Chapter 43
forty-three
. . .
WHITNEY
By the time he comes back over me, I’m still somewhere between boneless and fully possessed.
Connor, meanwhile, looks unfairly good for a man who has just dismantled me.
His hair is a mess. His mouth is swollen. His shoulders are tight under my hands like he is one inconvenient breath away from completely losing it.
Which, honestly, is great news for me.
The foil packet flashes in his hand, and some traitorous part of my brain immediately clocks the irony.
Cool. I spent actual money on a giant box of condoms to torment him, and now I’m lying here watching him finally use one like this isn’t the most vindicating moment of my life.
Romance really is beautiful.
His gaze catches mine as he settles between my thighs, broad and warm and devastatingly humble.
“You still with me, SailorGirl?”
That nickname goes straight through me like a lit match.
“Absolutely.”
Connor’s mouth twitches.
“Good.”
Then he kisses me.
Hard enough to take over every other sensation. Hard enough that remembering my own name becomes a lost cause.
His hand slides up my thigh, slow enough that I feel every inch of it, and my breath catches. Then, he lifts his head just enough to look at me.
“That sensitive already?”
I narrow my eyes at him, which would probably be more effective if I wasn’t currently spread out under him like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make.
“Don’t be smug,” I whisper.
His smile turns dark and devastating. “Baby, I’ve earned smug.”
That should sound annoying. Instead, it sends a fresh wave of heat straight through me, which feels deeply unfair.
He shifts closer, one hand braced beside my head, the other sliding under my thigh, and the first real press of his cock makes me gasp so hard I hear it echo in the room.
Connor goes still and it’s enough to feel how hard he’s holding himself back.
His forehead drops to mine, his breathing rough.
“Whitney,” he says, voice rough. “You feel so good I can barely think.”
A startled laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.
Which is, objectively, not how I pictured reacting in this moment.
Then he moves again and I remember exactly why I’m not in charge here.
“Oh my god.”
“Yeah,” he mutters, voice shredded. “That’s about where I’m at.”
He starts slow, which sounds gentlemanly until you realize it is actually just another form of torture. Every movement is deliberate. Every shift of his body feels designed to ruin me in stages.
The man is apparently competitive in bed, too.
And why wouldn’t he be?
He’s a professional athlete with an inconvenient relationship with his own feelings. There really wasn’t another possible outcome.
My fingers dig into his shoulders, and he catches both my wrists a second later, pinning them lightly above my head while he kisses me again.
The move is so hot I briefly forget how to function as a person. Or maybe that’s just the oxygen deprivation.
Hard to say.
His mouth drags from mine to my jaw, then my throat, and I feel him smile against my skin when I make a sound I will absolutely deny making later.
“You have any idea what you look like under me right now?” he murmurs.
“Yes,” I say faintly. “Stunning. Glowy. Probably very composed.”
Connor laughs—a low, wrecked sound that doesn’t help my situation.
Then he lifts his head and actually looks at me.
Really looks.
Whatever he sees there changes his expression. It’s not softer, but more intent in a way that steals the breath right out of me.
And even worse? It’s hotter.
Like he can’t decide whether he wants to wreck me or thank me. Possibly both. And I like it.
“Dangerous,” he says, voice low. “You look dangerous.”
The words hit hard enough to wipe every clever response out of my brain.
Which is rude, because I usually have many.
After that, he gives up on slow, at least enough that the rhythm turns rougher, needier, and every bit of control he had starts coming apart in real time.
Every time I make a sound, his eyes flash like he’s storing it away for future use.
Which, frankly, feels like information he’s absolutely going to use against me.
My legs lock tighter around him, and he swears under his breath.
“That’s it,” he says, voice gone thick and rough. “Hold on to me.”
It’s a deeply unfair thing to say to a woman already hanging on by a thread. And as if I need the invitation. As if there’s any version of this where I’m not already gone for him.
His hand tightens on my waist, grounding and possessive all at once, and when he moves again, deeper, rougher, every coherent thought in my head dies instantly.
My head falls back with a broken sound.
Connor swears.
“Jesus Christ, Whitney.”
The way he says my name should probably be illegal in several states.
He lifts his head just enough to look at me, and that look alone nearly finishes the job. Wrecked. Focused. So far gone he’s barely pretending otherwise.
“You keep making that sound,” he says, voice shredded now, “and I’m done for.”
The raw honesty of it goes straight to my head.
