Chapter 16
MILA
The room wrapped around us like a secret, its walls thick enough to swallow sound, its air heavy with the kind of quiet that amplified every breath.
Connor's hands lingered on my shoulders where he'd set me down, his thumbs brushing the fabric of my jacket in slow, deliberate circles. I felt the heat of him radiating through the space between us—not touching fully yet, but close enough that my skin prickled in anticipation.
I looked up at him, my pulse a steady drum in my ears. His eyes were darker than I'd ever seen them, pupils wide, swallowing the gray until it looked like storm clouds ready to break.
There was intent in his gaze. The kind that made my thighs clench involuntarily.
"Don't stop this time," I'd said, and the words echoed in my mind now, a challenge I'd thrown down without regret. But as he stood there, towering over me without crowding, I realized this wasn't going to be a collision. It was going to be an unraveling.
I wanted him. So damn badly.
I wanted his hands on me. Wanted his mouth on me. Wanted him inside me.
His fingers slid up, tracing the line of my jaw with a touch so light it almost didn't register—except it did, everywhere. A shiver raced down my spine, pooling low in my belly. He tilted my chin up, forcing my eyes to stay on his.
"You want me?” he asked, voice low and rough, like gravel under silk.
I nodded, but that wasn't enough for him. His thumb pressed gently against my lower lip, parting it just enough to make my breath hitch.
"Say it, Mila."
The command in his tone sent a thrill through me—not dominance for its own sake, but a need to hear me claim this. To know I was choosing every step.
"I want you,” I whispered, my voice steadier than I felt. "All of you."
A muscle in his jaw ticked, and for a second, I saw the crack in his control—the raw want flickering behind the restraint. Then his mouth was on mine. Slow. Deep.
His lips moved with a precision that made my knees weaken, coaxing mine open, his tongue tracing the seam until I parted for him on a sigh.
I tasted champagne on him, crisp and lingering, mixed with something darker, uniquely his.
My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he obliged, one arm wrapping around my waist to draw me flush against him.
The hard planes of his body pressed into my softer curves, and I felt him—every inch of muscle earned through whatever hell he'd walked through.
It wasn't just strength; it was survival, etched into his frame.
But he didn't grind against me. Didn't rush to strip us bare. Instead, he kissed me like time didn't exist, like this moment was the only one that mattered.
His free hand cupped the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, tilting my head to deepen the angle. I moaned softly into his mouth, the sound vibrating between us, and he swallowed it, his grip tightening just enough to send a spark of heat straight to my core.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against mine, eyes closed for a beat, like he was savoring the taste of me.
"God, Mila," he murmured, voice ragged. "You've been driving me insane."
I smiled against his skin, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Good. Because I've been imagining this since the first day I saw you."
His eyes snapped open, surprise mingling with desire. "Tell me."
It was my turn to surprise him. I moved back slightly, my hands sliding down to the hem of my jacket.
Slowly, I shrugged it off, then tossed it to the floor with a soft thud.
Underneath, my top clung to me, the fabric thin enough that he could see the outline of my bra, the way my nipples had hardened from his kiss alone.
"I've imagined your hands on me," I said, my voice low and deliberate. “Exactly like this—taking your time, making me ache for more."
He watched me, unmoving, but I saw the way his chest rose and fell faster. Emboldened, I reached for the button on my jeans, popping it open with a flick of my thumb. The zipper rasped down, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room.
"And I've imagined tasting you," I continued, shimmying the denim down my hips, kicking off my boots and wiggling out of the pants. Now, I wore just my top and panties, the cool air raising goosebumps on my thighs. "Feeling you lose control because of me."
Connor's gaze raked over me, hot and possessive, lingering on the lace edging my underwear, the curve of my hips. But he didn't move. Not yet.
"You're killing me," he said, but there was a smile in his voice, dark and approving.
I closed the distance again, my fingers tugging at his shirt. "Your turn."
He let me undress him, lifting his arms as I pulled the fabric over his head. His chest was a map of scars and muscle—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, abs that flexed under my touch. I traced one scar with my fingertip, a jagged line across his ribs, and he sucked in a breath.
