Firmament Lines

His lips brush mine. Soft. Questioning. I answer. My mouth opens under his. His tongue sweeps in. Coffee. Wine. Him. My hands fist in his shirt. Pull him closer.

He groans. His arms band around me. Lift me. My back hits the wall. His body presses into mine. Hard. Demanding. I wrap my thighs around his waist. Feel him thick and insistent against my core.

His mouth trails down my throat. Teeth grazing my pulse point. “God, Flora.” His hands slide under my sweater. Find skin. “You’re everything.”

I arch into him. My hands tug at his shirt. Buttons fly. My palms spread over his chest. Hot skin. Crisp hair. The muscles leaping under my touch. “More,” I gasp. “Please.”

He carries me to the bed. Sets me down. Covers me with his body. His mouth claims mine again. Hungry. Deep. His hands push up my sweater. Expose my breasts. His lips close over a nipple. Suck. Hard.

I cry out. My fingers dig into his hair. Hold him to me. His teeth scrape the sensitive peak. Pleasure arrows to my core. I rock against him. Shameless. Needing.

“Quinn.” His name is a plea. A prayer. “Now.”

He rears up. Shoves his trousers down. His cock springs free. Thick. Weeping. He hooks his fingers in my leggings. Yanks them down. Off. His weight settles between my thighs. The head of him nudges my entrance. Blunt. Hot.

“Condom,” he rasps. “Nightstand.”

I reach. Fumble. Rip the foil. He takes it from me. Rolls it on with shaking hands. Then he’s back. Pressing inside. Slow. Relentless. Filling me. Stretching me.

I wrap my legs around him. Take him deeper. He groans. Bursts his hips. Hits a spot that makes me see stars. “There,” I sob. “Right there.”

He sets a rhythm. Hard. Driving. The bed creaks. The headboard thumps the wall. My nails rake his back. His mouth swallows my cries. Pleasure coils tight. Hot. Desperate.

“Quinn.” I’m close. So close. “I need…”

“I know.” He slips a hand between us. Finds my clit. Circles. Presses. “Come for me, love. Let me feel you.”

I shatter. White heat. Blinding pleasure. I scream his name. He follows. Groans against my neck. Spills inside me with a shudder that wracks his whole body.

We collapse. Sweat-slicked. Panting. He gathers me close. His lips brush my temple. “Flora,” he murmurs. “My Flora.”

I nestle into him. Sated. Safe. The city glows outside the window. The competition looms tomorrow. Giancarlo’s threats. The deadline. None of it matters. Not here. Not now.

Just Quinn. Me. The blueprints of us, finally aligned.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. We ignore it. It buzzes again. Insistent. He groans. Reaches for it. Checks the screen. Tenses. “It’s the client. The one for the Madison Street project.” He sits up. Runs a hand through his hair. “They want to move the timeline up.”

I sit up beside him. The sheet pools at my waist. “Now?”

“Apparently.” He looks at me. Regret in his eyes. “I have to take this.”

I nod. “Go.”

He leans in. Kisses me. Soft. Lingering. “Don’t move.” He stands. Pulls on his trousers. Pads to the door. Opens it. Pauses. Looks back at me. “We’re not done here.”

I smile. “I know.”

The door closes behind him. I sink back into the pillows. My body hums. Sore in the best way. The phone rings again. His room this time. I hear his muffled voice through the wall. Professional. Polite. All CEO.

I close my eyes. Listen to the rain against the window. To the distant city sounds. To the echo of his words. Loving you. Equals.

Can we be? Truly? With the competition still hanging over us? With Giancarlo circling like a shark?

The phone stops ringing. Silence descends. I wait for Quinn to return. To finish what we started. To show me all the ways we fit together.

But the minutes stretch. The warmth of him fades from the sheets. I pull the blanket higher. Stare at the ceiling. At the water stains like Rorschach tests. What do I see? A future with Quinn? Or just another project with an expiration date?

The door stays closed. The room stays silent. My heart pounds a question against my ribs.

The door stays closed. The room stays silent. My heart pounds a question against my ribs.

