Chapter Two #2
"You don't even know me," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
"I know enough." His hands continued their exploration, mapping the contours of my torso with reverent curiosity. "I know you protected me when you didn't have to."
His fingers trailed lower, reaching the waistband of my pajama bottoms, and my breath hitched. But then his path diverted, moving to my sides, and I tensed for an entirely different reason.
Connor's hands found the first of my scars—a long, jagged line that curved around my ribs from the surgeries following the accident. I waited for the revulsion, for the pitying look I'd seen too many times.
Instead, his touch became even more gentle, his fingers tracing the raised ridge of tissue with something like fascination.
"What happened?" he asked softly.
"Car accident," I answered, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. I hated discussing it, hated being defined by that single moment of twisted metal and shattered glass. "Three years ago."
He nodded, his expression solemn despite the drug-induced flush on his cheeks. "Is that why...?" His question trailed off, but his glance toward the wheelchair beside the bed completed it clearly enough.
"Yes." One syllable, carrying the weight of everything I'd lost.
I waited for the awkwardness, the stammered apologies, the hasty retreat most people made when confronted with the reality of my condition. Instead, Connor leaned forward and pressed his lips against the scar, a feather-light kiss that stole my breath.
"Thank you," he whispered against my skin.
"For what?" My voice cracked embarrassingly.
"For not being like them." His eyes flicked toward the door, indicating the people who'd been pursuing him. "For helping me. For seeing me."
Something inside me fractured at his words. How long had it been since someone had looked at me and seen just a man, not a set of limitations? How long since I'd allowed myself to be seen?
My hands tightened on his shoulders, torn between the conflicting impulses to push him away and pull him closer. Professional restraint warred with unexpected desire. Ethical concerns battled against the undeniable response of my body.
"This is a mistake," I said, though there was little conviction in my voice.
"Maybe," Connor agreed, his fingers continuing their exploration, tracing another scar that ran across my abdomen. "But it doesn't feel like one."
His touch was electric, igniting sensations I'd thought were lost to me forever. Each brush of his fingers against my skin sent sparks of pleasure radiating outward, culminating in the insistent throb of my unexpected erection. I shifted beneath him, uncomfortable with how comfortable this felt.
"You shouldn't want this," I said, gesturing vaguely to my body, to the wheelchair. "You shouldn't want—"
"You?" he finished, raising an eyebrow. Even drugged, there was a sharpness to him I hadn't expected. "Why not?"
It was a simple question with a complicated answer. Because I was damaged. Because I was broken. Because I'd spent three years rebuilding myself as something separate from desire, something that didn't need or want physical connection.
"Because you don't know what you're asking for," I said finally.
Connor's hands moved to frame my face, his touch unexpectedly tender. "I'm asking for you," he said, his words still slightly slurred but his gaze steady. "Just you."
My professional demeanor—the carefully constructed facade I presented to the world—crumbled visibly under his earnest gaze. I felt my jaw clench, my breathing become shallow and rapid, my knuckles whiten as I gripped his shoulders.
"You can't mean that," I insisted, even as something inside me yearned to believe him.
"Why?" he challenged, his thumbs stroking my cheeks. "Because I'm drugged? Or because you don't think you deserve it?"
His insight was unsettling, cutting too close to truths I preferred not to examine. My grip on his shoulders tightened further, and I felt caught in an impossible position—unable to push him away, unwilling to pull him closer, suspended in a moment of pure indecision.
Connor seemed to sense my internal struggle. He leaned forward slowly, giving me every opportunity to stop him. When his lips finally met mine, the contact was gentle—questioning rather than demanding.
The kiss was nothing like the frantic urgency I'd expected from someone under the influence of drugs. Instead, it held a tenderness that undid me more completely than passion could have. His lips moved against mine with surprising care, as if he was afraid I might break.
I'd faced down corporate raiders, hostile takeovers, and board revolts without flinching. I'd rebuilt my life after losing the use of my legs through sheer force of will. I prided myself on my self-control, my discipline, my ability to master any situation.
