Taking Connor (19 page)

“Scarred isn’t the word I’d use,” Connor chuckles. “More like set an extremely high standard.”

“Yeah right,” I laugh.

Connor leans back in his chair, a breathtaking grin on his face. “I’m sorry that he embarrassed you, but I didn’t really see anything.”

My lips purse as I give him a look that tells him I’m thinking,
you’re full of shit
. He bellows out a laugh again. “Okay,” he raises his hands in surrender, “I saw everything. But I’d say we’re even now, right? I mean, you just got the full monty a bit ago. You’ll probably have nightmares about it.”

“Oh yeah,” I reply sardonically. “It was awful seeing you naked. I mean, I’m scarred for life after seeing a hot, naked man.” He laughs harder.

“I think you are really drunk.” He gently lets my leg fall from his lap and stands, moving the chair he’s been sitting in back under the table. When he faces me again, I notice he has some dried blood on his chest. I grab another dishtowel from the drawer under my leg and wet it under the faucet.

“Come here. You have some blood on you.” He steps toward me and without thinking, I spread my legs to allow him to get closer. He hesitates, but I reach and grab the waist of his pants and pull him toward me. His jeans are still undone, and I can’t hold back the gasp that escapes me as my fingers brush the soft hair on his lower abdomen. I’ve touched his stomach before, but not this . . . low. I didn’t mean to, but I decide to play it cool, hoping he didn’t catch my reaction. “I won’t bite,” I giggle, my buzz still hindering my ability to think clearly.

I busy myself cleaning his chest, and when the blood is gone, I look up to find him staring at me.
Damn
. I suck at reading people. Does that stern, deep look mean something? Is he asking me a question without words? Or am I trying to see something that just isn’t there? My hand still rests on his chest as we watch each other, his heart pounding beneath my palm. Then, he leans down, but stops and I wonder if he’s waiting for me; does he want me to meet him halfway? I’m not so drunk that there’s not a part of me that says I shouldn’t. But I’ve had just enough alcohol to ignore it. Just enough to make me think,
to hell with it
.

Enough to meet him halfway.

I stretch my neck up and press my mouth to his.

And then—there’s fire; the sweet burn that somehow flies down and through your body, navigating its way through every vein, every nerve you possess. There’s not one millimeter of me that doesn’t feel the exquisite sear of heat. His fingers thread in my hair, holding me steady as his tongue dips in my mouth. I wrap my legs around him and hold the belt loops of his jeans, pulling him to me, wanting nothing more than for him to be as close to me as possible. His hands move down to my waist, grabbing my hips and he yanks me to him, slamming me closer, so close I feel his erection straining inside his jeans. My hips grind against him, as my back arches, and I bite his lower lip. He growls, and presses his mouth harder to mine, the scruff of his day-old beard rubbing against my face.

I moan, and his grip on my hips tightens before he moves them under my shirt. My belly tightens as his fingers brush my bare flesh. We’re a tangled mess of heat and passion, and I know without a doubt, I’d let Connor have me tonight. I want him to take me; to make me high on desire. I’m just about to tell him this, tell him to take me, when the sound of a loud engine pulling in the driveway stops me.

It stops both of us.

Connor’s mouth freezes against mine as he listens and when the engine cuts off he pulls away from me.

“You expecting someone?”

I’m breathless when I answer, “No.”

“Stay right here. Let me see who it is.” He rushes out the kitchen door onto the back porch, leaving me on the counter, my mind a whirl as the reality of what just happened hits me.

I just kissed Connor.

Connor just kissed me.

I just practically dry humped Connor.

He let me.

He liked it.

I really liked it.

Shit.

I slide off the counter and peek out the kitchen window. Connor is barely visible; his back is to me. But a thin set of arms are wrapped around his neck. I can’t see her face, but I know exactly who it is.

Roxy.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Heat blankets my face as my stomach knots. I’m an idiot. He’s dating her, and I’m dating Vick. What we just did was so wrong on so many levels.

