by B. N. Toler
“Please tell me,” I beg.
He doesn’t answer my request. Instead, he pivots. “You shouldn’t have wasted your money.”
Narrowing my eyes, I glare at him. “I’d gladly spend my money on a man that spent eight years in prison hiding a truth that should have been revealed a long time ago.”
His jaw tics and his eyes dart away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Suddenly, I’m livid. He knows exactly what I mean. “Right,” I laugh with disdain. “You’re going to lie to me too?”
Connor says nothing but stuns me when he gently pulls my arm causing me to lean toward him. “I don’t want to.” He’s so close I can feel his breath on my face and my heart flutters when his gaze moves down to my mouth.
“Then don’t,” I plea in a soft whisper. “Let me help you.”
“You can’t,” he murmurs, his hooded eyes still trained on my mouth. “I’m trying to protect you.”
I can’t help darting my tongue out to lick my lips, not realizing how inviting that might look to him. Or maybe, subconsciously, I do know. Maybe I want him to see how badly I want him to kiss me. “I know you didn’t kill him, Connor.”
“You can’t remember anything. So you don’t know that,” he argues as his thumb moves back and forth, gently brushing against my arm. In a different setting, another moment, I’d be too lost in his touch to respond with an appropriate answer, but not today.
“Yes, I do!” I state loudly.
“You just don’t want to believe I’m capable of doing it, but I am. I’ve done it before Demi, and I don’t regret it.”
My heart is hammering in my chest. He just admitted to killing someone with no regrets. His words should terrify me, send me fleeing from my car, but I stay planted. And I plan to continue to do just that, until he says, “Blake wouldn’t have wanted . . . this.”
Narrowing my eyes, I tilt my head and ask, “This?” I know what he’s saying. He’s finally admitting there is something between us; acknowledging the elephant in the room. But even so, I’m going to force him to say it.
Connor finally meets my gaze, his dark eyes seeming pained. “This,” he says, quietly as he squeezes my arm gently.
I can’t help lashing out at him. “That didn’t stop you last time,” I argue. “If Dusty hadn’t pulled up that night . . . we . . . would’ve . . .”
“Would’ve what?” he challenges.
I glare at him. He thinks I won’t say it. But he’s wrong. “You would have taken me right there on that counter. You wanted me every bit as badly as I wanted you.”
He smirks a little. “You mean on the night you pretended not to remember?” His eyes feel like they’re burning mine he’s staring at me so intensely.
Okay. I lied about being blacked out, and he’s calling me out on it, again. He never believed me anyway, and I already owned my mistake so why are we rehashing this? So I don’t bother trying to explain why I lied. I just own it. “Yes, that night,” I answer.
Dragging his gaze from mine he lets out a long breath as if he’s amping himself up for whatever he’s about to say. “It was better that it didn’t go that far.”
I’m wild with anger as I rip my arm from his grip and whip the driver’s side door open. I crawl out, stumbling as I do and slam the door. Humiliation blankets me. I’ve been such a fool. Connor doesn’t want me and he just used Blake as his copout. I make a beeline for the house, tears burning my eyes when I’m jerked back.
I’m wild with anger as I rip my arm from his grip and whip the driver’s side door open. I crawl out, stumbling as I do and slam the door. Humiliation blankets me. I’ve been such a fool. Connor doesn’t want me, and he just used Blake as his cop out. I beeline for the house, tears burning my eyes when I’m jerked back.
He opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t give him the chance. “Fuck you, Connor,” I hurl the words as venomous as possible at him. He flinches but doesn’t let me go. I may be humiliated, but I know deep down I’m not stupid. There is something there . . . something we’ve both been fighting, but Connor isn’t brave enough to seize it. “You spent eight years in prison for a secret that could have possibly freed you. That man you killed deserved what happened to him. Hell, he deserves worse. And Blake,” I’ve never been so angry with Blake. How could he? “Blake was wrong. He was so fucking wrong to let you rot in that prison. I’ll never forgive him for it.”
“Don’t say that,” Connor shouts at me. “You don’t mean it. You have no idea what happened.”
