Chapter 14 Hannah
Hannah
He steered us towards his bedroom, our lips still fused together. My back hit the door as he kicked it closed, his body pinning me there for a breathless moment before we stumbled toward the bed.
I tugged on his waistband, feeling him lengthen against me as I fumbled to unbuckle his belt and unbutton his pants.
“Hannah,” he gasped as I pressed his pants down over his hips. “What are you doing?”
“I think that’s pretty obvious,” I said, my voice husky.
My knees hit the carpet, the rough fiber biting into my skin.
I pressed my mouth to the fabric of his boxers, running my lips along the underside of his cock through the thin cotton.
I spoke the next words directly to his dick: “I’m thanking you. ”
“Thanking me?” he repeated, sounding confused.
I tilted my head back to meet his gaze, his cheeks gloriously flushed and his lips parted.
My mind flashed with the image of his notebook checklist, someone else’s life planned down to the minute, every detail considered in advance, and I wondered how long it had been since Connor had done something spontaneous.
Or since he’d let somebody do something for him. To him.
“Yeah, thank you,” I said, lowering his boxers to reveal his hard cock.
“But why—” he stopped, his breath gasping as I licked the tip, catching a drop of pre-cum on my tongue.
“Stop thinking,” I said between licks, “and just let me do this, okay?”
And within moments, I settled into the weight of him on my tongue, savoring the taste of his arousal. I closed my eyes and let myself move the way I knew how.
This, I was good at. This, I’d never had complaints about. And in every relationship I’d ever been in, I knew how to thank a man, to reward him and incentivize him for good behavior.
I moaned against his cock, drawing his shaft into my mouth, reveling in the hitch of his breath.
His hands hovered near my head, fingertips barely grazing my scalp—tentative, uncertain.
I could feel his restraint, his thighs tensing under my palms like he was fighting the urge to thrust. Then, with a shuddering exhale, his fingers finally sank into my hair with a groan that reverberated through his body.
I took control of the rhythm, one hand working his base while my tongue explored his crown. His hips jerked, triggering a surge of satisfaction—Connor, always so controlled, finally losing it.
I ran my free hand along his sack, making a path along the seam between his balls and thigh, and he groaned, his breaths shallow, thighs trembling.
And for a moment, I let myself forget all the other criticism in my life and just lean into this: I knew I gave incredible head.
I loved the power of the position—I may be the one on my knees, but I was in control.
I got to choose the speed and vary the intensity.
I got to decide when he came—and from the way his legs shook, I knew he was close—and he’d be damned grateful.
Or so I thought.
Until his palm cupped my face with unexpected gentleness. “Hannah,” he said, voice strained and rough. “Wait. Stop for a second.”
I pulled back, confused, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. He caught my wrist gently—not restraining, just steadying—and helped me to my feet. My knees protested after the hard floor, and his hands came to my elbows, stabilizing me.
His cock was still hard between us—evidence that I hadn’t done anything wrong—so why was he stopping me?
“This isn’t—” He swallowed hard enough that his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything.”
But I do owe you, I wanted to say. You saved me tonight.
His thumb traced my jaw. “Can I show you what I want instead?”
My breath caught. “Okay.”
“Will you get on the bed?” His voice dropped lower, almost shy. “Please?”
The “please” did something to me. In all my past relationships, sex had been transactional, a way to keep the peace. No one had ever asked like my participation was a gift, not a given.
I crossed to his bed on unsteady legs, suddenly self-conscious that I was still wearing my pants while he was half-naked. He followed close behind, catching my waist and pulling me close, finding my mouth again. This kiss was different than before—still hungry, but slower. More deliberate.
His hands slid under my shirt, lifting it up over my head and tossing it onto the bed, then his palms cupped my breasts through lace, and his voice came out in a low rasp: “This bra is sexy as hell.”
“I wore it for you,” I admitted. My voice came out choppy as his thumb found my nipple through the fabric and rubbed it into a tight peak, the lace creating delicious friction.
He lowered his mouth to my neck, slowly kissing his way down over my collarbone as his fingertips traced up the bra strap and lowered it over my shoulders.
Each kiss was maddeningly slow, and I had no patience for his sweet seduction.
I reached around behind my back to unclasp the hooks and shimmied to let the bra fall to the floor.
He groaned, bringing his mouth to my nipple, and as he sucked on the sensitive skin, I unbuttoned my pants, tugging them down.
“You in a rush or something?” he asked against my nipple, voice amused.
“Really fucking horny for my fake boyfriend,” I teased.
His mouth stilled for just a moment, his breath warm against my sensitive peak.
“What’s our backstory, anyway?” I asked as his tongue swept over my nipple. “How long have we been dating? Because I think I’m overdue for an orgasm.”
“Oh, are you?” he said, gazing up at me from his position hovering over my tits, his expression playful. “Poor Hannah. I’ll have to take care of you.”
His mouth returned to my breast as one of his hands slid between my legs. I gasped at the contact, already so worked up from having him in my mouth.
“Please tell me that you have condoms in one of these drawers,” I said, reaching for his nightstand.
“You haven’t looked?”
