14. Conor
CONOR
T he night air carries Betsy’s laughter across Park Slope, a melody that vibrates through my fingers where they’re intertwined with hers. Brooklyn feels different tonight—more alive, more electric—with her hand in mine.
“I’ve missed you,” I tell her, lifting her delicate hand to my lips. The softness of her skin against my mouth sends a current down my spine. “These past few days without you have been...” I search for the right words, “...unnecessarily long.”
The streetlights cast a golden glow across her face, highlighting the curve of her smile, the shine in her dark eyes. Three days apart shouldn’t feel like eternity, yet somehow with Betsy, it does.
“I’ve missed you too, Con,” she says, her voice carrying on the night breeze. “Though I’m not sure if it’s you or killer foot massages I miss more.”
“Stay with me tonight,” I say, not a question but not quite a command either. “I want to wake up with you tomorrow.”
Her eyes meet mine, and in them I see the answer before she speaks it. “Yes.”
That single word ignites a fire in my veins. I bend down, muscles tensing as I scoop her into my arms with one decisive motion. Her body fits against my chest, light but substantial, curves pressing into the hard planes of my torso.
“Conor!” she squeals, her slender arms wrapping around my neck, fingertips grazing my collar. “What are you doing?” Her perfume—vanilla and something darker—fills my lungs as I take the brownstone steps two at a time, my grip firm beneath her knees and across her back.
“Being romantic,” I reply, voice dropping lower as I hold her gaze. “Is it working?”
Her laughter bubbles up again, warming the night air between us like champagne fizz against skin. “Surprisingly, yes.” I manage to unlock the door while still holding her, a feat of dexterity that earns me an impressed arch of her perfectly shaped eyebrow.
Once inside, I set her down in my darkened foyer, the moonlight from the transom window casting blue-silver shadows across her collarbones.
But before her heels fully touch the polished hardwood, her lips find mine, soft and insistent.
The kiss ignites like wildfire through dry brush.
Her mouth tastes faintly of the Malbec we shared at dinner, rich and intoxicating as midnight.
My hands find the curve of her waist, fingers pressing into the silk of her dress, pulling her against me until I feel the heat of her through my clothes as her fingers tangle in my hair, nails lightly scraping my scalp .
“I’ve been thinking about doing this all through dinner,” I murmur against her lips, my fingers already working on the pearl buttons of her silk blouse, the fabric cool and slippery beneath my touch.
“Just this?” she asks, her breath hot against my ear, sending goosebumps cascading down my neck as she tugs my crisp cotton shirt free from my tailored pants with a decisive pull. “Because I’ve been thinking about doing much more.”
Her words send blood rushing south, a heavy throb that makes my breath catch.
“Tell me,” I urge, my voice a ragged whisper as I walk her backward toward the bedroom, our discarded garments marking our path like breadcrumbs—her sapphire earring on the console table, my leather belt coiled by the hallway lamp.
“I’ve been thinking about your hands,” she whispers, guiding one to her breast where I can feel her heartbeat hammering against my palm through delicate lace.
“And your mouth.” Her thumb traces my lower lip, the pad slightly rough against the sensitive skin.
“And how they feel on every inch of me,” she breathes, her dark eyes reflecting the dim light like pools of midnight.
By the time we reach the bedroom doorway, she’s down to her black lace underwear, and my shirt hangs open. The moonlight streaming through the windows paints silver streaks across her skin.
I can’t take any more. The need to have her in my bed overwhelms me. I lift her again, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her the final distance to my bed. I lay her down gently on the dark sheets, her hair fanning out around her like a halo.
“Your turn,” she says, propping herself up on her elbows. “Show me what I’ve been missing these past few days.”
I step back, my hands moving to my shirt buttons. “You want a show?”
Her smile turns wicked. “I want everything.”
I take my time, sliding each button through its hole with deliberate slowness. The shirt falls from my shoulders, and I toss it aside with exaggerated flair.
“Woo!” she calls out, laughing. “Take it off!”
I can’t help but laugh with her as I reach for my belt, the leather warm from my body heat as I slide it through the loops with a dramatic flourish.
The metal buckle catches moonlight, sending silver flashes across her skin.
