Chapter 8
eight
. . .
CONNOR
The shower does nothing.
Forty minutes under hot water and I still can’t rinse the memory of Whitney sprawled on the mat out of my head. The way her breath caught when the stretch released, the way her thighs tensed under my hands, the way she tried to hide the flush creeping up her neck.
And the sounds.
Jesus. The sounds.
Real and unfiltered. The kind a guy wants to earn on purpose.
By the time I make it back to the small rental house I’m calling home, my entire body is a live wire. I toss my bag down, flip on the AC, and sit on the edge of the bed like I can negotiate with my own physiology.
Spoiler alert. I can’t.
The minute I close my eyes, it’s like my brain hits play on the world’s least helpful highlight reel.
Whitney, skin warm from the sun, hair a mess of waves, lifted onto the blocks like she’s been carved out of summer itself.
Whitney in the hallway with frosting on her nose.
Whitney spread out on that mat, breathing hard, looking up at me through her lashes like she knew exactly what it was doing to me.
My cock twitches at the memory and I swear under my breath.
I last about seven seconds before I give up pretending I’m about to meditate my way through this.
Because there’s no denying all the ways I want her.
I want her straddling my lap, nails in my shoulders, kissing me like she means it. I want her riding out every noise she bit back on that mat. I want to know how she breaks apart and what it takes to put her back together.
I shove my hand down the front of my shorts, already rock-hard, already leaking with want.
The relief of touch is immediate—hot, urgent, inevitable.
My mind goes straight back to the pool deck, to the way her hips shifted against my palms, to the ridiculous urge I had to lean down and lick the small patch of skin right below her collarbone.
She’d taste like salt and sweat and bad decisions and fuck, I’m gone.
I stroke myself slow at first, just enough to savor the ache, and then faster when the fantasy sharpens into something ravenous.
In my mind, her thighs wrap around my waist, strong and sure, grinding down, needing more, taking more.
She’s not shy in my head—Whitney isn’t built for shy.
She rides me like she swims; powerful, relentless, fucking glorious.
My breath stutters. Heat coils low. The tension snaps so fast I barely have time to curse before my cum spills over my fist.
“Fuck,” I breathe, quiet and rough, pleasure ripping through me hard enough to curl my toes and blank out my vision for a second.
I sit there catching my breath, forearm thrown over my eyes, chest lifting and falling like I just swam a 200 IM.
That’s when I hear it.
A chirp-meow.
I look up to find Pussy sitting in the doorway, tail flicking like she’s judging the entire situation.
I wipe my hand on a towel and point at her. “I can’t even get privacy in my own home.”
She hops onto the bed anyway—because of course she does—and headbutts my arm like I’m forgiven for being a degenerate.
“Yeah,” I mutter, scratching under her chin because I’m weak. “You’re the only one who doesn’t look at me like I’m radioactive.”
She purrs. Loud. Comfortable. Familiar. Then, curls up against my thigh like she owns me, and I let her, because it’s the first time in a long time something warm has chosen to stay without asking for explanations.
I sink back into the pillows, hand still tingling, body loose, brain very much not over it.
Wanting Whitney still sits in my chest, heavy and hot, but there’s a softness layered over it now. Something quieter. Something dangerously close to hope.
Which is ridiculous.
Because this isn’t just about the feud with Rory. It’s not even just the fact that she’s his sister.
It’s the fact that I already knew her voice before I knew her freckles. That I already wanted her online, in the dark, through a headset—back when she was a laugh in my ears and a streak of chaos that made everything feel easy.
Back then she wasn’t Rory Shields’ sister. She wasn’t a complication. She was just my SailorGirl.
And I was DreamBoat.
The one who teased her about living on cereal and iced coffee and owning twelve water bottles while still being dehydrated. The guy who curated a pirate themed playlist to set the soundtrack to our missions, and always called her out when she would rage-quit, then immediately re-queue.
The guy she trusted enough to meet at a coffee shop.
The guy who didn’t show up.
After I walked away, I did the only thing I could to manage the loss.
I got a tattoo.
It wasn’t because I think ink is romantic, but because I didn’t know what to do with the empty space where SailorGirl used to be. The late-night laughs. The easy connection. The version of me that showed up on a headset and then—like an idiot—didn’t show up in real life.
So, I did what I always do when I can’t fix something.
I found a controlled way to make it hurt.
