Chapter 17
CONNOR
We lay there in the aftermath, the room thick with the scent of us—sweat and sex and something sweeter, like the champagne we'd barely touched.
Mila's head rested on my chest, her dark hair spilling across my skin like ink on canvas.
Her fingers traced lazy patterns over my ribs, following the ridges of old scars without asking about them.
Not yet, anyway. My arm was wrapped around her, holding her close, my thumb brushing the curve of her hip in slow, absent strokes.
I felt everything.
The steady thrum of her heartbeat against my side, syncing with mine in a rhythm that shouldn't have felt so natural.
The softness of her breath fanning my collarbone, warm and even.
The way her body fit against me—not just physically, but like she'd carved out a space I hadn't known was empty until she filled it.
It was overwhelming, this quiet after the storm. I'd had sex before—plenty of it, in places and with people that blurred together in memory.
But this? This was different. This was her.
We talked about nothing. Stupid shit. The kind of conversation that floated on the surface because diving deeper right then would've been too much.
"Did you ever want to be an astronaut as a kid?" she murmured, her voice sleepy but curious.
I chuckled, the sound rumbling through my chest. "Nah. Too claustrophobic. All that floating in a tin can? I'd go nuts."
She lifted her head slightly, propping her chin on my sternum, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "You? Claustrophobic? The guy who probably crawls through vents for a living?"
I grinned. "Vents are different. At least there's an objective. Get in, get out, don't die."
She laughed softly, the vibration traveling straight through me. "Fair. I wanted to be a mermaid."
"A mermaid?"
"Yeah. Swim all day, no responsibilities, just ... freedom."
Her voice trailed off, and I caught the wistful note in it.
Freedom.
The word hit me harder than it should have.
I'd spent my life chasing some version of it—out of St. Paul's, into the Navy, through ops that left me more chained than ever.
And here she was, talking about it like it was a childhood dream, while I held her in a fortress designed to keep the world out.
I tightened my arm around her. "You'd make a hell of a mermaid."
She smiled, pressing a kiss to my chest. "Thanks. But I think I'd miss coffee too much."
We lapsed into silence again, the kind that didn't need filling.
My mind wandered, circling back to the discomfort that had been gnawing at me all day.
Merrick. The past. The danger I'd dragged to her doorstep.
It had subsided a little in the heat of the moment—faded under the weight of her body on mine, her moans in my ear—but it was still there, lurking like a shadow in the corner of the room.
At least here, in The Sanctuary, we were safe. The walls were armored. The doors locked tighter than a vault. Ellsworth had eyes everywhere—cameras, sensors, probably some shit I didn't even know about. No one was getting in without an invitation or a fight they couldn't win.
But tomorrow? The day after? I couldn't keep her locked away forever. And the longer she stayed with me, the bigger the target on her back.
She shifted against me, her thigh sliding over mine, and the thought dissolved. For now, at least.
"You okay?" she asked softly, sensing the tension.
"Yeah," I lied. "Just thinking."
"About?"
I hesitated, then went with half-truth. "About how good this feels."
She smiled against my skin. "It does."
We stayed like that for a while longer—maybe minutes, maybe an hour. Time blurred in the quiet. Eventually, her stomach growled, soft but insistent, and we both laughed.
"Hungry?" I asked.
"Starving," she admitted. "All that ... exertion."
I grinned. "Come on. Let's see what Ellsworth left us."
She sat up, stretching, and I couldn't help but watch the way her body moved—long lines, soft curves, the faint marks my hands had left on her hips. Christ, she was beautiful. And mine. For now, at least.
We showered together.
It started innocently enough—or as innocent as it could be after what we'd just done. I turned on the water, letting it run hot, steam filling the bathroom like a veil. She stepped in first, her back to me, water cascading over her shoulders, darkening her hair until it clung to her skin.
I followed, the heat hitting me like a wave. The shower was big—another Sanctuary perk, all marble and glass and multiple heads that made it feel like standing in a rainstorm. I came up behind her, my hands settling on her waist, pulling her back against my chest.
She sighed, leaning into me.
I grabbed the soap—something expensive, scented like sandalwood and citrus—and lathered it between my hands. Then I started washing her.
Slowly.
Methodically.