“And you,” I continue, ignoring him. “Don’t use Blake as an excuse to turn down what I’d give you happily. You rejecting me is on you, not him.”
I move to run, but Connor pulls me back and holds me by the arms. The rain is relentless, pelting against us, dripping from our noses when he bends down to meet my line of sight. His voice is calmer, huskier when he asks, “What are you willing to give me?”
I swallow hard, the intensity of his dark stare bearing down on me, sucking the breath from my lungs. “I’d give you every piece of me,” I admit quietly, letting all the fight drain from me as he holds me steady. “My heart, my body, it’s yours Connor . . . if you want it. If you’d just take it.” My voice cracks with emotion on the edge of a sob. “I’d give you my all.” He leans toward me slightly and my belly clenches as I prepare for his lips to meet mine, but then he pushes away from me and rubs his head with both hands, letting out a loud groan as he turns his back to me.
Rejection.
My stomach knots and the tears keep coming. I watch him for a moment, unable to move. I need to. I need to run inside my house and lock myself inside where I can suffer in my embarrassment and misery. He paces toward the garage, his hands still on his head leaving me standing here soaked and broken. My hurt anchors me to the ground, and I feel it everywhere—beneath me, over me, inside of me. I’m nothing but heaviness. Finally, with a deep breath I shake myself and spin around, but I don’t run. I take the first step and force myself up. Then the second. And I don’t look back. Opening the screen door, I walk inside and let it slam behind me. I’m numb—and empty. Toeing off my shoes I kick them aside and then peel off my soaked T-shirt, flinging it on the porch swing. I should hang it up, but I could care less about what I should do right now. I just want my bed. Unbuttoning my jeans, I tug them down and step out of them before kicking them to the side. I’m set to flee to my bedroom, but something stirs inside of me, something rises and stiffens my backbone. It screams at me, rallies my courage and will, even in the face of humiliation and rejection. Fight for him. Has anyone ever fought for Connor? Ever? Maybe it’s the foolishly romanticized idea that most women create; the idea that you fight for love—or maybe I love a man the way I want to be loved. I’d want to be chased to the ends of the earth. Maybe I wouldn’t want someone to give up on me. Whatever it is, this feeling, it drives me.
I’m back outside and halfway down the stairs before I realize what I’m doing. Connor has just reached the top of the steps that lead to his garage apartment when he turns having heard the screen door slam behind me. I’m at the bottom of the stairs, and he’s still at the top, wide-eyed as he stares down at me in nothing but my bra and panties.
“Do you think you’re so noble?” I shout at him. “Wasting your life in prison to hide Blake’s secret? Do you think you deserve to suffer for what happened to him? I know you didn’t kill Mr. Jenson. I don’t know how I know, but I know. So why Connor? Why are you doing this?”
His fists clench at his sides as his jaw stiffens before he takes one step down. “You don’t know what you’re talking about Demi. You couldn’t understand.”
“Then help me understand!” I cry, taking a step up, but he holds his hand out, indicating he doesn’t want me to.
“I can’t!” he shouts back at me, stunning me when his voice cracks.
“Why?” I ask, my chest aching as I watch Connor battle this secret, this demon, alone.
His chest rises, his nostrils flaring. He
’s angry now, frustrated I’m pushing him to talk about something he clearly does not want to talk about. He barrels down the steps causing me to take one back. Connor is much taller than me, but with the added height of the step he’s standing on, he towers over me, seemingly five times bigger than normal.
“Because you keep trying to see something in me that isn’t there. You want me to be your man Demi?” he chuckles, the sound thick with ridicule. “You don’t even know the ugly in me. You couldn’t look at me the same way if you did.”
“Then I must be ugly too!” I argue, my voice on the edge of yelling. “My ugly wants your ugly. It craves it. We’re not so different, and you know it. I would have killed that man too!”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Do you remember what happened yesterday?”
“No,” I reply adamantly. “I want to. I know something bad happened . . . I saw something . . .” I shake my head in frustration. “I know it’s in here, I just can’t remember.”
He looks away for a moment, then returns his stare to me. “I’m no good for you.”