"From a mission?" I asked softly.
He nodded, eyes never leaving mine. "Knife fight. Uzbeckestan."
I leaned in, pressing my lips to the scar, tasting the salt of his skin.
He groaned low in his throat, his hands coming to my waist, holding me there.
I kissed lower, over his pecs, down to the V of muscle leading into his pants.
My hands worked his belt open, the leather whispering through the loops.
When I palmed him through his boxers, he was hard and thick, straining against the fabric. I squeezed gently, and his hips jerked forward, a curse escaping his lips.
"Mila—"
I looked up at him, my hand still moving in slow strokes. "I want to see you. All of you."
He didn't argue. He moved back, shedding his pants and boxers in one fluid motion. And there he was—naked, unapologetic, magnificent.
His cock stood proud, veined and heavy, the tip already glistening. I'd been with men before, experienced enough to know what I liked, but this ... this was different. The sight of him made my mouth water, my core clench with need.
I'd never wanted anyone like this. Never felt this pull, this obsession.
"You're beautiful," I whispered, meaning it. Not just his body, but the way he held himself, vulnerable yet unbreakable.
He chuckled softly, but his eyes were intense. "Come here."
I did, and he lifted my top over my head, his fingers grazing my sides in a way that made me shiver. My bra followed, unclasped with expert ease, and then his mouth was on my breast, sucking gently at first, then harder, his tongue flicking the nipple until I arched into him, a whimper escaping.
"Connor—"
He switched to the other side, his hand cupping the first, rolling the peak between his fingers. Heat built between my legs, slick and insistent. I ground against his thigh instinctively, seeking friction, and he growled against my skin.
"Patience," he murmured, but his voice was strained.
I shook my head, my hands in his hair. "No. I need you."
He straightened, his mouth claiming mine again in a kiss that was deeper now, edged with the hunger he'd been holding back. His hands slid down, hooking into my panties and dragging them off. Then he pulled back the covers and lifted me effortlessly, like I was something precious.
The sheets were cool against my heated skin, but Connor's body covered mine almost immediately—not crushing, but enveloping.
His weight was a delicious pressure, his cock nestling against my thigh, hot and insistent.
He kissed my neck, slow and open-mouthed, teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp.
"I've wanted this since I saw you with that camera," he confessed, his breath hot against my ear. "The way you see the world—unafraid, unfiltered. It made me want to show you everything I'm not supposed to."
His words sent a fresh wave of desire through me.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the tip of him brush my entrance.
But he didn't enter me. Instead, he kissed lower—down my collarbone, between my breasts, over my stomach.
His hands parted my thighs wider, his shoulders settling between them.
"Connor, you don't have to—"
"I want to," he said, looking up at me with eyes that burned. "Let me take care of you."
The vulnerability in that— a man like him, used to control, offering this—made my heart stutter. I nodded, and he lowered his mouth to me.
The first touch of his tongue was electric.
Slow, deliberate laps against my clit, circling with just the right pressure.
I arched off the bed, my hands fisting the sheets.
He hummed in approval, the vibration sending sparks through me.
One hand held my hip steady, the other slid a finger inside me, curling gently.
"Oh, God," I moaned, my body tightening around him.
He added a second finger, pumping slowly while his mouth worked me over—sucking, licking, teasing until I was trembling on the edge.
I'd had lovers before, skilled ones, but none who watched me like this, adjusting to every gasp, every shift, like my pleasure was his mission.
The thought slipped through the haze of heat building inside me: how rare this was.
How many men had treated going down on me like a reluctant chore—an obligatory stop on the way to what they really wanted.
A few quick licks, impatient, as if my pleasure were a hurdle instead of the destination.
Some had avoided it altogether, making excuses or shifting focus the moment I guided them lower, leaving me to fake enthusiasm or finish myself later in the quiet dark.
But Connor … God, Connor was different. He wasn’t performing a service; he was devouring me like I was the only meal he’d ever craved.
His eyes stayed open, locked on my face even as his mouth worked magic between my thighs, reading every flicker of expression, every involuntary roll of my hips.