But in that moment, with Connor's lips on mine and his hands cradling my face with unexpected gentleness, I found myself utterly defenseless.
My hands moved from his shoulders to his back, no longer restraining but holding, supporting, drawing him closer despite every logical argument against it. The kiss deepened, and with it, my resistance crumbled entirely.
Our bodies pressed together in the dimly lit presidential suite, the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets tangling around us. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt the weight of another person against me like this—warm, solid, and insistent.
The kiss had unlocked something primal in me, something I'd convinced myself had died in that car crash three years ago. Connor's hands roamed my chest with increasing confidence, leaving trails of fire across skin that had known only clinical touches for too long.
This was madness. Complete, utter madness. And yet I couldn't bring myself to stop it.
When Connor finally broke the kiss, his eyes were glazed but determined. He sat back on my lap, his weight pressing against my now-undeniable erection, and began unbuttoning his own shirt with clumsy urgency.
"Let me help you," I said, reaching for his hands.
"No," he insisted, brushing my fingers away. "I want to do this. I want you to see me."
There was something vulnerable in the declaration that silenced any protest I might have made. I let my hands fall to my sides and watched as he fumbled with the buttons, his drug-affected coordination making the simple task a challenge.
Despite his clumsiness, there was an undeniable eroticism to his determination—to the flush spreading across his cheeks, to the intensity of his focus.
When he finally managed to open his shirt, he shrugged it off with a little shimmy that should have been comical but somehow wasn't. The lamplight caught the contours of his torso, highlighting the lean muscle of his chest and abdomen.
He wasn't bulky like the men I'd favored before my accident—he was more wiry, with the natural athleticism of youth rather than the sculpted definition of a gym devotee.
"Beautiful," I murmured, the word escaping before I could censor it.
A pleased smile curved his lips. "You think so?"
"Yes." There seemed little point in denying it now.
His hands moved to his belt next, fingers struggling with the buckle. I watched, transfixed, as he undid it with painstaking concentration, then moved on to the button of his pants.
Each inch of skin he revealed seemed to glow in the soft lamplight, flushed with both the drug in his system and growing arousal.
When he finally stood to push his pants and underwear down in one motion, I held my breath. His naked form was revealed in stages—first the narrow hips, then the strong thighs, and finally his erection, proudly jutting forward.
He kicked the clothing aside and stood before me, completely naked and seemingly unbothered by his vulnerability.
I'd seen attractive men before. I'd been with attractive men before.
But something about Connor's unselfconscious nudity, about the trust implicit in his exposure, struck me as uniquely beautiful.
Perhaps it was the contrast with my own careful guardedness, the way I'd hidden my body from desire since the accident.
"Your turn," he said, reaching for the waistband of my pajama bottoms.
I caught his wrists, a moment of panic surfacing. "Connor, wait—"
"Let me take care of you," he pleaded, his words still slightly slurred but his eyes surprisingly clear. He guided my hands to his bare hips, placing my palms against the warm skin there. "Please, Julian."
The sound of my name on his lips sent an unexpected surge of heat through me. How strange that such a small intimacy could affect me so profoundly after everything else that had already passed between us.
"You don't understand," I said, my voice rough with conflicting emotions. "My body isn't... I haven't been able to..."
"You are now," he pointed out, glancing pointedly at the visible evidence of my arousal. "Let me see all of you."
Before I could formulate another protest, Connor captured my mouth in another kiss. This one was deeper, more urgent than before. His tongue sought mine in a dance of unexpected passion that drove coherent thought from my mind.
His naked body pressed against my partially clothed form, the contrast in our states of undress adding to the eroticism of the moment.
My final resistance shattered under the assault of sensation. I surrendered to the moment, to the insistent press of his lips, to the heat of his skin under my palms.
My hands moved from his hips to explore the smooth expanse of his back, tracing the contours of his spine while he moaned softly against my lips.
The sound vibrated through me, igniting something possessive I hadn't felt in years. I pulled him closer, my arms encircling his waist as the kiss deepened further.
He responded by shifting his position, straddling my lap more deliberately so that his naked thighs bracketed mine.