Like I’m not already one heartbeat away from melting into the mattress and just living here now.
He brushes his mouth over mine, then my throat again, and when he says, “You’re doing so fucking well for me,” something in me completely gives.
Like, folds up shop. Leaves town. Forgets its forwarding address.
“Connor—”
“Yeah,” he mutters against my skin. “I know. We fit together perfectly.”
Then he shifts deeper and all higher reasoning leaves my body without notice.
My head falls back with a broken sound.
Connor curses.
“Whitney,” he says again, rougher now. “You keep doing that and I’m not gonna last.”
The honesty of it goes straight to my head.
Connor Fisk, the patron saint of self-control, is above me looking genuinely wrecked, and suddenly I understand every woman in the history of bad ideas.
I smooth my hand over his jaw.
“Tell me what you want,” he says.
“I want you to come on me,” I whisper.
Connor goes completely still.
Like every thought in his head just slammed into every other thought and caused a full system crash.
Then a low, ruined sound tears out of him.
“Jesus, Whitney.”
I can actually feel that in my bones.
His forehead drops to mine, and one of his hands slides up my side, over my ribs, to my chest, like he needs somewhere to put all that reaction before it kills him.
“You can’t say things like that to me,” he says, voice shredded.
A laugh slips out of me, shaky and helpless. “And yet, I just did.”
His eyes close.
That somehow makes it hotter.
When he opens them again, whatever control he had left is hanging by approximately a thread and a prayer.
“You trying to finish me off, SailorGirl?”
The nickname comes out darker this time. Rougher.
I smile, because I like him a little rough.
“Maybe.”
Connor lets out one sharp, disbelieving laugh.
Then he kisses me hard enough to steal the air from my lungs.
After that, everything blurs into heat and motion and Connor saying my name like it’s a sin he’s delighted to commit.
His hand spans my waist, then my ribs, then my breast, touching me everywhere like he can’t stop proving I’m here.
Then, he sits back, changing the angle. He’s deeper now and working a deliciously sensitive spot inside me.
“Fuck, baby, I wish you could see how perfect you look taking my cock. So slick and greedy for me.”
As he picks up his rhythm, with his fingers working my clit, the tension in my body winds tighter and tighter. Heat pools low in my belly and then just as my breath catches on a particularly delicious thrust, my orgasm detonates. Everything in my core surges outward as my pussy milks Connor’s cock.
“So damn pretty when you come, baby.”
When I’ve come down from my orgasm, he grips my hips again, shifting the angle and driving into me.
Watching his pleasure build as he takes what he needs from my body is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
And when the last thread of his control finally snaps, the look on his face is so raw it sends another pulse of heat through me all over again.
He pulls out of me, yanks off the condom and a moment later, shoots his hot cum all over my breasts.
Afterward, he stays over me, breathing hard, one hand braced beside my head, the other moving slowly up my body like he’s memorizing me for later.
His gaze drags over me, dark and dazed and reverent.
“Fuck,” he says softly.
Then, he lowers his mouth to my chest and licks through his cum before kissing me.
The saltiness of him hits my tongue and, holy shit, that should not be as hot as it is.
Connor makes a low sound against my mouth, like that did something to him, too, then pulls back just enough to look at me.
For a second, he only stares.
Dark eyes. Wrecked mouth. One hand still spread warm over my ribs like he can’t quite bring himself to let go.
“Jesus,” he says softly, almost to himself.
I smile, lazy and wrecked. “You say that a lot around me.”
His mouth twitches.
“Yeah, well.” His thumb drags once over my skin. “You’re a problem.”
I would make a joke about that, but then he glances down at me—really looks—and something in his face shifts. It’s like he realizes he made a mess of me and wants to put me back together.
He reaches for his discarded t-shirt and cleans me up with quiet, careful strokes.
“Connor,” I murmur.
His eyes lift instantly. “You okay?”
The question lands warm.
I nod. “Yeah.”
He tosses the shirt aside, pulls the comforter over me, then leans down and brushes my hair back from my face.
“You need water?”
A laugh slips out of me, soft and wrecked. “Are you trying to rehydrate me after ruining my life?”
His mouth twitches. “Yes.”
He hands me the bottle from the nightstand, waits while I drink, then settles beside me and pulls me into him like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“That wasn’t casual,” I say softly, feeling myself already drifting.
Connor’s arm tightens around me.
“No,” he says into my hair. “Not even close.”