25. Love
TWENTY-FIVE
LOVE
HAVEN
If someone had told me nine months ago that there would come a day where I felt normal—when I was happy—again, I would've thrown something at them. Maybe laughed hollowly if I could make a sound. Definitely cried now that I had tears again.
Winter’s captivity stole so much from me. My voice. My pride. The illusion that no one could hurt me if I didn’t let them… but Connor? My husband gave me those things back one piece at a time, never asking me to heal faster than I can.
I’m trying. Sometimes I feel like I’m my old self again—and then the panic closes over me, I can’t breathe, all I can do is lock myself in my sanctuary until the worst of it is over.
Things are different now. I’m still struggling, but it was a shock to me that the last panic attack I had? It wasn’t because of Winter. It wasn’t because I had nightmares that I was back in the warehouse where no one would ever find me.
No.
It was because Connor had left me alone in the house, and I didn’t know how long he would be gone.
Adrian and Dallas needed him. Bas had been halfway across the state on his motorcycle, which meant Connor was the only one available. He'd knelt in front of me before leaving, kissed my forehead, promised he'd be back before dinner.
I believed him. For almost two hours, I sat and waited for him.
I got some fresh air on the balcony. Tried to read my latest murder mystery.
I tried not to worry that something could be happening to him…
that he might be talking to another woman…
that she might find it easy to talk to him… and all I did was work myself up.
I couldn’t reach him. He doesn’t have a landline, and I still didn’t have a cellphone of my own then.
He went out and got me one the next morning after I lost my fucking mind, but until he came home and found me rocking and whimpering inside of the panic room, I had convinced myself he'd finally realized what everyone else eventually did—that I was too much work.
Too broken. Too damaged. That rescuing me had been one thing, but living with me…
I destroyed the basement first. Torn between anger and fear, I’d thrown a lamp. Smashed too plates. Sent one of the chairs where we eat crashing to the floor. I threw my book after tearing pages out of it. Only then did I lock myself in the sanctuary, shaking so hard I couldn't breathe.
Connor had come home an hour later.
The first thing he'd done wasn't yell about the mess. It wasn't ask why I hadn't trusted him when I admitted that I thought he gave up on me.
Oh, no. He'd just unlocked the door to the panic room, climbed into bed with me, and wrapped both arms around me while I sobbed against his chest.
"I'm sorry," I'd managed to choke out afterward when my voice came back to me—the same way that Connor did.
He'd taken my left hand, lifting it to his lips before he pressed a slow kiss against my wedding band. "Never apologize for loving me, sweetheart."
And that was the first time I really understood that I did.
I love Connor Heyward, and broken as I’ll forever be, he loves me.
Yesterday was Connor’s twenty-eighth birthday.
He didn’t make a big deal of it. Actually, if the date—March 26th—wasn’t ingrained into my head as his birthday, I probably wouldn’t have known that it was. He never mentioned it, and when I tried, he distracted me with enough kisses that I knew he was doing it on purpose.
For my twenty-eighth birthday in January, he gave me a stuffed cat that purred when you hug it.
That wasn’t all. He bought me enough clothes to rebuild my wardrobe, plus a portrait of the two of us together that I don’t even know where he got made, but it was the sweet grey-and-white purring plush that I treasured.
I wanted to give Connor a gift. Knowing him as well as I do now, he would never let me if I approached it like that.
I did use my new phone to order him a few things that I’ve heard him mention liking: a pair of hiking boots.
Some new cologne so that he always smells like my Connor.
A sheathe for his pocketknife, plus a backup with a bigger blade.
I gave them to him this morning because there was a slight delivery delay. I’ve never seen his expression light up the way it does when I shyly admit that the box with my name on it is his.
Well, no. He looked like that the first time I got naked in front of him.
And his expression was one of pure male satisfaction when he noticed that I put ‘Haven Heyward’ in the address line, but there was a hint of softness when he realized that I didn’t just buy him something to say that I did.
I bought him something that he wanted, something that he can use, and when he held me close, murmuring his thanks, I swear I felt the scalded heat of a teardrop trailing down the side of my neck.
I wasn’t done, though.