When I tensed, he softened his touch. When I sighed, he doubled down, tongue pressing harder, fingers curling deeper.
It wasn’t just skill—it was devotion. Like tasting me, feeling me come apart, was something he needed as badly as I needed to let go.
I’d always loved receiving this—loved the vulnerability of it, the way it stripped away pretense and left me raw and open.
Loved the slick, intimate slide of a tongue that knew exactly where to linger, the way pleasure could coil so tight it felt almost unbearable.
But I’d rarely felt safe enough to fully surrender to it.
Rarely felt wanted enough to believe the man between my legs was there because he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
With Connor, I believed it. The way his hands gripped my thighs—not to hold me still, but to pull me closer, like he couldn’t get enough.
The low, hungry sounds he made against my skin, as if my taste was unraveling him, too. The reverence in the way he looked up at me, eyes dark and fierce, silently asking if this was good, if I needed more, if he could push me higher.
It undid me. Not just the pleasure—though, God, the pleasure was devastating—but the feeling behind it.
That I was cherished in my wanting. That my desire wasn’t something to tolerate or rush through, but something to savor.
Something worth his patience, his focus, his control slipping just enough for me to feel how desperately he wanted to give this to me.
I felt powerful and fragile at once, spread open beneath his mouth, my body no longer quiet or apologetic. Every moan I let out, every time my hips lifted to chase his tongue, felt like a reclaiming—of my pleasure, my voice, my right to be greedy for this.
"Connor—I'm close—"
He didn't speed up. He slowed, drawing it out, making the build agonizingly sweet. When I finally came undone, it was with his name on my lips, waves crashing through me, leaving me boneless and gasping.
He kissed his way back up, his body covering mine again. His cock pressed against me, slick from my release, but he didn't push inside. Instead, he rolled us so I was on top, straddling him.
“Right here,” he said, hands on my hips, guiding but not forcing.
I looked down at him, this powerful man beneath me, eyes full of want—for me. It was intoxicating.
I leaned down, kissing him deeply, tasting myself on his tongue. Then I reached between us, positioning him at my entrance.
Slowly, I sank down, inch by inch. He was long and thick, stretching me in the best way, filling me completely. We both groaned as I took him fully, my hips settling against his.
"Fuck, Mila," he breathed, his hands tightening on my waist. "You feel incredible."
I rocked experimentally, the friction sending pleasure rippling through me. His eyes fluttered shut for a second, jaw clenched, but then they opened, locking on mine.
"Ride me," he said, voice rough. "Take what you need. Fuck me."
I did.
Starting slow, grinding in circles that hit just the right spot.
His hands roamed—up my sides, cupping my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples. I leaned forward, bracing on his chest, picking up speed. The slap of skin, our mingled breaths, the way he thrust up to meet me—it was overwhelming.
But he surprised me again. One hand slid between us, his thumb finding my clit, rubbing in time with my movements. The added sensation pushed me higher, faster than I expected.
"Connor—I can't—"
"Yes, you can," he encouraged, his other hand in my hair, pulling me down for a kiss. "Come for me again."
I did, clenching around him, my vision blurring with the intensity. He flipped us then, still inside me, his body pinning mine in the most delicious way. He thrust deep, slow at first, each stroke deliberate, hitting that spot inside that made stars burst behind my eyes.
"You're mine," he growled. A plea, wrapped in heat.
"Yes," I gasped, nails digging into his back. "And you're mine."
That undid him. His pace quickened, hips snapping against mine, but even in the frenzy, he was attentive—kissing my neck, whispering how good I felt, how perfect.
I'd never been wanted like this, never felt this connected, this consumed.
When he came, it was with a low groan, burying himself deep, his body shuddering over mine. I held him through it, my legs wrapped tight, aftershocks rippling through us both.
We lay there afterward, tangled and spent, his head on my chest, my fingers in his hair. The room smelled of us—sweat, sex, something deeper.
"I've never ..." he started, voice muffled against my skin.
"Me neither," I finished.
He lifted his head, eyes soft now, vulnerable. "Stay."