Chapter 33
thirty-three
. . .
WHITNEY
Dinner is a blur.
I nod when I’m supposed to nod, laugh when it feels expected, answer questions I don’t fully hear.
Tate’s talking, Venita’s asking about tomorrow’s schedule, someone mentions travel times.
None of it registers, because Connor’s sitting across from me, and every time he brings his fork to his mouth, my brain implodes.
It’s not the fork or the pasta dangling from it. It’s his mouth.
Those lips. That tongue. Moving like it wasn’t buried between my thighs a few hours ago.
I take a sip of water and immediately regret it when he looks up and catches me staring.
No smirk. No teasing. Just that steady look that says he knows exactly where my head is.
I want you to fuck my face.
And even worse, he remembers it, too.
Like it’s sitting there between us, untouched but very much not forgotten.
I drop my gaze, heat crawling up my neck.
I’m sitting here watching his mouth like it’s a problem I created and now have to live with.
Someone asks me a question, and I answer it on autopilot.
Connor says something across the table—low and easy—and my entire body reacts before my brain can catch up.
This is ridiculous. I shouldn’t be this affected. And I definitely shouldn’t be wondering how it would feel for him to press inside me.
I reach for my water again just to have something to do with my hands, but it doesn’t help.
Nothing helps.
The orgasm was supposed to take the edge off, unfortunately for me, it only sharpened it.
I can’t sleep. Which isn’t really a surprise since all I’ve thought about since dinner is Connor. And his mouth.
The way it looks when he’s trying to be calm, like he’s doesn’t realize he’s capable of wrecking my entire nervous system with a single thoughtful sentence and one infuriatingly steady look.
And let’s not forget the way he used it so expertly earlier when he made me come.
I had no idea Connor’s mouth was so versatile, or so dangerous.
I’m barefoot in the hallway before my brain catches up with my body, my robe tied tight, hair a mess, and walking like I have a reason to be here besides the fact that I’m allergic to lying awake in a hotel bed thinking about a man who shouldn’t be my problem.
The pool deck is dim, lit in that soft blue way that makes everything feel like a secret.
I step closer to the gate.
Water doesn’t judge you. Water doesn’t ask you if you’re being silly and overdramatic. Water just exists.
I let out a deep exhale.
“Couldn’t sleep?” A deep voice behind me makes my soul leave my body.
“Jesus, Connor.” I clamp a hand over my heart. “What are you doing here?”
“Meditating.”
I glance over, taking him in. He’s changed into shorts and a t-shirt, casual from the button-down and slacks he wore to dinner, but no less devastating.
“Meditating,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
He stares back with an expression that is so deadpan it should be illegal.
Of course he’s here. The one place I come to not think about him is exactly where he is.
The universe is just sitting back eating popcorn and enjoying the show.
Okay, challenge accepted. I can totally stand here and have a normal conversation and not once think about his mouth. Or his thick cock.
His dark eyes dip, slow, scanning the length of my robe like he’s taking inventory and trying very hard not to think about what’s underneath it.
Probably shouldn’t mention there’s nothing.
“And you?” he asks.
“I’m—” I inhale. “Not sleeping.”
“Same.”
We stand there for a second like two normal adults who simply enjoy water and serenity and absolutely not the fact that we’re alone near an empty pool at midnight.
Then he gestures toward the gate with his chin.
“The pool’s closed.”
He says it like he’s announcing a weather forecast.
I glance to where he’s pointing.
The sign is obnoxiously clear: NO SWIMMING AFTER 10PM.
“I wasn’t going to swim,” I say quickly. “Sometimes when I’m stressed, I like to stare at the water. It’s calming.”
His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.
“Same.”
I nearly laugh, because of course he’s the same brand of weirdo.
I cross my arms. “Also, I don’t have a swimsuit on.”
His gaze flicks to my robe again. His jaw flexes once, like his brain just reminded him he has to be a responsible human.
“Okay,” he says, voice a shade rougher than it should be. “Then we don’t swim.”
“Right,” I agree immediately. “Definitely not.”
We both look at the water, and the water looks back at us with a sparkly, mischievous invitation.
I tilt my head. “We could just put our feet in.”
His eyes narrow like he can see exactly where my chaos is headed.
“Whitney.”
“What?” I say innocently. “Feet in a pool isn’t swimming. Just feet is dipping. A dip is different. Dips are basically self-care.”
He exhales through his nose, like my appearance has suddenly resolved his sleeplessness and now he’s ready to crash. I wish I felt the same.
He takes a slow step toward the gate, then stops, like he’s arguing with himself.
“Feet only,” he says finally.