“Like this?” My voice drops to a rumble that I can feel vibrating in my chest. “Exactly like that,” she says, her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip, her eyes darkening to obsidian pools despite her playful tone.
I turn around, the muscles in my back flexing involuntarily as I glance over my shoulder, catching her hungry gaze.
The rasp of my zipper fills the quiet room as I lower my pants inch by agonizing inch, revealing the curve where my thigh meets my ass.
“You missed your calling,” she teases, her voice husky now, breathless. “You could’ve made millions on stage.”
I kick the pants aside and turn to face her in just my boxer briefs. “I only perform for select audiences.”
Her gaze travels over me, leaving heat in its wake. “Lucky me.”
My thumbs hook under the elastic waistband of my boxer briefs.
The air in the room seems to be still, weighted with anticipation as I hold Betsy’s gaze.
Her eyes widen slightly, lips parting as I slowly push the fabric down over my hips.
The cotton slides down my thighs and pools at my feet, leaving me completely exposed in the silvery moonlight.
My erection stands hard and heavy between us. I watch her expression change, pupils dilating as she takes in the sight of me. Her lips form a perfect ‘O’ of surprise.
“Jesus, Conor,” she whispers, her voice catching. She sits up straighter on the bed, gaze fixed on my cock. "I’m not sure if I should run for the hills or show my... appreciation.” A nervous laugh escapes her, but her eyes never leave me.
The vulnerability of standing naked before her while she remains partially clothed sends a thrill through me. I step closer, close enough that she could reach out and touch me.
“Do what feels right,” I tell her, my voice rougher than intended. “Whatever you want, Betsy.”
For a moment, she remains motionless, her chest rising and falling with quickened breaths. Then she slides forward, swinging her legs off the bed. The mattress dips as she moves, and suddenly she’s kneeling before me on the plush carpet, her face level with my straining erection.
“This feels right,” she murmurs, looking up at me through her lashes.
Her warm breath ghosts over me seconds before her lips make contact. The wet heat of her mouth as she takes me in sends a jolt through my entire body. My hand finds her hair, fingers threading through the silky strands as she works her way down my length.
“Fuck,” I hiss, watching her lips stretch around me. The sight alone is almost enough to undo me.
She takes her time, her mouth a wet furnace of pleasure as she devours me inch by agonizing inch.
Her tongue traces the throbbing vein underneath before she hollows her cheeks and sucks hard enough to make stars explode behind my eyelids.
She moans around my length, the vibration shooting straight to my core as she takes me deeper than I thought possible.
One hand grips me firmly at the base, twisting in rhythm with her bobbing head, while her other hand slides between my legs to cup and tease the sensitive skin there.
I grip the back of her head, fingers tangling in her silky hair as I fight the primal urge to thrust deeper into that slick, hungry mouth.
The moonlight catches the gleam of saliva on her stretched lips as she pulls back to swirl her tongue around the swollen head, her eyes locked on mine with wicked intent.
“Betsy,” I groan, my voice barely human as my hips begin to stutter forward involuntarily. "I’m going to?—”
Rather than pulling away, she increases her pace, looking up to meet my eyes with a determination that nearly shatters my restraint. The dual sensation of her mouth and the visual of her on her knees before me becomes too much.
With a groan, I reach down and grasp her shoulders, gently but firmly pulling her to her feet. Her lips are slick and swollen, her eyes dark with desire.
“Your turn,” I tell her, voice barely recognizable. “I want to see all of you.”
My hands find the clasp of her bra, but I pause, waiting for her permission. She nods, and I unhook the delicate lace, letting it fall away to reveal the perfect curves of her breasts. My thumbs brush over her hardened nipples, drawing a sharp intake of breath from her .
“These too,” I say, fingers trailing down to the edge of her panties. “Take them off for me.”
She smiles, slow and sensual, before hooking her thumbs into the waistband and sliding the black lace down her thighs with deliberate slowness. The fabric pools at her feet, and she steps out of them, now as naked as I am in the moonlight.
I take a step back, drinking in the sight of her—the elegant curve of her neck, the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. Every inch of her is perfection.
“Come here,” I whisper, reaching for her hand to guide her back to the bed. “I need to taste you now.”