Quinn Wilde, a young, independent graphic artist is not interested in love and is certain she has no need for it. When she meets dynamic actor Lance Martin, she wants to punch him in his face for being so handsome and sweethearted, and making her doubt everything she’s believed. Quinn resists falling in love with Lance, uncertain if it is the right thing to do or the greatest mistake of her life.
Quinn stared up at the ceiling, resting on her back along the well-worn couch with her hands behind her head.
It had been a good morning. She had sent the print campaign designs to her client last night and when she awoke, discovered they had been met with applause. Best of all, they had not requested any changes.
And she had an appointment tomorrow with a potential new client. It felt like a sure thing, and it was an organization that paid well, too.
Quinn smiled. Her small, freelance business was thriving. She was doing what she loved, doing it well, and making good money from it, even if it wasn't reflected in her wardrobe or her lifestyle.
The high it inspired, that feeling of success, excited her, warmed her, and with its rush she felt a delicious tingle below.
Quinn breathed hard, her typically impassive expression becoming luminous with an airy and eager smile. She squirmed gently, the tingling spreading from her loins to the rest of her lithe body.
There was nothing to stop her.
She licked her lips, pulling her hands from behind her head. She groped her breast with one hand, her nipple erect against her black tee, and slipped the other into her gray terry shorts.
She lowered her hand in her panties even further, thighs parting as she firmly groped her tingling vulva and humped against her palm. She dipped her finger inside herself, into her collecting wetness, and glided it teasingly up to her erect clitoris, stroking it, massaging it firmly, adding a second digit. Firmer, faster...
Quinn panted, feverish and free. Her mind filled with gorgeous hunks. She liked prince types. Guys who looked good, but were not meatheads. They were always gallant. And they fucked passionately, like a stallion taking a mare.
In real life, Quinn had yet to find that perfect combination of the two, of sweetheart and eager stud.
She let out a breathy moan. She bucked, humped encouragingly against her busy fingers. Her feet pulled in, heels pushing into the cushions.
But, too soon, reality began to creep into her fantasies. There was no prince. They didn't exist. Only men. And like anyone else, they were slobs, stupid and selfish and dumb as bricks.
Quinn slowed, groaning more than moaning. It was there! She was losing it. She wanted to be held, gripped, pounded. She wanted to wrap her soft legs around a prince and pull him into her with his mighty thrusts. She shook with the notion.
And then what? They would cuddle. She would have to hear about his dismal day, his petty problems. Office politics? All while enduring his odors!
Quinn sighed. It was too far away now. She could chase after an orgasm, but she was uninspired and exhausted with her efforts.
She just rested there, keeping her hand in her shorts a while longer, fingers slick at her labia. Each breath was especially loud in an apartment that contained only one body, the rest silence.
Quinn lived alone and liked it that way. She didn't have to deal with anyone. Ever. She could focus on her work, the goal in sight of being able to afford an office space of her own. She could eat when she wanted, watch what she wanted, pick up her guitar and play music whenever.
She was obliged to no one, obligated to nothing, and she reaffirmed every day, multiple times, that it was what she wanted.
She exhaled, pulled her hand out of her shorts and sat up.
Later, she would be ready. She was too alive with thoughts right now, but once she had relaxed some, and she was in a more dream-ready state, when reality was a fog growing more distant, she would gush, inviting her vibrator to the party and her dildo, that rubber fiend. She might even go for an all-night session!
Quinn got up, grabbed her guitar from the stand in the bare corner and sat in the tatty armchair next to it. She pulled her legs under her, rested the guitar on her thigh, cradled it in her lap, adjusted her broad-framed glasses, and just played.
The apartment was deluged in morning light. It was one substantial living space, with a partition hiding the too-small kitchen. She didn't need much more. It wasn't like she was hosting a banquet and dignitaries, or even her few friends.
She had gotten the couch, armchair and coffee table from Furniture Mart, adding the end table that she used for her small television to shore up the total and get free delivery.
In the other half of the main room, she had a large dining room table, half of which was covered with her papers, books, tools for drawing, and her laptop and peripherals. That was really where she lived.
All over, there were scraps of paper and stray granola bar wrappers, and a few crumbs. She was fine with it. Who was going to judge her?
A short corridor led to a pair of bedrooms. Her room had a queen-sized bed. A lavender sheet over the window created an alluring hue and made her collection of quartz sparkle and gleam on her dusty dresser. The other room had boxes of stuff.
It all belonged to her. She shared with no one. She could trust that it would always be that way when she returned from whatever adventures she might have gone on.
Quinn strummed her guitar, filling the apartment with some other noise than her solitary breathing, and already she felt better, until she was tired of it. She then set it aside, and for hours listened to music, checked her emails, involved herself in her news and Twitter feeds, and was perfectly content.
As noon came and went, she considered food. She didn't want to make anything, still in the lazy mood earned with the morning's victory.
Her phone lit up. She glanced over, pulling out her earbuds. It was thrumming over the wood table. She grabbed it and tapped at its screen.