Blake.

Oh my God.

Blake.

How could we?

I just betrayed my poor dead husband by making out with his cousin.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Connor turns slightly and jabs his thumb toward my house, but I still can’t fully make out Roxy. When he spins around panic sets in. I can’t stand for him to come in here and tell me he has to go. I can’t face what just happened. So I do the only thing I can do in the brief time I have before he enters. I yank out a chair from the kitchen table and plop down laying my head on the table.

When he enters, I feign sleep. I even make the tiniest snoring sound for added effect. He’s quiet once he enters, but after a moment he gently brushes the hair from my face and whispers, “Hey babe. Wake up.”

When I don’t respond, he shakes me slightly.

“Damn,” he whispers.

I’m hoping he’ll just leave me, but I should know better. That’s not Connor’s style. The big muscular, tattooed man is a gentleman. After a moment, he’s collected me in his arms and is carrying me toward my bedroom. It takes great effort on my part to pretend I’m dead asleep and hang limply. He takes me into the master bedroom, and I want to protest, but I’m supposed to be passed out. I’ve forfeited my input. He lays me on the bed and pulls the blanket at the bottom of the bed over me. Then, so sweetly my heart aches, he kisses my temple softly and whispers, “Goodnight, babe.”

I clench my eyes closed as I listen to him exit.

Why does it hurt? It shouldn’t. What just happened was nuts. I shouldn’t feel this . . . sad. Why do I feel sad?

I bury my head in my pillow and groan.

I know exactly why I’m sad.

I’m sad because Connor will be spending the night with Roxy and not with me.

My toe injury caused me to forget to take my ibuprofen last night and just as I knew it would. My head is pounding and so is my toe. It is only when my kidneys feel like they’re about to burst that I force myself out of bed and fumble to the bathroom. The events of last night tumble through my head and I subconsciously kick myself. How could I let that happen? Obviously, I’ve developed an unhealthy attraction to Connor, one that is completely off limits. Add that to me being a somewhat young woman with, let’s face it, sexual needs, I made a horrible decision while under the influence. After I relieve myself, I clumsily make my way downstairs, lured by the aroma of bacon wafting in the air.

My stomach grumbles as I walk into my kitchen, rubbing my eyes as the sunlight beams through the kitchen window, when I hear, “Good morning.”

I nearly jump out of my skin when I look up to find a thin man covered, head to toe, in tattoos sitting at my kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee. His dark hair is longer in the front, than in the back and he has a well-trimmed goatee. Noting what I know must be the fear of God in my eyes at the sight of him, he places his cup down carefully and stands quickly, the chair screeching loudly as it slides back, holding his hands in the air. But the sudden movement only makes me panic more.

“Connor!” I scream as loud as I can. “Connor, help!”

“My name is Dusty. I’m a friend of Connor’s,” the man explains, as he moves toward me, his hands still in the air. I rush around the table and grab the butcher knife from the block and whip around on him.

“Stay where you are,” I yell. My head is pounding, and I still hadn’t quite managed to rub the sleep from my eyes this morning, but if he gets near me, I will whip this knife around wildly until I hit something. Hopefully an artery or something that will make him bleed out fast. “Connor!”

When I hear the screen door creak open, I almost collapse in relief. Connor rushes in and stops in the doorway taking in the scene.

“She just freaked out. I tried to tell her we’re friends, but she wouldn’t listen,” the man explains defensively.

I look at Connor, wide-eyed. “You really know this guy?”

“Demi, babe,” Connor says, softly, as he approaches me. “Can you put the knife down? Please.”

I’m so amped up on adrenaline I can’t seem to make my arm move. Connor grabs me by the wrist and wrenches the knife from my hand, tossing it in the sink, before pulling me in his arms. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you would be up for a while, and I was going to surprise you with breakfast.” He kisses the top of my head and continues petting my head, attempting to calm me. “This is my friend, Dusty. He’s the one that showed up on the bike last night.” I pull my head from his chest and look at Dusty as he runs a hand through his shaggy hair and smiles.