“Only feet,” I promise, which is a lie and not even a good one. It’s a beginner’s lie. A liar’s warm-up.
Connor climbs over the black iron fence, then reaches a hand to help me over.
I tuck the robe between my legs, doing my best not to flash the bushes, and let him guide me over the top of the fence.
His hands are solid and warm on my waist, just like they were hours ago when I hovered over his mouth, his tongue licking into my center.
The memory sends a surge of heat
Once we’re both over, he drops his hands from my waist, and I follow him closer to the pool’s edge.
The air is cooler out here, a little damp, a little electric. The water glows under the lights and the whole place feels like it belongs to us.
He sits on the edge and slips his feet into the pool.
I do the same, pressing my toes into the water.
It’s refreshing against my warm skin.
“Oh,” I whisper. “That’s so nice.”
Connor’s mouth tilts. “You sure you don’t want to swim?”
I whip my head toward him. “Are you trying to get us arrested?”
Connor’s eyes go lazy and dark. “You’re the one who came out here.”
“I came to stare at the water,” I say. “Like a normal stressed person.”
He leans back on his hands, shoulders relaxed, looking maddeningly comfortable.
“You’re stressed a lot,” he says.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “It’s my brand.”
We sit in silence for a beat, just water sounds and the soft hum of the lights surrounding us.
Then Connor says, quiet, like he can’t help it, “You okay?”
It shouldn’t hit the way it does.
It’s two simple words.
But they make something in my chest loosen.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Totally fine.”
Connor turns his head to look at me. “That didn’t sound fine.”
I glare at him. “I’m fine. I’m just…awake. And irritated.”
His brows lift. “At what?”
“At you,” I blurt, because honesty is easier than admitting I’m irritated at myself.
Connor goes still.
His voice is low. “Me.”
I shrug like my throat isn’t suddenly tight. “Your face. Your thoughtful answers. Your entire existence. Oh, and not to mention that little face sitting session earlier didn’t do the trick.”
“But you came. I tasted you on my tongue.”
“Jesus, Connor. Not helpful.” I sigh. “Yes, I had an orgasm, but it didn’t solve anything. It only made it worse.”
Connor studies me, expression unreadable but present. Then his eyes drop to the water again, like he’s choosing restraint over everything else.
“And now you’re out here trying to clear your head.”
“Or find another distraction,” I quip. Because that might be exactly what I need right now. Something to take the edge off that isn’t going to pull me in deeper. Just a fun moment that I can laugh about later.
“Whitney,” he says softly, warning in his voice, like he’s already anticipating my chaos.
I take a slow breath and glance at the pool. The water glitters like a silent dare.
I glance back at Connor and smile.
It’s not sweet or innocent, but with Captain Chaos energy.
When I stand, Connor’s eyes narrow. His head tips back slightly, tracking me.
I untie my robe and his entire body freezes.
His voice goes even lower. “Whitney, we said only feet.”
I slide the robe off my shoulders and hold it in my hands like I’m at a photo shoot and this is completely normal behavior.
“I lied,” I whisper, and then I jump.
The cold hits like a slap and I yelp, splashing like a maniac.
Connor’s laugh is low and surprised, like he didn’t expect me to be this chaotic.
“You’re insane,” he calls.
I tread water, teeth chattering. “Say it like a compliment!”
Connor exhales, then stands.
I’m certain he’s going to leave me here. Naked and floating after hours in the resort pool like the chaos gremlin I am. But one more look in my direction, and his hands go to the hem of his shirt.
“Oh,” I say, suddenly very interested in staying afloat. “We’re doing this.”
Connor’s eyes lock on mine, warning and heat tangled together.
“This is your fault,” he says.
“I know,” I whisper, delighted.
He pulls his shirt off and discards it on top of my robe.
Connor’s chest and stomach are their usual chiseled perfection. I enjoy them, really. But they’re also old news. I’ve seen him shirtless countless times now. There’s something else I want to see more of.
His hands reach for the waistband of his shorts, and with our eyes locked, he pulls them down his legs.
Holy shit. Connor’s dick is thick and heavy and way too nice to be seeing for the first time while I’m treading water.
Did I mention it’s really hard to squeeze your thighs together while you’re treading water?
Then—like he’s committing a felony—he dives in.
He hits the water clean and impressively quiet. When he resurfaces, he shakes his hair back, eyes on me.
I float there, breath caught, trying to pretend this is casual and not the most dangerous thing I’ve done in months.
“Happy?” he asks.
“Thrilled,” I whisper.
His gaze drops to my face, then flicks away again like he’s making himself behave.