Chapter 31 #2
But that was before the night in Sweet Bay, and the heating pad.
Before I snuggled him and felt the solid warmth of his body.
Before the skills clinic where we worked with kids, and I saw a different side of him.
It was before we gamed like best friends, teasing and laughing while I wore his hoodie.
Before he brought me breakfast this morning, then spent most of the day catching my gaze like he’s checking in.
It’s like he knows everything I find attractive and he’s using it against me.
Well, I’ll show him. I mean, I won’t. I’ll just quietly take care of myself and move on.
Straddling the bolster, I hover over it and slip my fingers between my legs.
When I find my center soaked, I bite back a groan.
I lower down and rock my hips forward. It’s not the friction I want, but it’s something.
I close my eyes and it doesn’t take long before I have a full mental image of Connor lying on his back—dimples popping as he flicks his tongue out revealing that shiny metal ball.
It’s so good. So fucking—a sharp knock on the door has me springing forward off the bolster, nearly face planting on the carpet.
In a moment of panic, I throw it into the bathroom and pull on my underwear and shorts.
Looking out the peephole, I find Connor’s annoyingly well-defined chest staring back at me.
“I’m not here. Leave a message after the beep.”
“Whitney, please,” I hear him say through the door. “I need to pee.”
Throwing open the door, I find Connor shirtless and sweaty. His chest glistens like a beacon of seduction as if the universe decided I wasn’t struggling enough today.
“You have your own room.”
“I got locked out.”
“So go to the front desk and get a new key.”
“It’s an emergency.”
I want to hold strong. Tell him no. Make him do the potty dance in the hallway to verify that it is in fact an emergency. But I’d also like to get back to business, so whatever moves this along quicker.
“Ugh, whatever.”
I usher him in and he heads straight for the bathroom.
“You know, I was busy,” I call, making sure he feels uncomfortable for interrupting. Meanwhile, my clit is still buzzing from the friction of the towel-wrapped bolster.
“Doing what?” he responds, but I don’t bother answering.
I hear the toilet flush and the sink turn on. A moment later Connor comes out with the towel-wrapped bolster in his hand.
“This pillow was in your bathroom.”
“Cool. Thanks.” I snatch it from him and toss it on the bed. The towels start to unravel—which reminds me of my sanity.
He eyes me. “You okay?”
Those two words are both considerate and unnerving. Especially the way he says them, like he actually cares to hear the answer.
“You seem stressed.”
“Let me guess. The cure is telling me to relax.”
“No,” he says easily. “That usually makes it worse.”
I hate that he knows that.
He steps closer—not crowding, just close enough that I can feel his body heat and suddenly remember he’s shirtless and damp and smells like soap and sweat and something distinctly Connor.
I’m now painfully aware of how close he is. Of the heat rolling off him. Of the fact that my body is already reacting like it’s been waiting for this exact moment all day.
“Then what?” I challenge, because if I don’t say something, I might do something silly. Like sniff him.
“Depends what kind of stress we’re talking about,” he says.
I should answer. Instead, my eyes betray me.
They track the line of his collarbone lower to his ribs where that sailboat tattoo sits right over his heart.
I want to inspect it, trace it with my finger, then with my tongue.
But I move on, my eyes drop farther to where his shorts sit low on his hips, the waistband damp, clinging just enough to make it obvious he came straight from training.
His skin still has that post-workout sheen—warm, flushed, distracting in a way that should be illegal inside a hotel room with thin walls and zero impulse control.
He notices my perusal and his posture shifts almost imperceptibly. It’s like he’s bracing himself, but also present and waiting. Letting me look.
It’s actually unfair. And rude. And deeply unhelpful to my physical state.
I exhale through my nose, annoyed at myself for reacting like this, for feeling my body lean toward him when my head is screaming don’t do it.
“This,” I say finally, gesturing vaguely between us. “All of this.”
He tilts his head, calm, curious. “Meaning?”
I meet his eyes, sharp and irritated and very aware that my pulse has picked up for no good reason.
That’s it. That’s the moment my patience snaps.
“It’s you.” I point accusingly. “You’re the problem.”
I hate that he doesn’t look surprised, but intrigued.
Connor’s mouth quirks. “That’s a pretty bold accusation.”
