Page 23 of Conor
I want that again. I want it so much I must be losing my mind. I barely know him. He’s mafia. A killer. I couldn’t pick a worse guy for me out of a lineup. But I can’t deny that the longer I’m around him, the more he draws me into his orbit. It’s an impossible want. The moon might as well be chasing the sun.
I can’t let Conor know how tormented I’m feeling by this arrangement already. He already did me a favor by saving my life. He owes me nothing else. And at the end of the day, why would he want me?
I swallow down the harshness of my existence in this world where I don’t belong. “Goodnight, Conor.”
A shadowed face blocks my exit, and an arctic chill unfurls inside of me. The alley is empty, and I’m more alone than I’ve ever been. Muerto’s piercing laughter echoes off the city walls and the knife in his fist gleams under the moonlight. Tonight, that blade will bite into my flesh and drain the life from me, just like he always threatened.
My heart beats a frantic tempo as I search for a weapon, but there’s nothing. Everything I own is gone and there are only two choices. Run, or let him come to me. Desperate to leave him and this nightmare behind, my feet lurch forward before I can think it through, but he tackles me to the ground. His weight is like a concrete block on my chest, suffocating me under his memory. He doesn’t speak. He just plunges his blade into my stomach, again and again and again. Blood pools around me and I can feel the light in my eyes slipping away. I think of Archer and how badly I’ve failed him.
He’ll never know how much I loved him.
I wake with a scream, thrashing against the blankets as I try to break free from my nightmare. A shadow passes over me and I scramble away, but his solid grip locks around my arm. The weight of the bed sinks beside me and tears streak down my face as I breathe him in.
“It’s okay, Twigs,” Conor whispers in the darkness. “I’m right here.”
Oxygen fills my lungs, and my racing heart slows when his hand finds my face, soothing me like I never knew I needed.
“It’s okay,” he whispers again. “It was just a dream.”
I’m a mess, and that’s the only explanation I have for clinging to Conor’s shirt, begging him with a desperation that defies logic. “Please don’t go.”
I feel silly and weak and vulnerable, but Conor doesn’t deny me. Not even for a second. Instead, he pulls back the blankets and helps me back to my spot before he climbs in next to me and drags me against his body, wrapping an arm around my waist to secure me.
His body dwarfs mine in a way that should terrify me, but it doesn’t. I know so little about this man, but in his arms, one thing is certain. I trust that he would never hurt me. He would never take something unless it was given freely.
I can’t help taking shelter in his strength, burrowing closer to his body. He is warm and muscular and… hard. I realize it when I bump up against his dick with my ass. He must realize it too, because he’s gone completely still. He’s wearing nothing but his briefs, and I’m in a tank top and underwear. His skin burns into mine, and a swarm of butterflies riots in my belly.
We’re breaching unfamiliar territory, and I know if we cross that line, we can’t come back from it. But when I squeeze my legs together to smother the want there, it only serves to remind me how empty I am. Because I do want him. I want him in primal ways. His powerful body moving over mine. His rigid flesh inside of me. His mouth on mine while I curl my fingers in his hair. I wonder if he’s thinking about it too, but I don’t have to wonder for long.
“Christ,” he groans. “I don’t know if I can do this, Ivy. I want to lay here with ye. I want ye to feel safe. It’s just—”
I turn to face him, and before I can talk myself out of it, my fingers find his cheek. I trace the lines of his angular jaw, but my eyes are on his lips. “I want you,” I murmur. “And if you want me too—”
Conor’s lips are on me then. Demanding and insatiable as he grips the back of my neck, holding me firmly in his grasp as he invades my mouth with an agony I can’t deny I feel too. I can’t breathe, and I don’t want to. I just want to taste him. I want his burning need to consume my flesh, wring me out, and bleed me dry.
His violent craving triggers something even more desperate in me. A reckless abandon I couldn’t tame if I threw myself off a cliff. I’m pawing at his body, fingers dragging down his chest while he worships me with his mouth. When I finally palm the huge bulge in his briefs, I shudder with equal parts want and terror. He’s so fucking huge, I don’t know how he’s not going to split me apart. I don’t know if I even still work. It’s been so long since I was with a man that I chose. Panic steals my breath when it occurs to me that I might be broken beyond repair. Even if I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anyone else, it might not work. My body might betray me, refusing to accept him. Refusing to get wet for him. But Conor plows through my ridiculous fears when he slides his fingers against my panties and grunts out his satisfaction.
“Christ, ye’re soaked for me.”
Relief floods my body, followed by a rush of urgency. I need him inside me before my fears overcome this high. “Please,” I beg.
He hums his approval as his lips blaze a hot trail over my jaw and down my throat. His hands are warm against my skin, arousing an outbreak of goosebumps all over. I can’t remember ever feeling so out of control, so desperate for more. I’m in a drunken haze, completely paralyzed by his eyes as they lay claim to my body.
His fingers are hard, but graceful as he draws the hem of my tank up to my shoulders and exposes the length of my body for his pleasure.
“God, ye have some beautiful tits.” He squeezes them in his palms and rubs his face against them.
His tongue lashes against my nipple, and it sends a jolt straight through my core. I arch up into him and reach for a handful of his hair as he does it again. Conor doesn’t ask what I like, but he knows. He touches me with just the right amount of pressure, teasing me with his lips and his tongue as he sucks my breast into his mouth.
I’m on the verge of coming from this alone, but then his hand slips down inside of my panties, and it renders me completely defenseless. His fingers dip inside of me, and his breathing intensifies as he drags them back up to my clit, working me over until my body is so strained I plead for him to fracture me.
“Conor…”
“Shhh,” he soothes me. “I know what ye need, baby. Just relax.”
I can’t relax because I’m afraid this feeling is going to disappear, and I’ll never have it again. It must be a fluke. A once in a lifetime kind of magic. It’s too good to be real.
But it is real, and Conor makes sure I know it when his hot mouth locks around my nipple, torturing me until I splinter apart into a million tiny convulsions. Wave after wave pulses through my body, milking out my release for longer than it’s ever gone on before.
