Chapter 33
Ryan
The cursor blinks at me from my laptop screen as I review the last problem on my intermediate accounting assignment. I double-check my calculations, then submit. I close the laptop and lean back in my desk chair—well, the new gaming chair Viktor had ordered—careful not to jar my left shoulder.
The sling is annoying as hell. But not nearly as bad as my husband. I can’t even pee without him hovering.
Kinda why I’m glad he’s not here right now.
He had to meet with his grandfather, who stepped in as CEO of the family company. Just hope he’s not trying to drag Connor into the business. My husband’s made it clear he wants nothing to do with it.
Plus, Connor has enough on his plate with the media hounding him, calling his parents’ murders a “revenge killing” by James Callahan, who apparently snapped when the failed merger cost his company billions. Don't know where they got that from.
Maybe Mrs. Novotny.
I don’t ask too much. Connor doesn't offer either. Not knowing actually made it easier when the police asked me questions.
I just want things to settle at this point.
I've had enough of getting drugged, or kidnapped, for the rest of my damn life. Though I’m pretty sure Novotny gave me too many pain meds yesterday.
He had that smirk the entire time, the one that means he's up to something.
Probably took a video of me passed out and drooling.
The asshole already recorded me at the hospital five days ago. Posted the video in the group chat—my hospital gown wide open in the back, my whole ass out. Everyone lost their minds. Reed and Blackwell got into it over who rewatched it.
Connor found out and threatened to murder everyone.
I stand and make my way to bed. Maybe I’ll take a nap. But I shift wrong trying to lay down, and a sharp spike of pain shoots through my deltoid.
Fucking hell.
A few minutes later, the door opens and Connor walks in . . . wearing one of his game jerseys.
I quirk a brow. “Uh, something happen?”
“No.”
Yeah, can’t remember the last time he gave me a single-word answer. “I’d cross my arms over my chest if I could, but . . . you know.”
He walks to his bed, shaking his head.
Maybe I’ve played up the injury on occasion to get what I want. Why shouldn’t I use it to get a blowjob when my husband is being overly fucking cautious with me.
I might be down one arm, but I still have another. And two legs.
“You get caught up on your work?”
I grunt and pull out my phone. “Yes, dad.”
A pillow hits my face a second later.
I’m about to throw it back with my good arm when Connor comes over and takes it. “Will you fucking be careful. I don’t need Larry coming here again because you get hurt.”
I laugh, remembering how my foster dad dragged Connor out of my hospital room by the ear. Both were on edge, and my husband is one giant asshole when he has big feelings. But Larry doesn’t put up with that shit.
Some nurses even applauded.
“How’d everything go with your grandfather?”
Connor sits on the edge of my bed, then tosses the pillow back to his bed. “Fucking annoying. He keeps trying to convince me to take over the company. And I keep telling him to fuck off.”
I take his hand in mine. “We can figure this out. You don’t have to—”
He smiles. “He’s not forcing me. I’m just the best option. But my cousin’s his new focus.”
I release a breath and sag against the headboard. “Good.”
“And all my father’s shares in Walsh International go to me.” His smile vanishes, jaw tightening as he lets out a breath. “How do you know Veronica Callahan?”
My brows furrow, head tilting. Is he serious?
“Ryan, it’s important. How do you two actually know each other?”
Oh.
I rub the back of my neck. “I don’t feel comfortable—”
“Ryan.”
“From the counseling center.” I pause, lifting my chin. “That’s all I’ll say, so don’t push.”
He stares at me for a second, then nods. “Understood.”
Thank fuck.
Veronica showed up a week after I started therapy. We had the same appointment times. It was awkward at first. More so when I noticed the bruising on her wrist. But now it's better. She brings me Sour Patch Kids sometimes.
We don't talk about why we're there. Just sports mostly.
“I have something for you.” Connor reaches into his back pocket, pulls out an envelope, and then hands it to me.
There’s a law firm listed in the top left corner.
My heart slams against my rib cage, bottom lip trembling.
No. No. No.
“Ryan?”
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut to keep the tears at bay. “You said you loved me. Why are you asking for a divorce?”
“What?” Connor grabs my chin. “Baby, open your eyes and look at me.”
I take a shaky breath and open them.
He smiles softly and holds out the letter again. “I am not divorcing you. Fuck, this was supposed to be a good surprise.”
My hands shake as I take the envelope and open it. I unfold the letter, eyes scanning the legal document.
CERTIFICATE OF NAME CHANGE Suffolk County Supreme Court
This is to certify that: Connor Michael Walsh has legally changed their name to: Connor Michael Henneman
The words blur. I blink hard, read it again.
