Chapter 23 Connor
CONNOR
“There you guys are!”
Elle’s voice cuts through the haze of bass and neon as she weaves her way toward us, cheeks flushed, hair a little wild. She’s got the loose, happy look of someone who’s just taken one shot too many, her hand waving like we’ve been hiding on purpose.
Manuela’s spine snaps against the wall, and she tugs her dress down like maybe it’ll erase what just happened between us in the shadows. My body still feels like it’s on fire, and I’m praying to any god up there that it’s dark enough to disguise the obvious problem pressing against my zipper.
“She isn’t feeling so good,” I say quickly, stepping in before Elle can say more. “I was going to walk her home if that’s cool with you.”
Elle squints at Manuela, tilting her head. “You do look flushed,” she says and then grins, sloppy and sweet. “Take care of my girl, okay?”
“Always,” I say before I can stop myself.
Elle throws us both a wink and disappears back into the crowd, where Jack is waiting for her with one hand splayed out to continue dancing.
The crowd swallows her up, but my pulse is still racing. Manuela’s eyes flick to mine, then to the exit. No words needed. We’re already moving.
Every step of the short walk uphill to the house feels like winding a coil tighter and tighter.
The night air is crisp and chilly, and it smells faintly of the rain we had this week.
Manuela walks just ahead of me, the hem of her dress swaying against her thighs, and I swear I’m two seconds away from losing it right here on the street.
The villa is dim and empty, the only sound the low hum of the refrigerator and the pool jets outside. We go inside, and once we reach the stairs, she pauses with her hand on the banister, like maybe she’s about to say goodnight.
Not a fucking chance.
I crowd into her space before she can get the words out, pressing her back against a door to a closet. Maybe it’s a closet, I don’t care. Her lips part on a sharp inhale, and then we’re kissing—hungry, reckless, too far past pretending restraint is possible.
Her hands fist in my shirt, dragging me closer until I can feel every line of her body against mine. My tongue sweeps into her mouth, and she tastes like gin and lime, like something I could drown in if she let me.
“Upstairs,” she murmurs, breaking just enough to breathe. Her normally blue eyes are dark, daring.
The climb is frantic, almost clumsy. I trip over the last step and laugh against her mouth, breathless and too far gone to care.
Inside my room, the door barely clicks shut before she pushes me against it. Her mouth finds mine again, desperate, hungry. My hands go to her hips, sliding up, tracing the zipper of her short dress.
“Slow,” I rasp, though I’m not sure if I’m saying it for her or me. My pulse is everywhere—throat, fingertips, cock straining against my pants.
Her lips graze my ear. “Then make it slow.”
The zipper gives way inch by inch, revealing warm skin, the strap of her bra, the dip of her spine. She shivers under my hands, and I bite back a groan because I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone like this.
She turns, tugging me with her toward the bed. When she falls back on the mattress, blonde hair spilling wildly across my pillow, it steals the air from my lungs. I climb over her, not touching yet, just looking, memorizing the curve of her smile, the rise and fall of her chest.
“You’re unreal,” I murmur, and it slips out before I can stop it. Like my tongue is finally relaxed around her and I can actually say what I think, the moment I think it, instead of what is expected of me. This is what she does to me.
Her laugh is breathless. “Less talking, more fu—”
I cut her off with a kiss, slower this time, dragging it out until she arches up into me.
My hands run through her soft skin—thighs, waist, ribs, the swell of her perfect tits through the lace of her bra.
She moans softly when my thumb brushes her nipple, and I swallow the sound like it belongs to me.
Her hand slides down, tugging at my belt. “Connor,” she whispers, urgency in the way she says my name.
I cover her hand with mine, pressing it to my chest. She has to feel what I’m feeling, how my body is out of control for her, heart thumping around my chest ready to take flight. “Not yet,” I say as I breathe her in, that floral scent still stuck to her hair. “I want to take my time with you.”
I move to push her down into the mattress, determined to taste her again, but she resists, firm palms against my chest. For a second, panic jolts through me—I’ve misread her, gone too far.
But then the corner of her mouth tilts, and it turns into a full-on smirk, lighting up my every nerve ending as she pushes me back instead.
“My turn,” she says, and the word comes out clumsy, drowsy, and thick.
She straddles me for a moment, kissing me like she owns every breath in my lungs, before rocking her hips a few times over my erection.
I know if I looked down now, I would see a wet spot on my jeans, and that turns me on even more.
She starts slipping lower, her lips trailing down my throat, over my chest, each press hotter than the last.
