5. Ava
Ava
L ight streams in from the window, hitting my eyes. I toss a hand over my face and nestle deeper into the warm bed.
Connor’s bed.
I shoot up into a sitting position in a panic and my pulse hammers in my throat. Clutching the blankets to my chest, I look at the clock. Ten in the morning. I can’t believe it. I haven’t slept this late or this soundly in ages.
Not since before Brooks. Not since I lost my mom.
I collect myself and take a deep breath.
Running my fingers over the silky surface of the bedspread, I imagine for just a second what it’d be like to feel Connor’s weight pressed next to me.
The rise and fall of his chest. Those huge, muscled arms wrapped around me.
His hot breath on my ear whispering promises.
My breath catches in my chest and my stomach twists.
But not from fear. From something elsethat hasn’t touched my life in a long time: desire.
The bed smelled like him, a pleasant light cologne and something more primal. On some level, that comforted me last night as I tried to rest.
“Get it together, girl.” I can’t afford any more asthma attacks. Still, I don’t want to break the magic of this moment. The feeling of safety. Like I’m finally where Brooks can’t reach me.
But I’ve already stayed too long. I lean over and bury my face in Connor’s cool down pillows, taking in the scent of him one last time before climbing reluctantly out of bed. I touch the card he’d left on the nightstand.
God, was that really just last night?
Tugging the hem of the Red Sox shirt down, I crack open the bedroom door.
Last night seems like a dream. But I clearly remember the beautiful apartment, which is more stunning in the daylight.
Dark wood, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a very manly aesthetic fill the loft.
I imagine Connor across the living room, sweaty in jeans and a T-shirt, up on a stepladder installing the track lighting.
Who doesn’t admire a man who can build things with his own hands?
The heat rises to my face as I imagine Connor’s hands, when his breathing sounds from the couch. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and black boxers. That’s it. My mouth goes dry at the sight of his broad chest rising and falling.
His face looks relaxed in sleep. A different man from the intense, driven one I’d met last night. Now, Connor has a hint of that boyish charm his smile promised.
Every part of me is drawn to him – it’s a magnetic force - though my brain screams at me to stop, I slowly cross over to the couch. With trembling fingertips, I reach out and brush a lock of his dark hair back from his forehead.
His eyes pop open, flashing momentary confusion. I gasp as he grabs my arm hard and spins me onto the couch. In one move, he’s shifted and positioned his body over mine.
Shit.
The whole thing took just a few seconds, and I’m pinned there, his hard body hovering above me. My heart races and I press my hands against his chest.
“Connor.” My voice is a tentative whisper. Why didn’t I leave when I had the chance? Why did I touch a stranger, completely unprovoked and without his permission? I practically poked a sleeping tiger, and now I’m trapped between his hard body and the soft leather of his couch.
His face immediately softens when I say his name.
“Ava. I’m sorry. I’m not used to being woken up by a beautiful woman.” He voice is thick with sleep, but he gives me a real smile. That damn dimple taunts. He doesn’t seem like he’s in a hurry to move.
“Somehow I doubt that,” I manage to squeak. There’s no way this gorgeous man doesn’t have a parade of women in and out of his life.
Is there?
“You’re the first woman that’s spent the night here,” he says quietly, his body still pressed over mine.
Our eyes meet for a second and he looks surprised at the confession. My heart still pounds. His eyes rest on my forehead like he’s suddenly working hard not to make eye contact, to collect himself.
“Did you think I was one of your bad guys?” Talking to fill the space, to lighten the mood, but honestly I don’t even know what I’m saying.
My hands move up and slide up over his strong shoulders. His muscles are steel under my hands.
His face is unreadable for a moment that seems to stretch into eternity and suddenly I’m afraid I’ve done something wrong. His mouth tightens and the tension builds in his face. I start to tremble beneath him. God, what am I doing? His startling blue eyes finally meet mine.
“Fuck,” he says, his voice even deeper.
Something shifts in that moment.
I haven’t been touched by a man in a very long time, and I’ve never been this close to a man that I find so attractive.
Brooks’s whiskey dick always kept things more chaste than he would’ve liked, though I never minded.
His touch left me cold, where suddenly I’m totally alive. I shouldn’t want to take this further.
Men are nothing but trouble for me.