“Connor, I haven’t gone through your stuff,” I said quickly. “That would be—”
“No secrets here,” he said. He reached over and pulled open his nightstand drawer, revealing chapstick, lotion, a thermometer, throat lozenges, all boring, practical items… and a box of condoms.
I started to reach for them, but he caught my hand gently. “Can I ask you something first?”
“Okay?”
“These past two weeks, I've been thinking about you in my bed.” His voice dropped lower, intimate. “Have you thought about me?”
The honest answer was constantly—in his shower, making coffee in his kitchen, sleeping in his sheets that smelled like his cologne.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Show me.” The words came out almost pleading. “I want to know what you do when I’m not here. When you’re alone in my bed.”
Oh. Oh.
Then his gaze drifted meaningfully toward his nightstand. “I don’t want to go through your things, either, but I’m guessing you have something…?”
Heat flooded my cheeks.
“Under the bed,” I admitted quietly. “In the shoebox.”
“Will you show me?” His hand came up to cup my face. “Please, Hannah. I’ve been thinking—” He broke off, breathing hard. “I need to see you.”
The raw want in his voice made something in my chest crack open. I twisted to reach under the bed, fumbling for the shoebox and pulling out my vibrator. My hands trembled slightly as I turned back to face him.
Connor’s eyes had gone dark, his pupils blown wide. His cock twitched, a fresh bead of pre-cum leaking from the tip.
I leaned back, resting my head on his pillow, feeling the weight of his gaze skimming down my naked body, lingering on my lips, my collarbone, my breasts, stopping where I’d rested the vibrator against my stomach. I spread my thighs, making space for him to kneel between my legs.
“Jesus, Hannah,” he breathed reverently.
I flicked on the vibrator, the soft buzz filling the quiet room.
My skin felt too hot, too tight. I ran the silicon along my clit, and even that first touch made me gasp.
I was hyperaware of Connor's gaze tracking every movement, as hot as a brand on my skin.
His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as his hand wrapped around his cock and started stroking.
“Can I—” His voice came out rough, strained. “Can I touch you while you do this?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
His hand trembled around mine on the vibrator, sending a jolt through me.
“Show me how you like it,” he said softly.
Together, we angled the vibrator, and I guided it, pressing and tilting it back, the tip hitting my front wall just right. A moan escaped my lips before I could stop it.
“Is this okay?” he asked. “Like this?”
“Yes,” I managed, my voice coming out broken. “Don’t stop.”
His other hand never stopped stroking himself, his movements getting faster, more erratic. His eyes moved between my face and where the vibrator disappeared inside me, like he couldn’t decide which view he wanted to memorize.
“Tell me what you need,” he said, and the careful attention in his voice—like my pleasure was the most important thing in the world—made my eyes sting.
Trusting him to keep the rhythm, I released the vibrator to bring one hand to my clit, the other to my breast, pinching and rolling. Connor groaned, low and desperate, his grip tightening on the vibrator—and on his cock.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he breathed, and the wonder in his voice made me believe he meant it.
My hips started to shake, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in my core.
Connor seemed to sense it because he shifted, dropping his head.
He nudged aside my hand, bringing his mouth to my clit, his lips fluttering against the sensitive flesh while the toy pulsed inside me, and the dual sensation was overwhelming.
“Connor!” His name tore from my throat as I came, messing up his perfect hair as I held him exactly where I needed him. The vibrations of his satisfied moan against my clit prolonged my orgasm until I was gasping, boneless, my thighs trembling.
I collapsed into the pillow, trying to catch my breath.
Through heavy-lidded eyes, I watched Connor pull back, his hand still working his cock in fast, desperate strokes.
His gaze roamed over my body, flushed and sprawled out on his bed.
Tendons strained in his neck, and his eyes had gone almost black.
“I’m close,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “Fuck, Hannah, I’m—”
He came with a groan, his whole body shuddering as he spilled over his hand. His eyes stayed locked on mine the entire time, like he couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.
I blinked, still catching my breath, my mind struggling to process what just happened. He’d been hard enough that we could have had sex. I’d been ready. Willing. Wanting.
“You didn’t want to…?” I asked, confused and maybe a little hurt.
Still breathing hard, he grabbed tissues from the nightstand to clean himself up, then gently removed the vibrator and set it aside. Then he collapsed next to me on the bed, his arm coming around me automatically.
“I told you. I wanted to watch you.” His voice dropped quieter, more intimate. “That was enough. More than enough.”
I didn’t know whether to be flattered or confused. He’d rather jerk off than have sex? But something warm settled in my chest anyway—the realization that he got off on my pleasure, not just his own. Watching me come in his bed was what he wanted to remember when he went back to New York.
Because, I reminded my troublesome heart, he would go back to New York. Soon.
“We won’t see each other for a few months,” he said into my hair, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder. “So now when I’m lying in my corporate apartment in Manhattan, I’ll be able to think about this. About you, right here.”
Oh. My throat tightened. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He pressed a kiss to my temple, soft and lingering. “Best going-away present I could ask for.”
I closed my eyes and let myself sink into his warmth, trying not to think too hard about what it meant that I didn’t want him to go.