Connor changed his name. To mine.
I swallow hard, the paper shaking in my hand as I look up at him. “You . . . you took my name?”
“You are more family to me than any Walsh ever has been.” He goes from gripping my chin to cupping my face. “I see the love your family had from the pictures you share. I see it with Larry. I want to be a Henneman, want to have a name that actually means something.”
Tears streak down my cheeks, my breath hitching in broken bursts. “You gonna stop making me cry at some point, or should I just expect it for the rest of my life?”
He shrugs.
So, I punch him in the shoulder.
That smirk appears again, then he stands and turns around.
Jesus fuck.
I let out a low groan, already getting hard.
For once in my life, I actually want to top because Connor’s wearing his Titans jersey with number eighty-six—his number—and Henneman across the back.
My name.
His new name.
He’s mine. He’s really fucking mine.
I reach into my joggers and start stroking my cock, staring at him in that jersey. What would he look like riding me reverse, his cute butt bouncing on me?
Could he even take my cock?
“Oh . . . fuck . . .”
Connor turns around. “Seriously, Ryan?”
“Don’t even. You wore that in here for a reason.”
The asshole grins. “Too bad you’re on bed—”
“Don’t. Fucking. Finish. That. Sentence.” My grip tightens around my cock as I glare at my husband. “Take it all off but the jersey.”
“Dr. Francois said—”
“She said no hockey or lifting shit.” I wiggle as I push my joggers down with one hand. It’s the most ungraceful shit. “Get your fucking clothes off, Connor. Those ugly ass socks included.”
My husband claims he wears outrageous socks to piss off his parents, like the damn atrocity on his feet right now—yellow socks with hamburgers and hot dogs, and the words “Sun’s out Buns out.”
It’s a lie.
Connor actually likes wearing those stupid socks or they would’ve all been thrown out by now.
He watches me struggle to get my pants off, that fucking smirk on his face.
I huff, narrowing my eyes. “Gonna help?”
“Oh, I thought you wanted me to get naked.” But when I shift wrong and wince, he grabs the waistband of my joggers and yanks them off. “Told you to be careful.”
“Then you should’ve helped right away.” My hand wraps around the base of my cock again and I give myself a slow stroke. “Connor, clothes off. Now.”
And like the asshole he is, he takes his sweet time stripping out of everything except his jersey and those goddamn socks. But when he lifts the hem of the jersey, exposing his cock, I can’t think of anything else but wanting him in my mouth.
Jesus fuck.
He’s so goddamn hard the vein on the underside is prominent, his balls heavy and full.
I shove my T-shirt up. Want take it off, but that means fucking with the sling. And if I wince one more time, Connor will stop this whole thing.
“Shoulder okay?” He's already grabbing the lube from my drawer and a condom from his.
“Stop fucking babying me.”
“So people can give me shit about why you fucked up your recovery?” He gets back on the bed and crawls between my legs, cock bobbing heavy between his thighs. “On your back. Don't need you getting wild and ripping your stitches.”
Heat crawls up my neck, igniting my cheeks. I love riding him, love the feel of him inside me. I spread my legs wider, my hole already clenching, my ass needing to be filled.
So much for having Connor ride me. Maybe if we get a dildo, stuff me full first. “Oh . . . fuck . . . me.”
He laughs. “What’s got you so worked up?”
I slap his knee with my good hand. “Fuck off. Just . . . get me ready.”
He pops the lube open, then slicks his fingers, the excess dripping onto my thigh. “Your hole's already twitching for it. So fucking desperate.”
The first finger circles my rim, barely pressing, just teasing. When he finally pushes in, the burn is perfect. He pulls it out slowly, then shoves it back in harder.
My hips buck, a low moan escaping before I can stop it. “More . . . Connor . . . please.”
He adds a second finger without warning. The wet squelch as he pumps them in and out fills the room.
The burn is incredible. His fingers are thick, knuckles catching on my rim with each thrust. He's stretching me open, but missing my prostate with every thrust.
“Connor, fuck me properly or get out of the way so I can do it myself.”
His eyes narrow, pupils blown so wide the hazel is almost gone. “Watch that fucking mouth.”
Each breath comes in short gasps as I writhe, trying to get his fingers where I need them. “My ass, my rules.”
“Your ass? The same one that's clenching down on my fingers like it's desperate? That's gonna milk my cock dry?” He spreads his fingers as his other hand wraps around the base of my cock, squeezing until it hurts just right. “No, Ryan. This is my ass.”