Chapter Seventeen
Connor
S ierra stood in the center of my penthouse living room, a vision in one of my oversized hoodies, the sleeves swallowing her hands and the hem falling to her knees. She clutched index cards in her hands, the paper trembling slightly as she practiced her speech for tomorrow's library donor event.
The afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, warming the dark curls around her delicate face. I couldn't stop staring. Sierra looked like a fucking queen standing against the backdrop of the city skyline, my sweet girl, in my space, surrounded by my things.
“You're going to do fine," I said, sinking deeper into the leather couch as I watched her pace. Toffee was asleep beside me, undoubtedly full of his organic, fresh pet breakfast.
“They're just a bunch of rich assholes looking for tax write-offs. You could recite a nursery rhyme, and they'd still throw money at the library.” I paused, then added, “Only because you’re so fucking cute.”
I enjoyed the flush that crept up her neck at my true words. Sierra was still so easily flustered by my language, though she was slowly getting used to it. That blush drove me wild. I wanted to trace its path with my tongue and follow it down beneath the hoodie to taste her skin.
She shot me a little glare that instantly made me hard. “They’re funding the children's literacy program, Connor. And Mr. Jones specifically asked me to speak because I’m apparently ‘relatable.’”
She inhaled deeply, using the breathing technique she used when anxiety crawled up her spine. I knew the rhythm and could feel it in my own lungs now.
“I've never spoken in front of donors before. What if I throw up?”
I rose from the couch, crossing the distance between us in three long strides. Her breath hitched as I towered over her, and I didn't miss how her pupils dilated slightly. Sierra would never get used to my size, to the way I engulf her with just my presence.
I took the index cards from her trembling fingers and set them on the coffee table before cupping her face in my hands. Her skin was so fucking soft, like velvet against my calloused palms.
“You won't throw up,” I murmured, leaning down to brush my lips against hers. “But even if you did, who gives a shit? They’re still fucking lucky to be getting to look at you.”
She melted into my kiss, her hands finding purchase on my chest. I could feel her heartbeat flutter against my fingertips when I stroked the soft skin at her throat. I pulled back, and her eyes remained closed for a moment, lips slightly parted.
Fuck, she was beautiful. And all mine. The possessiveness that washed through me whenever I looked at her, often still caught me off guard. This overwhelming need to shelter her, protect her, consume her.
“Now,” I said, retrieving her index cards and pressing them back into her hands, “Try again. I'll be your audience.”
I returned to the couch with Toffee, positively manspreading with my arms across the backrest, my legs spread wide as I watched her. “Pretend I'm some geriatric fuck with too much money and not enough sense. ”
Sierra rolled her eyes, but a small smile played at the corners of her mouth. She cleared her throat, straightened her spine, and began.
“Good evening, distinguished guests, and generous supporters of the Sunset Public Library. My name is Sierra Willows, and I serve as the assistant manager.”
I nodded encouragingly, watching how she unconsciously folded the corners of her index cards. It was another anxious movement to catalog, along with the dozens of other little movements that made up my Sierra.
“As many of you know, our library serves as a vital resource for children of all backgrounds,” she continued, her voice growing stronger. “Last year alone, we welcomed over fifteen thousand young readers through our doors.”
Her voice grew more confident as she spoke about the things she was passionate about, and fuck if that didn’t turn me on even more. My sweet Sierra, brilliant, beautiful, and completely unaware of her own power.
“That's my girl.” Pride swelled in my chest. She was growing more confident with each word, her shoulders relaxing, and her gestures becoming more natural. I crooked my finger at her from the couch, beckoning her closer.
“Come here."
She hesitated, glancing down at her cards and nibbling that lip again.
"Connor, I need to practice.”
“You are practicing,” I countered, patting my thigh. "Practice walking while you talk. Those rich fucks won't be sitting like statues, they'll be mingling, drinking overpriced champagne. You need to be comfortable moving through the crowd.”
I was just spewing bullshit to get her to come over to me.
Sierra approached cautiously, standing before me with her index cards clutched to her chest. I reached out, hooking my fingers through the pockets of the hoodie and gently tugging her between my spread knees.
