Chapter 26
Jaxon
Holy fucking fuck. Conor just gave me the best orgasm of my life.
Nothing about it felt like anything I had experienced before.
Not the way he touched me. Not the way he paid attention to every sound I made, like he wanted to memorize them.
Not the way he handled me so carefully, like my pleasure actually mattered to him.
Every gentle touch had felt like fire moving beneath my skin, burning through me until I thought I might come apart completely. And somehow the aftermath is even more. Because after… Conor doesn’t pull away.
He takes his time holding me against him, his hands moving slowly over my skin while the room settles into quiet around us. There is no pressure, no awkwardness, just warmth. Steady and consuming. The silence between us says more than words possibly could.
Eventually, Conor disappears into the ensuite before returning a moment later with a warm cloth.
The care he takes while cleaning me up nearly undoes me all over again.
His movements are gentle. Unhurried. Like this isn’t a chore or an obligation.
Like taking care of me is something he genuinely wants to do.
I can’t stop staring at him while he moves around the bed.
At the hard lines of muscle shifting beneath his skin with every motion.
At the quiet focus in his expression, the slight furrow between his brows as he concentrates entirely on me.
No one has ever looked at me like this before.
Like I’m something worth handling carefully.
He comes back to the bed after tossing the washcloth into the hamper and immediately leans over me again. The gentle kiss he places against my forehead feels strangely more intimate than everything else we just did.
“It’s after eight,” he says softly. “Do you want to get a little more sleep while I make breakfast?”
My throat tightens instantly. Not from injury this time, but from emotion. Because no one has ever cared for me like this before. Not after. Not without expecting something in return.
I stare up at him for a second too long, trying to force words past everything lodged in my chest. Conor notices. His hand slides along my jaw gently, his thumb brushing once across my cheek like he’s grounding me without making a big deal out of it.
“Did I hurt you?” The concern in Conor’s voice makes my chest ache. “Did you not want me touching you?”
“I…”
The word catches behind the lump in my throat, forcing me to swallow before I can try again. “You didn’t hurt me,” I say quietly. “And I wanted it. I wanted you to touch me.”
Some of the tension leaves his face, but his eyes stay fixed on mine.
“Then what’s wrong, A Chroí?”
I shake my head because the truth is, I don’t fully know. Everything inside me feels tangled together. Fear. Relief. Want. Panic.
“I’m just…” I let out a shaky breath. “I’m overwhelmed right now.” His hand slides slowly over my side, patient and grounding. “My life is a fucking mess, and then you show up.”
I search his eyes desperately, needing him to understand something I can barely explain to myself.
“I don’t know what this is between us,” I admit softly. “I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
Something flashes across Conor’s face. He shifts on the bed until we’re lying face-to-face. One hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing slowly across my skin.
“Do you think I’m not being genuine with you?” he asks quietly.
The question punches me right in the chest. Because that’s not it at all, if anything, that’s the problem. He feels too genuine.
“No,” I whisper immediately. His eyes search mine, waiting for more. “I think you’re being genuine.” I swallow hard. “I think that’s what’s scaring me.” Confusion flickers across his face.
“How does that scare you?”
I let out a humorless laugh, “Because people like you don’t just show up in my life, Conor.” The words hurt to admit. “People don’t stay. They don’t take care of me. They don’t look at me the way you do.” My throat tightens again. “I don’t know what to do with any of this.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Jaxon. And neither are you.” His hand tightens slightly against my cheek, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep my attention on him. “I don’t know if I have the right words to make you understand.”
His gaze searches mine, steady and unwavering. “But I want to take care of you. I want you here with me.” Then he leans forward and kisses me softly.
There’s nothing demanding about it, nothing rushed. This gentle kiss does more damage to the walls I’ve spent years building than anything else ever could. When he pulls back, his forehead settles against mine.
“To be honest with you,” he says quietly, “this is new for me too.” A small laugh escapes him, but there’s no humor in it. His thumb brushes my cheek once. “Because I don’t want to screw this up.”
There are things he needs to know. Things that could change everything. The words sit heavy in my chest, pressing against my ribs like they’re trying to claw their way out. I should tell him. I should tell him now, before this gets any deeper. Before he gets more attached. Before I do.
But every time I try, the words refuse to come. Conor says he doesn’t want to screw this up. A bitter laugh echoes through my head because when this falls apart, it won’t be him who does it. It’ll be me.
The weight of that knowledge settles over me, cold and familiar. I should tell him the truth. I know I should. But lying here with his forehead pressed against mine, his hand still cradling my face like I’m something precious… I can’t make myself do it.
Maybe that makes me selfish. Maybe it makes me a coward. But for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel safe, wanted, and seen.
Is it really so terrible to want to stay in this little bubble he’s built around me for just a little while longer? To pretend that my past isn’t waiting outside of it? To pretend that I deserve this? Even if it’s just for a little while.
I decide to change the subject before I lose my nerve completely. “What did you call me before?”
Conor’s brow furrows for a second. “A Chroí?”
I nod. “Yeah. What does it mean?”
A small smile tugs at his mouth. “It’s Irish.” His thumb brushes across my cheek again, like he can’t seem to stop touching me. “It’s a term of endearment.”
I wait for him to continue. When he does, his voice is quieter. “It means my heart.”
My breath catches. Of all the things I expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them.
“Your heart?” I repeat.
The smile on his face softens. “Yeah.” His gaze never leaves mine. “My heart.”
Something warm and terrifying unfurls in my chest. No one has ever called me something like that before. No one has ever looked at me like they meant it either.
I search his face for any sign that he’s teasing me. Any hint of a smirk. Any crack in his expression that will tell me this is all a joke, that I’ve misunderstood, that I’ve let myself believe something I shouldn’t have.
But I don’t find it. Not even a little. There’s no amusement in his eyes. No pity. No deception. Just that same unwavering certainty that’s been there since the day he walked up to me at the warehouse.
Like calling me A Chroí is the most natural thing in the world. Like he doesn’t understand why I would question it in the first place. The realization settles heavily in my chest. He means it.
God help me, he actually means it.