Yours at Midnight by Robin Bielman Page A

needed someone to keep you on your toes.” His breath fanned over her skin, making her wet, needy, anxious. “Want me to stop?”
    “No.” The truth was, she hadn’t wanted him to back then, either. He’d always been the one person to make her feel desirable.
    “Tell me what you want, Lyric. Because this time I’m going to do it right. This time you’re going to know exactly how I feel about you.”
    She shuddered. I did last time.
    “I want you.” Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. She wanted her son’s father. She had since the day she found out she was pregnant. But she’d been too proud, too full of resentment to do anything about it. The truth tasted bitter in the back of her throat.
    “To do this?” He cupped her breast, rubbed his thumb across her nipple.
    Sensation overcame her. She swallowed her fears and doubts. Nodded.
    “And this?” His other hand moved between her legs, and she let out a whimper.
    “Yes, keep doing that,” she said, or quite possibly demanded, because if he stopped she’d surely wither and die.
    Then everything revved up, their hands all over each other, their mouths meeting to plunder one another. She pushed up his shirt and tossed it aside. He unbuttoned her jeans, started on her zipper.
    That’s when she remembered.
    She turned to stone.
    “What’s wrong?” He semi-froze, only his warm, strong hands moving up and down her arms.
    Her scar was what was wrong. After her C-section, she hadn’t healed well, developing a keloid across her lower abdomen. Quinn would no doubt question her about the ugly, raised pink skin and be reminded of her pregnancy. She shut her eyes, trying to picture the scar from his point of view, trying to decide if he wouldn’t be repulsed.
    Deciding to come clean.
    “It’s just been a really long time.”
    He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re doing fine by me. More than fine.” He gifted her with an impossibly sexy smile. His pointer finger raked down her arm and unbelievably, given her state of mind, her body hummed.
    “There hasn’t been anyone since…” She turned her head and focused on the corner of the walls. “You.”
    He stilled. “What did you say?”
    “You’re the last person I slept with, Quinn.” Her gaze might be across the room, but she felt his eyes on her profile with intensity strong enough to make her blood run cold.
    For what seemed like forever, neither of them moved or said anything, like the slightest motion would puncture the air and steal their breath for good.
    “What are you telling me?”
    She finally mustered the courage to look him in the eye. “Max is yours.”
    He fell back against the couch, ran his hand through his hair. “That can’t be. He’s two.”
    “Who told you that? He’s three. Almost three and a half.” The pain on Quinn’s face—evident in the tight set of his jaw, the deep crease between his eyebrows, the murky depths of his stare—almost undid her.
    She had to make this right.
    “He’s got your eyes, Quinn. Your hair color. Your devotion and intuition.” She laid her palm on his chest. “Your kindness. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was—”
    “Fuck, Lyric!” He pushed her off him and rose to his feet.
    Her throat closed and her body shook as she scrambled to put her shirt back on.
    Quinn paced around the room, every muscle in his stomach, his arms, his neck and back, clearly taut. His hands fisted, then flexed. His eyes, when they darted to her, were cruel, unforgiving.
    Fear shot through Lyric with razor sharp claws, tearing her up inside. She’d never seen him so upset. Not even after Oliver’s death. He’d masked his feelings then, she knew, careful not to show too much emotion. Sabotaging closeness to others with a sharp and crude tongue to protect himself.
    “Quinn?”
    “Don’t say my name. Don’t. Say. Anything.”
    For several agonizing minutes she watched him pace. She stayed rooted to her spot, arms wrapped around her body.