obscure poet to test me?” Her forehead furrows.

“Why should I? You’ve already demonstrated you’re a fountain of knowledge.”
“Largely useless knowledge.” She shrugs.

I scan her features, taking in the flush on her cheeks and the strands of hair that have escaped her chignon to frame her beautiful features. “Clearly, you have a high IQ and are extremely bright. What are you doing working in a pizza parlor?” Then, I hear my words and manage not to wince. “Not that there’s anything wrong with working in a pizza parlor. But why didn’t you study further?”

“Wasn’t interested in academics. I wanted to paint but”—she looks away, then back at me— “my mother died.”

“I’m sorry.” My fingers tingle with the need to touch her. To hold her and pull her into my chest and soothe her. To take care of her. A surge of protectiveness squeezes my chest. Why do I want to kiss her lips, then cup her face and hold her close—before I carry her up to my bedroom and fuck her until she can’t walk straight? Get a grip! I shake my head, focus on what she’s saying.
“Then my father fell ill, my sister gained admission to ballet school. And I?—”
“Decided to put your ambitions on hold to take care of them.”
“I did what needed to be done, and I don’t regret it for one second,” she says fiercely.
“I know you don’t. But you want to follow your dreams.”

"Who wouldn't?"

"And you could, by marrying me."

"And become a dependent?" She tosses her head. "No, thank you."

I run my thumb under my lip. "You would be my wife."

Her pupils dilate. Does she realize how responsive she is to the possessiveness in my tone?
“Not to mention, the contacts you’d have access to from being married to me…"
A furrow forms between her eyebrows. "What use do I have for your contacts?"

My phone vibrates with an incoming message. Just in time. I pull it out of my pocket and read the message. A burst of anticipation pinches my veins. This is what I was waiting for. Let’s see what her answer is now. I place the device face-down on the table.
"Your father could benefit from a revolutionary new treatment which might slow the onset of his ALS and let him, not only live longer, but also walk again.”
Her features pale, and she grips the edge of the table. "How did you find that out?"
“I had my investigator get a hold of your father’s records from the hospital where he’s being treated.”

“How did you manage that?”
I stare at her meaningfully.
Her lips tighten. “Right, you threw money at the problem.”
“Something like that.”

“But to find out all of these details in such a short time?” She rubs at her temple.
“It took a couple of hours—longer than I expected. I also have him investigating you,” I confess.
“What? Why?” Her voice rises an octave. “Why would you do that?”
"I had to find out who you are.” I raise both of my hands. “I’m going to marry you; you can hardly blame me for that.”
"I still haven’t said yes.”
You will. “I can get your father into a trial at Johns Hopkins that could improve the quality of the rest of his life.”
She stiffens.

I touch the tips of my fingers together. “Then, there’s the fact I know the president of the Royal Ballet School."
She firms her lips. "Do you realize how crazy everything you’re talking about seems?"
“Not as crazy as the connection I felt with you. Tell me you don’t feel it.”
When she stays silent, I nod. “That’s what I thought. I admit, my methods have been unorthodox, but that’s because I couldn't let go of this opportunity. Not when what we have is so unique."

She grimaces. "This is when you use the fact that you’re older than me to your advantage." But her tone is unsure.
Yes, she’s thawing. I have to push my advantage. "You know what I’m saying is right."
She purses her lips. "What you’re saying is going to hurt Lawrence."
"I’ll find a way to make it up to him. I just have to figure out how," I murmur.

Her frown intensifies. "Do you believe he'll forgive you, especially after how you publicly embarrassed him?"

"My proposal to you has nothing to do with him."

"I rest my case," she sighs, rolling her eyes.

"It's far from perfect, but this is the reality. You can't deny that from the moment you laid eyes on me, you desired me."

She opens her mouth, then shuts it. The guilt on her face confirms what I already knew. “You sense the connection between us. You felt the physical impact when our gazes first met. You knew... It was wrong to continue up that aisle?—”
“But I did.”

“And here we are.” I flatten my hand palm-up on the table between us. She stares at it but makes no move to take it. Trust. She doesn’t trust me yet, but she will. I am going to win her over. I am going to marry her. I am going to make her my wife. “You are the woman I’ve been looking for my entire life.”

Her features soften. “How can you be so sure?”
“Place your hand in mine,” I order.
She instantly slips her hand in mine. When our skin touches, a flurry of heat zips up my arm from her touch. As for her? Goosebumps dot her skin. Her lips part. She tries to pull away, but I close my much bigger fingers about hers.

“Look at me, Obsidian,” I say softly, but with a slight edge of steel.
She raises her gaze to mine, and whatever she sees on my features has her blushing a deep red. She swallows, then lowers her eyes, as if she’s unable to hold my gaze any longer. Her breathing is ragged. I know she’s turned on. I know, if I asked her to get on her knees and open her mouth so I could use it for my pleasure, she’d do it.

Her downcast eyes indicate she's a natural sub, and the way she hurries to obey me confirms my theory. I can teach her. I can please her. I can control her orgasms. I can take her to the edge over and over again, so when she climaxes, it will be the kind of pleasure she’ll never know again with anyone else. I know... Exactly what it will take to have her screaming my name. Mine.

I am not letting her go. I’ll do everything in my power to bind her to me. Fuck the age gap. Fuck the forbidden nature of our relationship. I need her. I want her. I’ll do anything to have her. And Lawrence? Fuck!

I have to convince him she was never his. The evidence is in the elevated pulse of her wrist, the blush which stretches to her décolletage, the hard nubs of her nipples outlined against the material of her wedding gown, the way she keeps her gaze steadfastly lowered and her shoulders erect. The fluttering of her eyelashes as she anticipates my next command.
I can take her to the edge. But first, she needs to know that I am going to take care of her.