Chapter Nine
Sierra
T he Saturday morning sun filtered through my flimsy blinds, painting stripes across the pile of romance novels Toffee had knocked over in my sleep. My fuzzy robe hung open, the tank top underneath doing little to contain the fact that I’d forgone a bra because, duh, it's Saturday.
Toffee kneaded my thigh through the blanket, his purrs vibrating against the spot where Connor’s imaginary hands had gripped me last night. I needed to get a grip, but my body still hummed from the memory of his text and the shirtless photo I planned on printing out at the library.
My phone vibrated, and I blinked at the screen in fear:
Connor
Open the door.
Then the doorbell rang, a sharp buzz that sent Toffee darting under the couch. No one visited me, so the doorbell hadn’t been sounded in a while. I quickly tried to pat down my hair.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not unannounced. Not when my hair resembled a bird’s nest and my socks were mismatched.
The doorbell rang again, sharper this time, and I scrambled to my feet, tripping over Toffee’s abandoned toy mouse.
The peephole revealed a wall of black cotton stretched across a chest wider than my kitchen doorway.
My fingers fumbled with the lock; the metallic rattle drowned out by my nervous heartbeat in my ears.
I swung the door open, and there he was, dwarfing my doorway, a big paper grocery bag dangling from one hand like it weighed nothing. Every time I saw him, I forgot how big he was. His dark eyes swept over me, lingering on my bare legs and chest before locking onto mine.
“You’re not dressed.”
It wasn’t a question. His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet, the kind that should come with a warning label and a free tissue box. I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly hyper-aware of my nipples pebbling beneath the thin fabric.
“It’s Saturday,” I squeaked, as if that explained everything—my tangled curls or mismatched socks.
He stepped inside without invitation, the scent I’d embarrassingly touched myself to filling the small space instantly, making my stomach do flips.
“You eat like shit.”
He set the groceries on the counter, pulling out organic eggs, fresh vegetables, and a container of berries so expensive they didn’t even sell them at my usual grocery.
I hovered by the door, tying my robe around my waist tightly. “I didn’t know you were coming over,” I mumbled like a child.
“I’m making sure you don’t starve,” he grumbled, opening my fridge and frowning at its contents—leftovers and a half carton of creamer.
“Sit.”
“This is my apartment,” I muttered, even as my traitorous legs carried me to the breakfast bar that doubled as my dining table.
Connor paused, the carton of eggs in his massive hand. His gaze locked onto mine, dark and unyielding.
“What happened to being a good girl?”
Heat flooded my cheeks. He’s a famous millionaire boxer who could have anyone, yet he’s in my tiny kitchen wearing thousands of dollars in tattoos and reciting lines straight from romance novels. I couldn’t help the silly smile on my lips.
Connor pulled out a frying pan and cracked eggs one-handed like a pro. My mouth went dry watching him work; his sleeves were pushed up to reveal thick forearms dusted with dark hair, the tattoos I’d only glimpsed in photos peeking out under the fabric.
My mouth felt like the Sahara when he reached for a spatula, the muscles in his back shifting like big cats in the wild. His sweatpants hung low on his hips in a way that made it impossible not to notice his muscular butt. I wanted to squeeze it and see his reaction.
“You’re staring at my ass,” he said without looking up from the stove.
“No, I’m not!”
I lied quickly, feeling heat rush to my cheeks as I tore my gaze away from his butt and focused on Toffee instead. The cat sat on the counter next to me, watching Connor with wide blue eyes as if he couldn’t believe this giant had invaded our space either.
He slid a plate across the counter toward me, a perfectly cooked omelet with spinach and cheese, and nodded at it.
“Eat.”
“Why are you really here?” The question slipped out, tinged with the anxiety I’d been chewing on since he texted.
His dark eyes pinned me in place. “Eat.”
I picked up the fork reluctantly and took a bite with a big pout. It was delicious, rich, and savory, and I couldn’t stop the small moan that escaped me .
Connor’s lips twitched into something resembling a smirk as he leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms over his yummy pectorals as he watched me eat like it was some kind of victory for him.
“Good girl,” he murmured when I’d finished most of the plate, and those two simple words sent another shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the room's temperature.
I gripped the counter’s edge to keep from sliding off the stool, my thighs unconsciously pressing together under the table. Connor’s eyes darkened, tracking the movement.