I shift on the bed, and the movement tugs at my ribs—just enough to remind me it’s there. I drag my fingers lightly over the ink, skin still a little tender, like my body’s keeping receipts.
It was supposed to be a private compromise. A way to keep her close without dragging her into my mess.
And now she’s here. In Coral Cove. Training in the same facility. Walking the hallways with frosting on her face and my name in her mouth like it’s nothing.
Now she’s not just a voice in my ear.
She’s real.
Which means the tattoo doesn’t feel like a coping mechanism anymore. It feels like evidence. A confession.
But I can’t get close to her and not tell her who I am. It would only confirm I’m the kind of guy everyone thinks I am.
So I’ll keep my distance and keep my mouth shut.
But it’s not even going to be an issue, because Whitney wouldn’t choose me in the daylight. She’d take one look at my reputation and do the sensible thing.
Run.
It doesn’t matter anyways. Vivi told me to keep my head down and stay out of trouble.
And then there’s Leo who’s putting his neck on the line for me.
Instead of pretending I’m fine and letting my brain rot in silence, I scroll to his name and hit call before I can overthink it.
He answers immediately. “Please tell me this is a social call.”
I snort. “You say that like those are mutually exclusive.”
There’s a sigh on the other end—fond and long-suffering. “How’s Coral Cove?”
I glance around the pastel rental, the wicker chair judging me silently. “Sunny. Slow. There’s a cat.”
“Of course there is.”
“She’s a stray,” I add defensively. “I didn’t adopt her.”
“You never do,” he says. “They just find you.”
I scratch behind Pussy’s ear as she purrs like this is our life now. “Training’s good. Facilities are solid. The team’s tight.”
“That sounds cautiously optimistic.”
“I’m trying to assimilate,” I say. “Like a normal person.”
“That alone tells me something’s wrong.”
I roll onto my right side, lowering my voice even though I’m alone. “I need you to tell me I’m being dramatic.”
Silence.
Then, “Connor,” Leo says, calm but edged, “what happened?”
“It’s nothing,” I say quickly.
“That’s never true.”
I exhale through my nose. “I ran into someone. And it reminded me I’m still me.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I can be doing everything right,” I say, staring at the ceiling fan shadow, “and one five-minute interaction makes my brain forget every promise I made to myself.”
Leo doesn’t jump in. He waits me out, which is annoying and also why I pay him.
“She’s tied to the team,” I add.
Another beat. “How tied?”
I hesitate, because saying it out loud makes it real. “Captain’s sister.”
Leo’s silence gets heavier.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Exactly.”
“And you called because…?”
Because I want her, but there’s no way she’d want me back.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, too sharp. “The plan is distance, so I don’t complicate anything.”
Leo’s voice stays level. “And that’s what you’re going to do?”
“That’s what I want to do.”
There’s a quiet hum on the other end.
“Okay,” he says. “Tell me what you’re actually worried about.”
I drag a hand over my face. “That I won’t keep my distance,” I admit. “That I’ll start wanting—” I stop, jaw tight. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters if it pulls focus,” Leo says. “It matters if it puts you back in old patterns.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s why I’m calling you instead of pretending I’m invincible.”
A small pause. Then, “I’m proud of you,” Leo says, like it’s a normal thing to say and not a punch to the chest.
“Don’t make it weird,” I mutter.
He chuckles. “Here’s the advice you already know. You keep your head down. You train. You don’t introduce anything that complicates the dynamic while you’re finding your footing.”
“Meaning…”
“Meaning you don’t add variables you can’t control,” he says. “Not yet. Especially ones that could pull focus.”
I stare at the wall. Pussy’s tail flicks like she’s eavesdropping.
“And if I can control it?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
Leo sighs. “Connor.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“If it’s just chemistry, or chaos, or your favorite flavor of distraction,” he says, “you let it go.”
“It’s not,” I say immediately, because I’m predictable.
He chuckles. “That’s what you always say right before it is.”
I huff a laugh, rubbing my eyes. “So avoid unnecessary complications.”
“Yes,” he says. “You’re not hiding. You’re prioritizing.”
I nod even though he can’t see it. “Got it.”
The call ends. I drop the phone onto the bed and stare at the ceiling again.
The advice is solid. Sensible. Exactly what I asked for.
Avoid unnecessary complications.
Pussy hops onto my stomach like she’s volunteering to be one.
I scratch behind her ears and sigh.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “That’s the plan.”
She purrs like she knows I’m lying.