“Why don’t you let me make that decision for myself?” I counter with equal tone.
He groans and shakes his head. “Please . . .” he begs as he looks away from me. “Please go back inside. I can’t be near you . . .” he gestures his hand at me, his gaze fixed on the garage wall, “when you look like that.”
I want to let out a loud and shrill scream I’m so frustrated right now. But instead, I fight back with words. “What does it matter what I look like?” I laugh in disdain as I shrug. “You don’t want me anyway.” Then, I run back to my house and up my stairs, letting my tears fall freely.
“Demi,” he shouts after me, but I don’t stop. I’ve barely entered the back porch when I hear the screen door slam before it creaks open again, causing me to whip around. Connor tromps right up to me. It’s not hard to tell he’s pissed. The moment he enters it’s as if a bomb has gone off; a tidal effect of heat that only happens that first second after impact. I feel it wash over me, and it almost blows me over. But I plant my feet, attempting to appear strong and unaffected even though my tear filled eyes say otherwise. His white T-shirt is drenched, plastered to his firm body, showing every curve of muscle.
He says nothing.
Neither do I.
We just stare, our chests rising and falling as we watch each other. His fists are balled up at his sides, and he’s leaning toward me slightly as if he’s battling himself whether to go all the way to me or not. Finally, his eyes leave mine and move down my body. My dark hair is curled and stuck to my skin, my bra and panties are the only things covering me, and I have to fight the urge to raise my arms and cover myself. Moments ago, outside, I didn’t care how bare I was, but now . . . he’s close. But I want him to see this—to see me. When his bottom lip disappears between his teeth . . . I know.
He wants me.
This time, I don’t ask. I’m tired of watching him deny something he clearly desires. I slam my body into his. His arms weave around me and squeeze me tightly to him as our mouths collide. Frenzied, lost in the moment I climb his body and hook my legs around his waist as his hands move down and cup my ass. He squeezes my flesh hard, and I gasp as a thrill runs through me. His lips melt into mine; the rain still wet on his mouth mixed with his sweat and breath makes me heady. He stumbles backward until his legs hit the porch swing then he sets me on my feet. Dragging his soaked shirt over his head he tosses it aside; it smacks the concrete floor as he watches me. I’ve seen him shirtless before, but not like this. Not with his body tense, aching in need . . . for me. Slowly he reaches down and begins unbuckling his belt, but stops and jerks his gaze to mine.
“Is it—”
I seize his mouth with mine, swallowing his words as I smack his hands aside and take over undoing his belt and pants. Slipping each of my thumbs so that they catch his boxers with his pants, I tug them down as I kiss his chest and his stomach until I’m face to face with his erection. I lick my lips, prepared to take him in my mouth, but he yanks me up as he kicks his shoes and pants off. As he runs each of his rough and calloused hands from my shoulders down my arms, I tremble. Slowly, he sits on the swing, placing his hands on my hips to prevent me from following.
“Will you do something for me?” he asks, his voice husky.
“Anything,” I beg, my eyes dancing back and forth between his body and his erection. Although I’m answering his question, I’m begging him to tell me to do something; kiss him, lick him, bite him; I need to have some part of my body doing something to his.
Releasing my hips, he leans back stretching his arms across the back of the swing, taking my breath away as I watch every hard muscle in his arms flex. “Turn around and slowly remove your bra.” My knees nearly buckle beneath me, but somehow I manage to turn around. I unhook my bra and let it slip down my arms and drop it to the floor. He says nothing for a moment, only the sound of the rain breaks the silence. Finally, he speaks. “Stay just like that,” Connor orders. “But lift your hair off of your neck.”
Grabbing up my mop of hair, I gather it in a bunch and hold it to my head with one hand. Then, he’s behind me, his skin to mine, his erection pressed to my lower back. I’m trembling as I await his next move. My need for him consuming every thought process, every sense I possess.