“I have evidence,” I say. “Extensive evidence.”
He crosses his arms, still maddeningly calm. “I’m listening.”
“You show up damp and shirtless. You smell like soap and sweat and regret. You stand too close. You look at me like that.” I gesture vaguely at his face. “You’re breaking all the rules, and then you act surprised when I’m unwell.”
“Unwell,” he repeats.
“Yes. Mentally compromised.” I wave a hand toward the bed. “Physically reckless.”
His gaze flicks that way. Then back to me. Slower this time.
“So,” he says carefully, “if I’m the problem—”
“You are.”
“—is there anything I can do to fix it?”
I laugh, sharp and humorless. “You could leave.”
He doesn’t move.
“See?” I say. “Problem.”
His voice drops. “Whitney.”
“No, seriously.” I pace once, scrub my hands through my hair. “I was fine. Totally fine. Then you knocked, and now my brain is doing Olympic-level gymnastics trying to justify things it shouldn’t be justifying.”
His eyes darken. They’re not wild, or hungry, but focused, like he’s bracing.
“And what things would those be?” he asks.
I stop pacing. Look at him.
“I’m practically unhinged.”
His mouth twitches. “I like unhinged Whitney.”
I exhale, then throw my hands up. “Fine. You want unhinged?”
He straightens.
“That bolster?” I point at the bed. “I wrapped it in towels because I was humping it before you knocked.”
The silence is deafening. Also super charged like a livewire I grabbed with both hands.
Connor’s nostrils flare just slightly. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t step back.
“You were humping the pillow because…?” he asks, voice steady but lower.
“Trying to get myself off,” I say. “I didn’t bring my vibrator because I’m an idiot who wanted to prove I wouldn’t need one.”
His breathing shifts, just enough to notice.
“And that was helping?” he asks.
I see his thoughts like I’m watching a movie. He’s picturing me humping the towel-covered bolster. I’m debating between bursting into flames or melting into a puddle, but decide my annoyance with him is a better coping mechanism.
“No,” I snap. “Which is why I’m annoyed.” And horny. Can’t forget that part, unfortunately.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Sounds frustrating.”
“Oh, don’t you dare sympathize.”
“I’m not,” he says. “I’m assessing.”
I narrow my eyes. “Assessing what?”
He takes one step closer. Just close enough that my body reacts before my brain does.
“What you need.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Only if you don’t trust me.”
I laugh again, softer this time. “Yeah, we already established that I don’t.”
And I don’t. My heart is still locked down. So are my expectations and every vulnerable piece of me that knows exactly how wrecked this could leave me.
But my body?
My body is ready to give him access and deal with the consequences later.
It remembers him on his knees. How steady he was. How careful. How he paid attention like nothing else existed. How he didn’t rush, didn’t take, didn’t push past the moment. How good it felt to let go without having to believe anything beyond what was happening right then.
I trust that version of him, which is deeply inconvenient.
His gaze dips, lingers, then drags back up.
“You want to get off,” he says calmly. “And I’ve been dying to taste you again.”
My pulse stutters, traitorous and loud.
Dying to taste you again.
That’s all my brain hears. Which is annoying because I shouldn’t care what he wants.
Part of me wants to deny him on principle, but the other part of me is screaming out “remember the tongue ring?!”
That part is far louder.
“It’s that simple?” I ask.
“I’m not asking for anything else,” he adds quietly.
I swallow, and process his words.
Then, rules snap into place in my head, fast and clean.
Physical only.
No forgiveness.
And definitely no feelings.
I need this to be something I can control, and walk away from.
I meet his eyes. “If this happens,” I say carefully, “it’s just orgasms. That’s it.”
His jaw tightens. “Understood.”
The air hums between us, tight and charged, and one bad decision away from chaos.
It’s intoxicating.
His gaze flicks past me, landing on the bed—on the towel-wrapped bolster sitting there.
He steps around me, grabs it, and tosses it onto the chair like it’s nothing. Like it’s not needed anymore.
My breath catches.
He turns back to me, closing the space between us in two slow steps, his focus locking in like he’s made a decision he’s not taking back.
Then he looks at me—really looks—and whatever he’s holding back finally snaps.
“Come on, Whitney,” he says, voice rough. “I want you to fuck my face.”