By the time she reaches my waistband, I’m half wild and impossibly hard, my hands fisting the sheets and my hips threatening to buck up before I can stop myself. She glances up at me through her lashes, a spark of mischief in her blue eyes as she lowers the zipper and starts removing my clothes.
I can’t stay quiet. A groan rips from my throat, rough and broken, and I shove a hand over my face to muffle it.
The moment her mouth is on me—the wet heat of her tongue and the sure slide of her lips over the head of my cock—my vision blurs.
She takes her time, torturing me with every slow pass, every swirl that makes me whimper like a man starved, finally given what he’s been craving for too long.
“Do you think you can be quiet for me, baby?” she says, and I know she’s mocking me because her tongue flattens and drags all the way down to the base of my cock and then back up. Her eyes are shining, and I see the hint of a smile even as she sucks when she reaches the tip.
“Fuck, Manu,” I choke out, my free hand tangling in her hair. She hums around me, and the vibration nearly unravels me on the spot. I’m panting now, sweat beading at my temples, fighting to hold on to some shred of control while she undoes me piece by piece. “You’re going to ruin me.”
She pulls back just enough to smirk up at me. “I don’t know, maybe that’s the idea.” Her voice is husky, her mouth steady, and then she takes me deep again like she’s proving a point.
My hips jerk despite my effort to stay still. I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again, because watching her enjoy this is better than any fantasy I’ve ever had.
“Fuck,” I whisper, half pleading. “Do you have any idea how good you look right now?”
Her free hand slides down over her own stomach, fingers sliding under her panties. I see it. I feel it, the shift in her breath, the faint tremor in her shoulders as she touches herself. The sight makes my whole body seize with want.
“Oh my god,” I choke out, sitting forward slightly, one hand braced on the mattress. “You’re touching yourself while you—” The words break off into a groan. I can’t finish the sentence. My head tips back, and I bite my lip, desperate not to come too soon.
She hums low in her throat, the vibration wrecking me. Manuela pulls back again, licking her lips deliberately slow, her eyes locked on mine. “You like that?”
My laugh is broken, needy. “You’re evil.” I reach down, cupping her cheek, thumb brushing where her mouth glistens. “Beautiful and fucking evil.”
Her grin is pure challenge. “Don’t hold back on my account.”
That’s it.
My restraint cracks.
But instead of giving in to the way her mouth is undoing me, I bend down, scoop her up with one arm, and drop her on the bed. She lets out a surprised laugh that turns into a gasp when I open her legs and spread her knees apart.
“Con—” she starts, but I’m already on my knees, dragging my hands up her thighs slowly. Goosebumps erupt all over her skin, and her lashes flutter. I can see her pulse fluttering on her neck, and my hand drifts there, touching the softness right below her jaw.
“No one,” I mutter against her skin, kissing the inside of her knee, “no one should look this fucking good.”
Her breath stutters. “You probably say that to all the girls,” she says with a laugh, and I know she’s mocking me again, especially given that conversation we had the first night here.
“God.” My voice comes out rough, and a smile starts to form on my lips. I remove her underwear slowly, dragging my hands slowly down her legs as I go along.
I kneel on the floor, settle between her legs, and lower my mouth to her. The first taste of her makes me groan against her clit, the sound vibrating into her body. She fists the sheets, arching up, and when I glance up, her head is tipped back, lips parted, eyes squeezed shut.
“Connie,” she gasps, saying the nickname I hate so much. But from her lips, it has the potential to destroy me.
“Shh,” I murmur, licking slowly, savoring her like we have all the time in the world.
Her hips roll against my mouth, small, helpless movements she can’t seem to stop, almost like she’s on autopilot. I anchor her with my hands on her thighs, greedy for every sound she makes. She moans, and I swear it shreds me in the best way possible.
I’m so hard it hurts, but I don’t touch myself. I don’t need to. Just the heat of her thighs trembling around me, the slick taste of her, the way she’s coming apart in my hands—it’s enough to push me right to the edge.
When her moans break into a sharp cry and her whole body goes taut, I come. Hard. No touch or hand or relief except the brutal, blinding release that tears through me just from giving her everything.
I collapse forward, forehead against her thigh, trying to breathe. She’s still shaking, one hand in my hair, tugging gently like she knows exactly what just happened.
And she’s smiling, wrecked and soft all at once, when I finally lift my head to meet her eyes. My chest heaves against the end of the bed, and the thought comes uninvited, unstoppable: I could get used to this.
I could get used to her.