Chapter 10
Connor Pen
Her fierce expression arrows down my spine and throbs in my balls. My cock jerks in my trousers despite the pain radiating throughout my chest and torso.
“Are you sick?” she demands.
“No, I’m not sick,” I respond.
She lifts an unimpressed brow and gives me an insulting once-over.
My cock doesn’t care about her feigned disgust. He wants inside her. He wants her angry. He wants her gasping and writhing. He wants her no matter how she looks at him.
“Then you must be hurt,” she scolds.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“Prove it,” she snaps.
Her concern only heightens my lust.
“Have I not already?” I quip with a head tilt toward the door.
My chest tightens. A wet mass constricts my airway. I snag another tissue with my other hand and cough up another wad of bloody spit.
I’ve had worse, but this signals a flare up of an old injury. Uncle Levi knows my weaknesses just as well as Uncle Ronan does, so of course I’ll be spitting blood for a few days.
Hilary rolls her eyes and points at the tissues.
“No, you haven’t proven anything. I’m taking you to the hospital,” she declares.
I drop the tissues onto the table, pull her close, and splay my hands over her lower back to pin our bodies together.
She fits so perfectly against me the juncture of her thighs and lower belly cradles my cock while her breasts flatten against the hard planes of my chest. I only have to dip my head the slightest bit to brush my nose against hers.
“Are you worried about me, my warrior queen?”
She tilts her face to the side, avoiding my kiss, and eyes me through her lashes.
“Duh. I can’t marry a dead man. Will I even get my first million if you kick the bucket right after we sign?” she taunts.
“If this,” I grind my hardness into her softness, “isn’t enough, then how do I prove I’m fine?”
“A trip to the hospital,” she deadpans.
I can’t resist the temptation. She’s in my arms. I need more.
With one hand on her lower back, I skim the other up to support her head and nuzzle the side of her face.
“I don’t have time for the hospital,” I whisper into her ear.
She flattens her palms on my sides but doesn’t push.
“You do if—”
“I’m not going, Hilary.”
For a moment, all I hear in my voice is the lost, scared, and hurt little boy who woke up alone in a sea of strangers at a crappy emergency room after watching my mother die.
My lust morphs into a need for comfort, and I bar my arm around her back and drop my face into the crook of her neck and shoulder.
Breathing in her raspberry and vanilla scent calms my nerves and weakens my memories.
She stiffens. Uncertainty wafts from her as she senses the change in me. After a few moments, she relaxes and softens her stance.
“Take off your shirt,” she demands.
I smile against her shoulder.
“Are you trying to take advantage of me, my gladiator goddess?”
She huffs and pushes against my sides. I grunt in pain.
“No, I’m trying to see how black and blue you are under the suit. Take it off.”
I tighten my hold on her and burrow deeper into her neck. She sighs.
“What are you doing?” she demands.
My groan as she wriggles carries both pain and pleasure.
“Get off me so we can move to your office.”
“Whatever you say, my warrior queen,” I murmur into her neck. Goosebumps rise on her flesh. I can’t force myself to let go.
Her presence soothes me to my wretched soul. She’s the only one besides my mother who has ever comforted me. Holding her like this is the first time I’ve felt even a modicum of relief since she saved me so many years ago.
“Mr. Pen,” she scolds.
I growl and steal a lick of her throat.
“Connor,” she snarls.
Even angry, her voice is mesmerizing.
I take one last inhale, squeeze her to me, and brush my lips against her skin before lifting my head and dropping my arms.
Another coughing fit hits me, but the phlegm barely holds a hint of pink.
She grabs the folder, opens the door, and stands in easy view of the busy hallway as she waits for me to recover. Refusing to leave the bloody mess in a conference room trash can, I bundle it inside a clean tissue and close my fist around it before striding past her.
Like it’s any other Tuesday, she trails behind me and returns the greetings aimed our way.
No one bats an eye when she enters my office and closes the door behind her.
She pushes ahead of me, gestures to the couch, and tosses the folder onto my desk.
I sit in the center of the couch. She crosses her arms over her chest and leans her butt on the edge of my desk.
I quirk a brow.
“I’m not helping you. Unless you had a sweet little side piece get you dressed this morning, you can take your shirt off yourself,” she challenges.
I growl my disappointment, stand, and strip my upper half.