“I’m sorry I scared you. It’s nice to finally meet you,” he offers.

I back away from Connor until my back hits the corner where the two sides of the counter meet. I place a hand on my chest as I try to calm my racing heart. “I am way too hung over to be that scared,” I grumble. Then, looking up to Dusty, I try to give a friendly smile. “It’s nice to meet you, too. I apologize for flipping out.”

“No need. I reckon if I were you, and I’d walked in to find . . . well . . . me sitting at my kitchen table, I’d about have a heart attack myself.”

“Why don’t you sit down, Demi. I’ll make you some coffee.” Connor motions for me to take a seat at the table and after a moment I force myself away from the counter.

“So, Dusty,” I begin awkwardly. I feel bad for almost chopping him into bait and hoping I’d hit an artery so he’d die quicker. “Where are you from?”

He takes his seat beside me and sips his coffee before answering. “I was born in Texas, but I hail from Tennessee these days.” Now I know where his epic Southern accent comes from.       

“And how do you and Connor know one another?” I ask as Connor sits a mug in front of me. I sip it without thinking, but can’t help looking at him after I do.

“Did I get it right?” Connor asks with a smirk.

“Yeah, you did.” He made my coffee just the way I like it. He’s never made it before, and I’ve never mentioned how I like it, which means he must have watched me make it several times. I stare up at him and despite my feelings of regret from the events that transpired between us the night before, I want so badly to stand up and kiss him. Then I remember myself.

Wasn’t Roxy here last night, too? Didn’t I see her?

“Thank you,” I say, my voice husky. “So how do you two know one another?” I turn my attention back to Dusty, hoping it’s not too obvious to Connor that I did so.

Dusty gives Connor a sideways look as if asking permission to tell me. Connor sighs and moves to the counter and starts cracking eggs over a bowl. “We were cell mates, Demi.” He doesn’t turn around, and I wonder if he thinks I’ll judge Dusty—or him.

“Ohhhh.”

“I got out three years before Connor,” Dusty notes. “If it hadn’t been for him, I would’ve never made it out.”

“How so?” I ask.

“It’s not important,” Connor interrupts. “All that matters is he made it out.”

My brows rise at Connor’s quick interruption. Dusty gives me an awkward smile and shrugs one shoulder in apology. “Go ahead and ask.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You want to know why I was in, right?”

Damn, I do. I really do. Am I sitting across from a murderer or a rapist? Who is this man that Connor shared a cell with? I mean, Connor was in prison for manslaughter which is basically a murder sentence. Did Dusty kill someone too? But even though this man is sitting in my house, I still feel rude asking.

“I wasn’t going to ask,” I respond before taking a large sip from my mug.

Dusty chuckles, a look that oddly, despite his tattoos and shaggy hair, is quite handsome and endearing. “She’s every bit a lady, just like you said, Connor.”

My brows rise again for the hundredth time this morning. Connor told his friend about me and called me a lady?

Connor doesn’t turn to acknowledge his statement, but from where I sit I can see his mouth quirk up a smile. “That she is,” he agrees.

“Well, seeing as I’m sitting in your kitchen, drinking your coffee, I feel like you should know. And, seeing as how Connor is a good buddy of mine, and I hope to hang out with him more since I just moved here, and to do that, I might want to be invited back to your house, with your permission, of course, I feel I should tell you.”

His proclamation surprises me. Is it ridiculous to think him volunteering the details of his conviction is gentlemanly? “Dusty,” I say, as I lean over the table and pat his hand where it sits. His head rears slightly as if he’s surprised by the gesture. “You don’t have to share if you don’t want to. I trust Connor. I know he would have never brought you in my house had he not trusted you wholeheartedly. And since you’re his friend, I hope I can call you mine, too.”

I stand and push in my chair. Connor has turned, his eyes fixed on me, an expression of awe on his face. I return a soft smile, letting him know I meant every word. I do trust him—wholeheartedly.