I began at her neck, my fingers working the suds into her skin in gentle circles, thumbs pressing into the knots at the base of her skull. She tilted her head forward, a soft moan escaping her lips.
"Feel good?" I murmured.
"Mmm."
I moved lower, over her shoulders, down her arms, interlacing our fingers briefly before sliding back up. The soap made everything slick, my hands gliding effortlessly. I cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples until they hardened under my touch, her breath hitching.
But I didn't linger.
I turned her gently, facing me now, water streaming down her face. Her eyes were half-lidded, lips parted. I soaped her stomach, her hips, dipping lower to the curve where thigh met torso. My fingers spread the lather there, teasing the sensitive skin, feeling her tremble under my touch.
"Connor," she whispered.
"Shh," I said. "Let me do this."
I knelt then, water pounding against my back, and lifted one of her feet, resting it on my thigh. I washed it carefully—between her toes, the arch, the heel—massaging as I went. She braced a hand on my shoulder, her fingers digging in slightly.
I did the other foot, then moved up her calves, her knees, the backs of her thighs. My hands spread wider as I went, thumbs pressing into the muscle, fingers grazing the inner seams. She shifted, parting her legs just enough, and I took the invitation.
I soaped her inner thighs, inching higher, feeling the heat radiating from her core. My fingers brushed her folds—light, teasing—and she gasped, her hips canting forward.
I looked up at her, water dripping from my lashes. "You want more?"
"Yes," she breathed.
I spread her gently, my fingers sliding through her slickness—soap and arousal mixing.
I circled her clit slowly, watching her face, the way her eyes fluttered shut, her mouth opening on a silent moan.
Then I slipped a finger inside her, curling it just right, pumping slowly while my thumb worked her from the outside.
She was still sensitive from before, her body responding fast, clenching around me. I added a second finger, stretching her, my free hand gripping her thigh to steady her.
"Oh, God," she moaned, her hand fisting in my hair.
I didn't rush. I took my time, building her up again, feeling her tighten, her breaths coming shorter and sharper. When she came, it was with a cry that echoed off the marble, her body shuddering, knees buckling slightly.
I caught her, standing and pulling her against me, holding her through the aftershocks.
We stood like that under the water, her face buried in my neck, until her breathing evened out.
"Your turn," she said finally, a mischievous glint in her eye.
I shook my head. "This was for you."
She smiled, slow and wicked. "And this is for me, too."
She took the soap from my hand and lathered her palms, then started on my chest, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle. She washed me with the same care I'd given her—slow, thorough, her touch lingering in places that made my cock twitch.
When she knelt, water streaming over her, and took me in her hand, I nearly lost it right there.
She stroked me slowly, soapy and slick, her other hand cupping my balls gently. Then she leaned in, her mouth closing around the tip, tongue swirling.
"Fuck, Mila," I groaned, my hand tangling in her wet hair.
She took me deeper, her lips stretching around me, hollowing her cheeks as she sucked. The heat of her mouth, the water pounding down—it was sensory overload. I thrust shallowly, careful not to overwhelm her, but she took it, moaning around me like she was enjoying it as much as I was.
I didn't last long. The build was fast, intense, and when I came, it was with her name on my lips, spilling down her throat.
She swallowed, then looked up at me with a satisfied smile.
We finished washing quickly after that—rinsing off, stepping out into the steam-filled bathroom. I grabbed towels—thick, white, heated on the rack—and wrapped one around her, drying her gently.
There were robes hanging on the door—soft, white terrycloth, monogrammed with some subtle logo I didn't recognize. Sanctuary standard, probably. We slipped them on, the fabric warm against our skin.
She looked adorable in hers—hair damp and tousled, cheeks flushed, the robe swallowing her frame.
I wanted her all over again.
But food first.
We padded down the hall to the kitchen, barefoot, the floor cool under our feet. Ellsworth had left everything as promised—glass containers labeled neatly in elegant script: filets, potatoes and greens. There was even a bottle of wine chilling in the fridge, two glasses set out on the counter.
Mila whistled softly. "Your butler is efficient."
I chuckled. "You have no idea."
We heated the food—nothing fancy, just enough to take the chill off—and sat at the counter, side by side, robes gaping just enough to tease glimpses of skin.
She talked.
About her residency. About a shoot she'd done that afternoon—some fashion thing with a model who looked like she belonged in a painting. About how Paris was changing her, making her see things differently. Colors. Light. Herself.