Tonight, Connor cooked another of my favorite dinners. He made chicken parmesan with too much garlic bread because he knows I'll steal the last piece off his plate if he’ll let me—and he always lets me.
After dinner, he starts gathering the dirty plates together.
"You cooked," I tell him, getting up. "I'll clean."
He shakes his head. “Nope. You’re my wife. I take care of you. I’ll clean up. Why don’t you go sit down and relax. I’ll finish up here and we can watch a movie before bed.”
We could. Or else we could—
I shake my head, then take a deep breath. Shuddering out a nervous breath, I blurt out: “You sit down and relax.” I firm my jaw. “Now, Connor.”
He lowers the pile of plates in the sink. “Haven? Are you okay?”
I… I think so.
It’s something I’ve been thinking about lately. Am I okay? No. I’m not. Not really. But I’m better, and the first time that Connor was slipping his cock inside of my pussy and I had the urge to put it inside my mouth instead, I was stunned to think that I might be getting even better.
I never thought I’d be strong enough to consider that act with my husband. But as he immediately jumped to clean up after doing all of the work himself… after how careful he’s been with me since the start, even when I was trying to kill him… I think I’m ready.
I think I can do this.
I point at the couch. If I have to use my energy to talk again, I might chicken out. So I point, and he smiles indulgently at me before moving out of the kitchenette and into the living area of our basement.
He sits down on the couch. “There. I’m relaxing. Does that make you happy, sweetheart?’
It does. And, in a minute or two, it should make my husband really happy…
Ignoring the rest of the mess in the kitchen, I gather up my hair, twisting it so that it’s out of my face, falling down my back. I shove up the sleeves of my hoodie, shuffling my bare feet across the floor until I’m standing between the coffee table and the couch.
I bump it back, giving me some room to work with. Then, to the obvious shock of my husband, I sink down to my knees in front of him. I use my shoulder to wide a gap in his legs before wedging my body between them.
It’s only as I take a deep breath, then undo the snap on Connor’s jeans that I rip him out of his stunned stupor.
His hand lands on mine. “Haven…” He chokes out my name. “What are you doing?”
If I say it out loud, I won’t be able to do it. Instead, I show him.
I slide my hand out from under his and wait. Getting the hint, Connor draws his hand away. He watches closely as I unsnap his jeans and slowly tug the zipper down. A muscle tics in his jaw when I open his pants as far as they can go before dipping my hand inside his briefs, pulling out his cock.
I expected he would already be erect. That helps. So many times, when my previous captors assaulted me, they would flop their limp dicks in front of me and expect me to get them hard, then get them off.
With Connor? He’s constantly aroused when hes around me, though he never demands more than I can give.
I know that which is why I’m not the least bit surprised when he says, “You don’t have to do this.”
Hasn’t he figured it out yet? I don’t have to do it. But tonight… I think I want to.
I take his dick in hand, lowering my head over it. When I speak again, the warmth of my breath has Connor sucking in one of his own as a bead of precome appears at the head of his cock.
I squeeze him. “If you try to talk me out of it, it’ll work. But if you keep your mouth shut and let me have you like you promised I could… I’m going to do this. So what is it, Connor? Do you want your wife to suck your dick? Can you, for once in your life, shut the fuck up?”
“Keep talking like that, and I’m going to go off like a motherfucking rocket before you get those gorgeous lips anywhere near me.”
I release his cock.
He hisses under his breath. “Right. Shut the fuck up. Got it. If that’s how you feel… tonight, baby, I’ll be the one who’s mute.”
He’s as good as a word. No matter how long it took me—longer than he wanted, I’m sure—and how hesitant I am at the start, Connor doesn’t say a single goddamn word until I close my mouth around the head of him, and he cries out my name.
That’s all. Just Haven and please and yes. Considering that means I’m doing a pretty decent job at sucking his dick, I let that slide.
It’s Connor, I realize. Everything, from his taste to the shape of his dick, the way he doesn’t thrust into my mouth but just lets me explore him… it’s nothing like those terrible men who took from me like I owed them. My husband takes every lick, every squeeze, every suck as a gift.
I know he won’t last long. I’ve been with Connor enough times now to be able to tell when he’s getting ready to go off. Right before he does, I pull back again.