Chapter 20
twenty
. . .
CONNOR
Do it on your knees, DreamBoat.
As Whitney’s words replay in my head, I know I’ll do anything she says.
My knees hit the floor.
Whitney doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t second-guess. She just looks down at me—steady, furious, turned on, and in control—and for the first time in a long time I don’t feel the urge to fight for the upper hand.
I tilt my head back to see her face. She’s breathing hard. Jaw tight. Eyes narrowed. Every inch of her says she hasn’t decided whether she wants to kiss me or kill me.
Honestly? I’d take either.
“I’m sorry, SailorGirl,” I whisper, and my voice comes out low and rough like it dragged itself across gravel to get to her.
“Prove it.”
Fuck.
She doesn’t say it sweetly. She says it like a command. Like penance has a physical form and she wants to feel it.
I can see her pulse fluttering against her neck. The way her eyes are sharp, but heated.
She wants me to touch her.
Does she know this isn’t punishment? That I’d be on my knees for her every day if she let me?
My hands slide over her hips, then under her dress, thumbs tracing the toned muscle at her pelvis, worshipping before I even get my mouth on her.
My fingers slide up the insides of her thighs—slow, reverent, greedier than I should be. I’m already half gone and all I’ve done so far is touch her like she’s a miracle.
I kiss the inside of her knee first. Then higher. And higher.
Her hips jerk when I brush my mouth over the crease of her thigh and she gasps, fingers sliding into my hair. I look up at her from between her legs and the hunger there damn near undoes me.
She’s warm through the cotton and I press my mouth there, breathing her in, letting her know exactly where I’m headed.
“You’re shaking,” I murmur.
She tries to glare at me. It falls apart when my tongue drags along the damp seam of her underwear. I breathe her in slow, filthy, deliberate.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “You smell so good.”
My fingers hook into the waistband of her underwear, and I ease them down carefully, like I know exactly how lucky I am to be here.
Her dress parts easily at the side slit, and when I guide her leg over my shoulder, she goes with me—tense, breathless, exposed in a way that hits me so hard I have to steady myself before I put my mouth on her again.
And when I do, I’m done for.
I lick her slow at first. One long, deliberate pass that isn’t polite, just pure hunger and intention. It’s just me taking my time with something I’ve wanted for too long. The sound she makes is thin and wrecked and goes straight to my cock.
“You taste even better than I thought you would,” I breathe against her, mouth already wet with her. “Like trouble. Like salt. Like you were made for my fucking mouth.”
Her fingers tighten in my hair hard enough to sting. Good. I deserve that.
I lick through her slit again, making sure she feels every inch of it, every drag of my tongue, every filthy second I spend between her thighs like I belong there.
“Sweet and salty and so fucking wet for me,” I say, voice rough. “You have any idea what that does to me?”
She gasps when I flatten my tongue and hold it there, and I could lose my mind from that sound alone.
I slide two fingers inside her, slow at first, because I want to feel the way she takes me. The way she tightens. The way her body gives and then grips like it’s trying to keep me there.
Her hips jerk, and I curl my fingers deeper, finding the spot that makes her whole body react.
“Jesus Christ,” I exhale, fingers buried deep. “You’re so tight I could lose my mind in you.”
I fuck her slowly with my fingers while sucking her clit with intent. It’s not polite or very apologetic.
Her thighs clamp around my head and instead of pulling back, I dig deeper, tongue pressing harder, fingers curling like I’m dialing in her undoing.
“Use me,” I rasp. “Ride my face. Take what you need.”
Her surprise breaks into a moan, and then she does exactly that—grinding down against my mouth, chasing what she needs with this desperate, gorgeous rhythm that has me groaning into her. I grip her hips harder, holding her steady while I work her through it.
“That’s it,” I rasp. “Just like that. Fuck my mouth. Let me have it.”
Her thighs tighten around my head. Her hand yanks my hair. Her whole body locks up for one perfect second before she comes apart with a broken, helpless sound that goes straight through me.
But I don’t stop.
I keep licking her through it, softer now, slower, letting her shake it out while my fingers draw out every last pulse.
By the time she starts coming down, I’m so hard it’s painful.
I lift my head, mouth wet with her, breathing like I’ve just been underwater too long.
Then I drag my thumb across my lower lip and suck it clean, because there’s no universe where I’m wasting the taste of her.
“Am I forgiven?” I ask, voice hoarse and filthy and nowhere near as steady as I want it to be.
She doesn’t even pretend to consider it.
“No.”
She drops her leg from my shoulder and adjusts her dress before throwing the door open and slamming it behind her.
A fresh shot of heat punches through my stomach. Not humiliation—need. Because the only thing hotter than having her is watching her hold strong and deny me easy forgiveness.
I want everything from her—the anger, the desire, the challenge, the resistance. I’d take it all.
I’d worship all of it.
I’m certain by the way her eyes flared with hurt and anger, I’ve fucked up my chance.
But, if the past has taught me anything, I have to try to fix it.