He straightened abruptly, pulling something small from his pocket, a sleek silver keyring with a few attachments, and held it out to me.
“Give me your keys.”
“What? Why?” I stared up at him like a child again.
“Sierra.”
His tone left no room for argument, but I hesitated anyway until he arched an eyebrow at me in silent challenge.
Sighing, I fished my keys out of my bag and handed them over. Connor attached the new key ring to them before handing it back to me.
“Pepper spray here,” he directed, pointing to one end of the keyring before twisting it slightly to reveal a hidden blade inside. “And this is for emergencies.” He didn’t have to explain the flashlight to me.
“Connor…” My voice trailed off as I stared at him in disbelief. His dark eyes were watching me closely.
“You live alone,” he answered clipped, as if that explained everything.
Before I could argue further or question him about why he felt the need to take care of me like this, he was already moving through my apartment with purpose.
Opening cabinets, checking locks on windows, and pulling tools from his bag like this was some kind of home improvement show starring him as both host and sexy handyman.
“What are you doing now?” I asked dumbly as he unscrewed something from above my front door. He didn’t even need a ladder .
“Upgrading your security.”
He took down the smoke detector, replacing it with one that blinked ominously. He turned, towering over me even from across the room, and fixed me with a look so intense it made goosebumps rise along every inch of exposed skin beneath my robe.
“To keep you safe,” he added before returning to whatever project in my apartment had captured his attention next.
By mid-morning, every lock had been reinforced, every window had been locked, new smoke detectors had been installed, and now even Toffee was sporting a new trackable collar.
When Connor was done and made sure everything was exactly how he wanted it, we ended up on my couch while Beauty and the Beast played softly from my laptop, which was balanced between us.
“This is your favorite?” he asked casually during the scene of Belle visiting the tiny library in her town.
I nodded hesitantly but couldn’t bring myself to look up at him directly. We were sitting so closely that our knees touched beneath the lavender quilt shared between us. He also took up 75% of the couch.
“The smart little bookworm.” His gaze dragged down my body, lingering on my robe’s tie, unraveling at my waist. “And the beast.”
“It fits us,” Connor decided after another beat passed. My breath hitched because he was right. A lot of this movie reflected us. He turned slightly toward me, so close our shoulders brushed against each other, and smirked faintly before leaning down. His next words were a whisper.
“Am I your beast?”
My heart thumped in my ears as Connor's question washed over me. His hands cradled my face as if I were made of stained glass, something fragile yet sacred, worthy of love.
“Look at me,” Connor breathed, his thumb brushing the apple of my cheek where anxiety always painted its first flush. The command was velvet-wrought, softer than the midday light outside. I obeyed because, with him, obedience felt less like surrender and more like coming home.
“Sierra.” How he said my name, precious and rare, made my skin prickle with goosebumps.
“Still with me, sweet girl?”
I nodded, my tangled morning curls catching on his stubble as he leaned closer to my face.
“Use your words.”
“Yes,” I whispered, the syllable cracking. “I'm here.”
I forced myself to meet his gaze, and he looked at me like I was the answer to everything. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, had softened enough to make my heart ache.
“Good.” His lips grazed my temple, lingering as if it were a promise. “So fucking good for me.”
His praise pooled between my legs, sweet and sugary. I’d spent a lifetime shrinking from attention, but Connor’s gaze? It felt like being seen through a prism, where every fractured part of me refracted into something beautiful.
“I—” My voice cracked, betraying me as usual. “I'm just?—”
“Mine.” He finished my sentence with a single word that made me shiver. “You're mine, Sierra.”
The laptop slid off his thigh and onto the ground as he shifted toward me, his massive frame making my couch seem suddenly tiny. His tattooed arm reached out, callused fingers brushing a stray curl from my face with a gentleness that contradicted his size.
“I don't understand why you're here,” I whispered, my voice embarrassingly small in the quiet of my apartment. Belle was singing on my forgotten laptop, but all I could hear was the nervous beat of my own heart.“Why me?”
Connor's lips, full and perfect, usually curved into that intimidating scowl, pulled into a smile so perfect I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.
“Because you're fucking perfect,” he replied, his thumb tracing my bottom lip so lightly I might have imagined it. “Because you count your breaths and hide during lunch breaks. Because you read books where the hero is too stupid to keep what's his.”