Her breath caught as I looked up at her, my hands sliding around to cup her ass through the cotton.
“Keep going,” I urged, my voice dropping an octave. “Something about books making kids smarter.”
She swallowed hard, her cheeks flushing that deep, delicious pink I couldn't get enough of.
“Um... through our summer reading initiative, we've seen a thirty percent increase in participation, with many children exceeding their reading goals.”
Her voice wavered as I squeezed her ass, pulling her incrementally closer to the edge of the leather couch where I sat.
“This program has been particularly successful in reaching underserved communities—oh!”
I rewarded her by sliding my hands up beneath the hoodie, tracing the warm skin of her back with my fingertips. She shivered but continued speaking, her voice only faltering slightly.
“Your generous donations have allowed us to expand our collection of diverse literature, ensuring every child who walks through our doors sees themselves represented on our shelves.”
“That’s good,” I murmured, lowering my head to press my lips between the swell of her breasts. “You’re doing great, sweet girl. Keep going.”
“Connor,” she gasped, her free hand flying to my hair, fingers tangling in the strands. “I'm supposed to be practicing.”
I looked up at her, gently kneading both her breasts. “You are practicing,” I countered against her sternum. “Consider this advanced training.”
Sierra's laugh was breathless, halfway to a moan. “I'm pretty sure no one at the donor event will be doing... this.”
“They fucking better not,” I growled, suddenly serious as I pulled back to look at her.
The thought of anyone else touching her, even looking at her for too long, made me fucking murderous. My hands tightened possessively over her breasts .
“Don’t say anything like that again. Now, keep going with your speech, sweet girl. I want to hear what else you wrote.”
She steadied herself, one hand still in my hair, the other holding her index cards at an awkward angle so she could read them.
“I... I would like to share a quote from my favorite childhood book, 'The Simple Sheep,' ” she managed, her voice shaky.
“'Real isn't how you are made. 'It's something you become when a child loves you. Not just to play with, but to cry on, then you become Real.'”
I felt something clench in my chest at the words, at the way her voice softened when she recited them.
I'd never been one for books, never had the patience or the interest, but hearing the lines from her lips made me want to understand why they mattered to her.
I wanted to know everything about her, consume every detail until there was nothing left of Sierra that wasn't also a part of me.
“My sweet girl,” I coaxed, pulling her down onto my lap. She settled with her knees on either side of my thighs, straddling me, her index cards still clutched in one hand. I took her face between my palms, staring into those brown eyes I could drown in.
"Tell me more about the sheep.”
A small, surprised smile curved her lips. “You want to hear about my favorite childhood book?”
“I want to hear about everything you love,” I replied honestly, my rough thumbs stroking her soft cheekbones. I was already planning a big book haul for her, but some surprises were worth keeping.
“Tell me why it matters to you."
Sierra's expression softened and she set her index cards aside to rest her hands on my broad shoulders. "It's about becoming real through being loved,” she said quietly. “About how love can transform you, even if the process is painful sometimes."
She bit her lip, suddenly shy. "I used to read it over and over as a kid, imagining what it would be like to be loved that way. To be real.”
The vulnerability in her admission hit me hard. I knew what it felt like to be alone, and I knew what her childhood had been like. I’d read her journal entries, seen the scars that bastard had left on her soul .
The thought of her as a little girl, clinging to a story about being loved enough to become real, made my gut twist darkly.
I’d do anything to make sure she never felt unloved again.
“You are real,” I said fiercely, one hand sliding into her hair to cradle the back of her head. “And you are loved.”
I didn't say the words often, I’ve never said them to anyone before her, but she needed to hear them now.
She needed to understand that what we had wasn't just possession or obsession, though I undeniably also felt those things for her.
It was something more, something I'd never believed existed until she stumbled into my life with her cardigans, books, and quiet strength.
Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and she leaned forward to press her forehead against mine. “You love me?" she whispered, her breath warm against my lips.
I answered her with a kiss that was at once tender and consuming, my hands sliding up to tangle in her hair, holding her to me.
When we parted, her lips were swollen, and her cheeks flushed. I traced the curve of her jaw with my thumb, memorizing the texture of her skin for the thousandth time.