Yet every instinct tells me that this man is different, and I wonder if maybe, just maybe, I can claim a little moment of joy for myself before I have to go back to my real life. Even if it’s a mistake.
His body is rigid, and he’s leaning into self-control. It feels like he’s going to shift away.
“Connor,” my voice is rough.
I arch my back in invitation, causing the hem of the shirt to rise even further.
“God,” he curses, and inches his fingers up my leg until he reaches my hip. I’m not wearing anything underneath. Not like I was prepared for an overnight... He swears as he makes this discovery, and leans down to capture my lips with his.
He kisses me gently at first and then fiercely, possessively. I open up to him, his tongue sliding into my mouth. I feel his bulge press against my growing wetness, and suddenly it’s too much. I want Connor and it scares me. A whimper escapes my throat.
He pulls away from me.
His voice is rough with desire, but there’s concern in his eyes. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Nothing’s wrong.
This moment, this man. I just want to lose myself in it. Don’t want to have to think about how I’m going to feel when I land hard back in the middle of the mess that is my life. Tracing the tattoo on his arm, I keep my eyes there. “This just isn’t what I expected.”
That huge grin spreads across his face, invoking those irresistible dimples. “Me neither, sweetheart.”
He kisses me again, more possessive and demanding this time. My body presses into him in response. He watches my face carefully as he strokes my breasts through the shirt fabric. His fingertips linger on my nipples, teasing them, and they harden under his touch.
Faintly, I become aware of a shrill beeping somewhere in the background.
“Jesus, Ava. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
He pushes himself up, and pulls me over until I’m sitting on his lap. He rests his forehead against mine for just a second, before letting me go. I blush, moving backwards until we’re no longer touching.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, wrapping my arms around my torso and casting my eyes down.
“Ava,” his voice is rough, but his touch gentle as he tips up my chin. “You have nothing to be sorry about. That’s my alarm just going off. I have a meeting in an hour.”
Those oceanic eyes are dark, and I keep my eyes on the stubble lining his rugged jaw.
Unexpectedly, I lean forward and kiss him lightly, tracing a hand along the muscles down his side toward the band on his boxers. My lips curve into a smile as he curses again under his breath. He hugs me tightly to his body for one second, before letting me go. The beeping gets louder.
“Fuck,” he growls at the alarm, releasing me. “Give me a few minutes to shower. I’ll take you home.”
Connor walks into the bathroom, and throws one last smoldering look in my direction. As he slips out of sight and the water turns on, it’s like I’ve been hit in the face with an icy splash.
Panic overtakes me as soon as the water starts. I have to get out of here, before he gets further embroiled in this mess. Or before the illusion of what this could be – of me somehow fitting into this man’s life - makes it harder to cope with reality.
Before I can think again, I rush into his room and pull on my black pants from last night. I can’t bring myself to put on my dirty shirt and underwear, so I roll them into a ball and stuff it in my bag. Grabbing a notepad embossed with a huge gold letter D on the nightstand, I scrawl him a note.
“Connor: Thank you for your help. And the shirt. I’ll wash it and get it back to you. I promise.”
For a long minute, I look at the business card and debate whether I should take it or not. Then, I stuff it into my pocket.
Tossing on my coat and grabbing my bag, I turn all the bolts to leave. The door swings open and I pause for a moment, afraid of leaving it unlocked given what Connor had said last night. Was he serious about the bad guys? Footsteps ring down the hallway, moving rapidly in my direction.
“Connor! Your lazy ass up yet?”
The tall, handsome man wears an expensive-looking charcoal business suit and he’s moving quickly, his eyes on his phone. There are familiar contours to his face, and I realize he looks like Connor. He’s one of the brothers from the picture.
As he reaches the door and looks up from his phone, his face flashes surprise. Bright blue eyes look me up and down and then scan the apartment behind me, before he steadies his expression and meets my gaze with a frank appraising stare.
Maybe Connor had been telling the truth about not bringing women to his apartment.
“Excuse me,” he says, in a not unfriendly tone. “I was looking for my brother.”
He quirks an eyebrow at me, waiting for a response.
“He’s in the shower.” That doesn’t sound less incriminating than anything else I’d offer. “Excuse me.”
Taking the opening, I move fast down hallway to the elevators, grateful that he doesn’t follow. As the doors glide closed behind me, I press against the door and squeeze my eyes shut.
What have I gotten myself into now?