I watched her, mesmerized.
The way her hands moved when she spoke, expressive and fluid. The way her eyes lit up when she described framing a shot just right. The way she laughed at herself when she admitted she'd tripped over her words in French earlier that day.
She was alive in a way that made everything else feel dull.
And as I listened, the discomfort I'd been carrying—the shadow of Merrick, the past, the danger—faded further into the background. It was still there, a low hum I couldn't ignore entirely, but here, with her, it felt manageable. Distant.
At least in The Sanctuary, we were safe. For now.
We ate slowly, savoring the food—rich flavors that exploded on the tongue, wine that warmed us from the inside out. The foie gras was buttery and decadent, the sole flaky and perfect.
We decided to save the dessert for morning, with coffee. Something to look forward to.
"You tired?" I asked, glancing at the clock. It was late—past midnight—but neither of us seemed ready for sleep.
She gave me that look again—the one from the café, bold and unapologetic, heat simmering just beneath the surface.
"Grab the whipped cream from the fridge," she said.
My pulse kicked.
I didn't ask why. Didn't need to.
I stood, opened the fridge, and pulled out the small container of fresh whipped cream—another Ellsworth special, probably made from scratch.
When I turned back, she was watching me, her robe slipping slightly off one shoulder, revealing the curve of her breast.
We made it back to the bedroom—barely.
The door shut behind us, and she untied her robe, letting it pool at her feet. Naked. Unashamed. Beautiful in a way that stole my breath.
I set the whipped cream on the nightstand and shed my own robe, my cock already hardening at the sight of her.
She pushed me back onto the bed, straddling my hips, her hands on my chest.
"My turn," she said.
I grinned. "I'm all yours."
She reached for the whipped cream, scooping a dollop onto her finger. Then she traced it across my chest—slow, teasing lines that made my skin tingle. She leaned down, her tongue following the path, licking it off in deliberate strokes.
Christ.
She did it again—lower this time, across my abs, her mouth hot against my skin. I groaned, my hands fisting the sheets to keep from grabbing her.
Then she moved lower still, swirling the cream around the base of my cock, her fingers spreading it carefully, teasing the sensitive skin.
When her mouth followed, I nearly lost it right there.
She licked slowly, thoroughly, her tongue flat and warm, cleaning every trace while her hands stroked me in rhythm. The combination—cold cream, hot mouth, her eyes locked on mine—was torture. Exquisite, mind-blowing torture.
"Mila—fuck—"
She hummed around me, the vibration sending sparks up my spine.
I couldn't take it anymore. I sat up, pulling her into my lap, kissing her hard. She tasted like cream and me, and it was intoxicating.
I flipped us, laying her back against the pillows. Then it was my turn with the whipped cream.
I scooped some out, spreading it across her breasts in slow swirls, watching her nipples harden under the cold. Then I leaned down, licking it off—slow, thorough, my tongue circling each peak until she was arching beneath me, her hands in my hair.
"Connor—please—"
I moved lower, trailing cream down her stomach, dipping my tongue into her navel. Then lower still, spreading it along her inner thighs, teasing the edges of her core without touching.
She whimpered, hips lifting, seeking more.
I finally gave in, parting her with my fingers and swirling the cream over her clit, mixing with her own slickness. Then my mouth was there, licking, sucking, devouring. She tasted like heaven.
She came fast, her body bowing off the bed, a cry tearing from her throat.
But I wasn't done.
I grabbed more cream, coating my cock with it, the cold a stark contrast to the heat building inside me.
Then I positioned myself at her entrance and thrust in—slow, deep, feeling her clench around me.
We moved together, the cream making everything slicker, messier, more intense. I hooked one of her legs over my shoulder, then the other, changing the angle, hitting deeper. She gasped, nails raking my back.
"Harder," she demanded.
I obliged, thrusting faster, the bed creaking under us. Sweat slicked our skin, the room filled with the sounds of us—moans, gasps, the wet slide of bodies coming together.
When she came again, it triggered my own release—intense, leaving us both trembling.
We collapsed together, spent and sated, her head on my chest once more.
"Perfect," she whispered.
Yeah.
We were.
And in that moment, with her in my arms, I let myself believe it could last.
Even if tomorrow brought hell.