Placing one gentle kiss on my shoulder, he whispers against my skin, “That day you cut the grass. You had your hair tied up . . .” his hands glide from my hips, slowly and agonizingly, until they’re just beneath the swells of my breasts, “all I could think about was what it would be like to come up behind you and kiss your neck.” A surge runs through me as I fight the urge to lean back against him. “Seems so little, I know,” he chuckles huskily, “but I’ve fucking fantasized about it over and over. What would it feel like? How soft would your skin feel against my lips? How would you taste? What sounds would you make?” When he kisses my shoulder again, his lips barely brushing my flesh, a moan escapes me. “Damn, Demi,” he groans as he kisses toward my neck, each one growing harder. “It’s better than I could have ever imagined.”
When his hand moves up my back and threads my hair, forcing mine away, I reach back and hold his firm hips to keep myself steady as Connor Stevens somehow turns me on more than I’ve ever experienced in my life by simply kissing my neck. “Don’t ever doubt my want for you,” he says, between kisses. “I don’t think a man has ever wanted a woman as much as I want you, beautiful.” His words are like bolts of pleasure that rack my body. I can’t take it anymore. I need him. I pull away and turn to face him, and he takes my hand, leading me back to the swing, sitting on it. Pulling me toward him, he kisses my belly as he slowly slips my panties down. My body trembles with desire as I hold his firm shoulders and step out of them.
“There are so many things I want to do to you, that I need to do to you, but right now . . . fuck,” he groans, “Demi, I just need you.” I want to tell him I feel the same, that I feel like I’m being eaten alive with desire for him, but my mouth won’t let me speak the words. Instead, I climb on his lap so that I’m straddling him, and with the head of his cock pressed to me, ready to enter me, I kiss him as I bare down, but his firm hands stop me. When he looks up at me, his eyes hooded, filled with lust. “Slow, Demi,” he orders me. “Go so painfully slow. I want to memorize and remember every single millisecond of this.”
Then he pulls my head to his and as our lips crush together, I push down slowly until Connor is seated inside of me as far as he can go. We spend hours on the swing, slow and steady, deep and raw. A few times, lost in the moment, the passion, I speed up, but Connor pulls me back, and I relish in the torture of it. It isn’t just making love, it’s a dance, a conversation, it’s . . . everything.
After Connor and I make love, he carries me inside and up to the master bedroom. We don’t speak. Not a word. We just feel. Words aren’t needed. We let our mouths, and hands, and bodies do all the talking. His touch says everything. His kiss whispers
beautiful words of hope and promise. His body against mine as he moves inside of me tells me how he worships me.
No.
Words aren’t needed.
Connor Stevens isn’t a man of many words, yet he somehow speaks volumes. It’s dark out by the time we finish. We’re both exhausted and sweaty when he crawls out of bed, opening the window, letting in some cool air. Then he returns beside me, both of us still naked, and pulls me close. With my head on his chest listening to the beat of his heart, his hand threading my hair over and over, and the sound of the rain falling outside, I fall into a deep sleep.
The mind is a funny thing, the way it can push us or inhibit us. It’s inside of us, yet it can somehow contain information and keep it from us. Then, in the cruelest way, it can unleash truths on you that you’re not prepared for. Truths that you’ve been hiding from. Sometimes all it takes is a trigger; like the sound of a gunshot. Or in my case, the sound of a motorcycle.
I sit up abruptly, waking suddenly from my deep sleep. The sound of a motorcycle roars from outside and silences seconds later. My heart is pounding in my throat, my stomach knotted, hands shaking. I remember what happened. Twisting my neck, I realize Connor isn’t in the bed with me anymore. Whipping the blankets back, I rush to the master bedroom and grab my white silk robe, slipping it on as I rush down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back porch.
“Connor,” I shout as I hurriedly tie the sash to my robe. By the time I hit the bottom step Connor is rushing around the side of the house from the driveway, his expression concerned having heard me cry out for him. “Connor,” I sob. When did I start crying? I practically fly into his arms and squeeze him as hard as I can as I cry. Violent, hard sobs wrack my body as I mentally replay what happened two days before.
He must know why I’m crying because as we fall to the ground, and I crawl in his lap, he holds me tightly and whispers, “You have nothing to worry about. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Or anyone for that matter.”