Back in the office, the night before the deadline, we’re the only ones left. Blueprints cover every surface. We’ve been at this for fourteen hours straight. My eyes burn. My shoulders ache. But the design… God, the design is glorious. All soaring lines and light-filled spaces. Our vision, made tangible.

Quinn stands at the window, backlit by the city’s glow. He’s shed his jacket hours ago. His sleeves are rolled up, tie loose. He looks exhausted. Edible. He turns. Catches me staring. His mouth quirks. “Almost there, Dodaro.”

I nod. Push to my feet. Stumble a little. He’s at my side in an instant. Hands steadying my waist. “Easy.”

I look up at him. At the lines of fatigue around his eyes. The stubble darkening his jaw. “We’re going to win, aren’t we?”

His hands tighten. “Damn right we are.” He pulls me closer. Rests his forehead against mine. “We’re a hell of a team, Flora.”

“Quinn…” His name is a breath. A plea.

He groans. “Don’t. Not here. Not now.” But his hands slip down to my hips. Pull me flush against him. He’s hard. Ready. “Christ, Flora. You destroy me.”

I rise on tiptoe. Brush my lips over his. “Then let me put you back together.”

His control snaps. He lifts me. Carries me to his desk. Sweeps papers aside. Sets me down on the edge. His mouth crashes onto mine. All hunger and heat and longing. I bind myself to him. Yank his shirt from his trousers. My hands find skin. Hot. Smooth.

He shudders. “Flora.” My name is a prayer. A curse. His hands shove up my skirt. Find the lace of my panties. Rip them. Gone. His fingers stroke through my wetness. Circle my clit. Once. Twice. I jerk against him. “Please.”

He frees himself. Positions himself. Drives inside. Hard. Deep. Perfect. I cry out. He swallows the sound. His hips piston. Relentless. The desk groans. Papers flutter to the floor. Pleasure builds. Hot. Heavy. I claw at his back. “Quinn. Now.”

He reaches between us. Presses just… right. I shatter. Come apart around him. He follows. Spills inside me with a groan that tears from his chest. We collapse together. Sweat-slicked. Panting. His face buried in my neck. “Jesus, Flora.”

I laugh. Breathless. Giddy. “We’re definitely winning now.”

He lifts his head. Grins. Wolfish. “Damn right.” He eases out of me. Helps me down. Straightens my skirt. Brushes a strand of hair from my face. His touch lingers. “Ready to submit?”

I nod. Take his hand. We walk to the conference table. Load the final files. Click send. The confirmation message pops up. Done.

A throat clears behind us. We spin. Giancarlo stands in the doorway. Impeccable in a midnight blue suit. He holds up his phone. “Just got the notification. Congratulations.” His eyes rake over us. Over my rumpled hair. Quinn’s untucked shirt. “Quite the… synchronicity you two have.”

Quinn tenses. Steps slightly in front of me. “Good work beats fancy renderings, Zanetti.”

Giancarlo looks amused. “Does it?” He shrugs. “Well. Better luck next time for me.” He turns to leave. Pauses. Looks back. “Oh, and Flora? When he breaks your heart—and he will—my offer still stands.” The elevator dings. He’s gone.

Silence hangs. Thick. Cloying. I look at Quinn. He’s staring at the space where Giancarlo stood. Jaw tight. Eyes hooded. “Quinn?”

He turns. Meets my gaze. Something flickers in his eyes. Something dark. Closed off. “He’s wrong.” His voice is flat. Certain. “I won’t break your heart.” He takes my hand. Threads his fingers through mine. “But he’s right about one thing.” He brings my hand to his lips. Presses a kiss to my knuckles. “We are synchronized. In every way.” He tugs me toward the elevator. “Now let’s get out of here. I know a place that serves champagne at sunrise.”

The elevator doors close behind us. I lean into his side. His arm comes around me. Holds me close. Giancarlo’s words echo. When he breaks your heart… But for now, in this moment, with Quinn’s warmth seeping into me and our design winging its way to the judges, I choose faith. Choose him. Choose us.

We step out into the dawn. The city stretches before us. New. Bright. Ours for the taking.