When her appreciation morphs to horror, I give a stilted sigh and settle back down on the couch. She glides toward me in true goddess fashion.
“Fucking hell, Connor. Were you in a car accident or gang fight or something?”
My chuckle hurts.
“No,” I wince.
She sits on the coffee table facing me with her legs beside mine.
“Then what the hell happened?”
“Let’s call it a family dispute,” I mumble.
“The Koch’s did this?”
Fuck, her quick wit may be the death of me. In four words, she highlights how fucked up my life is.
“No, the family I chose,” I say.
She sighs, rubs her forehead, and complains under her breath, “And he has the audacity to question my decisions,” before lifting her gaze and pinning me in place with her deep brown eyes. “I can’t treat internal bleeding. You’re going to the hospital.”
“It’s just an old injury flaring up. I’ll—”
“I can’t marry you if you’re dead. Shut up. We’re going.”
Happy to be on the receiving end of her care, I don’t move as she takes control.
She rises and dials three numbers on her cell as she glides away from me. As amazing as her ass and legs are in that skirt, I long to see her face. The glimpse I caught of her concern isn’t nearly enough. She cares about me, even if she refuses to say it out loud.
As she informs the nine-one-one operator of my condition, she notifies security of the impending paramedics, grabs a pen and the contract from my desk, scribbles a few lines on the last page, then drops the open folder on my lap.
After reading the addition, I sign and date.
She takes both items from me, signs, then tosses it onto the coffee table and bends at the waist to press her ear to my chest.
My cock hardens to granite at the view. Her silky hair teases my flesh. Despite her terse words as she speaks to the operator, her breath washes over my chest and caresses my nipple.
I bite back a groan and fist the couch cushions. This is the most my gladiator goddess has touched me in eight years. I’m not sure how much more I can take before I disgrace myself.
“I don’t hear rattling or gurgling,” she tells the operator.
Disappointment throbs through me as she rises even as my hunger triples as she bends down and grabs my discarded clothing off the floor.
“He moves with care, but no limitations.” She slaps my thigh to pull my attention off her breasts and holds my button down out for me to slip into.
“We’ll walk down to the lobby to meet the paramedics.
” I rise and thread my arms into the fabric.
“Yes, we still need an ambulance.” She tugs me around to face her, pulls the receiver away from her mouth and whispers, “Roll your sleeves,” before pinching the phone between her ear and shoulder and continuing her discussion with the operator as she buttons my shirt.
Unable to resist, I wrap my arms around her. She lifts eyes full of warning. I smirk and roll my sleeves behind her back as she fastens the front of my shirt.
“Yes, ma’am. No coat. No tie,” she continues.
The dam of my control nearly cracks under the pressure in my balls as she reaches around and tucks my shirt into my trousers. With my belt still buckled, she has no choice but to wedge her fingers into my waistband. The tugging rubs her breasts against me and brushes my cock against her curves.
I finish rolling my sleeves and settle my hands on her hips. She knocks my wrists away, grabs my arm, and hauls me toward the door.
“After you, Mr. Pen,” she says.
Still on the phone with nine-one-one, she follows me into the elevator and presses the floor to the lobby.
With all my attention on her, I forget my aloof boss persona until the doors open and the security guard gives me an odd look.
I straighten up and don my professional mask as I climb into the ambulance.
When Hilary ends the call and thanks the paramedics as though she intends to stride back into the office building, I lean around the man strapping my legs to the gurney.
“Get in, Ms. Winthrop,” I demand with a pointed glance at the seat near my head.
After looking askance at the paramedic and getting a nod, she climbs in and takes her seat. I weave my fingers through hers and refuse to let go. She sighs and angles her long legs to the side to make more room for the first responders as they check my vitals and run through their checklist.
After a quick, bumpy ride to the hospital and a terrifying gurney ride down the hall, the guy unstraps my legs and offers to help me move to the hospital bed.
An animalistic growl builds in my chest.
“He can manage,” Hilary says as she senses my impending response.
Despite my tight grip on her hand, she neither complains nor pulls away.
A team of people rushes in, confirm I’m not in immediate danger, order tests, demand I change into a gown, then disappears.
“I’m not wearing that,” I snarl.
Hilary pats my forearm before hooking her finger behind the top button on my shirt and tugging me toward her.
“I know you’re an asshole, but you aren’t usually childish like this. Let me guess, trauma?”