I swallow hard, trying to keep myself together for his sake. If anyone in this room deserves to fall apart right now, it’s Conor. “Is there anything I can do? Any way I can possibly help?”
“Her boyfriend is there with her, now — along with half the OC division, most likely. I told them to go home and get some shut eye, but…” He shrugs. “Lucy is well-liked. Everyone wants to be there when she wakes up. If she wakes up.”
“Sykes is strong. She’s going to pull through this.”
He shakes his head slightly, his face a mask of pain as he pulls his hand from my hold and starts to pace. “She always had to be first. First in her class at the Academy. First one to chime in with ideas on any case. First one into the room on a raid…” His paces pick up speed. “Per usual, she was right on the heels of the SWAT team when they stepped into that apartment. The three guys ahead of her died instantly. Blown to bits.” His eyes are full of ghosts. “She was… I guess I could call it luckier, but that’s open to interpretation given the state I found her in. All I could do was carry her out, away from the fire. I got her to the street, tried to stop the worst of the bleeding. They air-lifted her to Mass General.”
“Conor.” I reach out, blocking his path. Stilling him with a light hand on his chest, directly over his heart. I can feel it racing double-speed beneath the fabric of his cinder-streaked shirt. Now that I’m looking closer, I see some of the stains are dark red, not black.
Lucy.
I swallow. “You did everything you could. You got her out of there before the whole place went up in flames. You saved her life!”
He laughs — a violent, self-loathing snarl. “I didn’t save her life, Hunt. I’m the one who nearly ended it.”
“Don’t say that. You can’t possibly think you’re responsible for this.”
“But I am. She never should’ve been there in the first place. The only reason Sykes was in that room was because of me. Because I dragged her into this case. And if she dies… her blood is on my hands.”
“I won’t pretend to know her well, but it’s pretty clear from the few interactions I’ve had with Lucy Sykes that she loves her job. And she’s damn good at it. My guess is, she would’ve been at that scene whether or not you encouraged her involvement.”
A muscle in his jaw is ticking with tension and he can’t quite meet my eyes. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me,” I say softly, wishing I could reach out and take his pain within my hands. Hold it for a while, just to ease his heavy burden.
“I’m the one who pulled her in on this case. She was working on something else, but… I asked her to step in earlier this week. Maybe if I hadn’t…”
My brow furrows. “You told me everyone’s working the Petrov case now. Even if you hadn’t recruited her to help deal with him, she still might’ve wound up at that apartment today.”
His head is shaking, rejecting my words.
“What?” I ask, almost afraid of his answer.
“It wasn’t Petrov I asked her for help with.” He’s staring at me gravely. “It was you.”
“Me?”
“When I brought you into the Bureau… before we knew whether or not you were complicit in Paul’s crimes… I needed someone impartial to conduct your interview. Someone unbiased, who could ask about your involvement and evaluate the truth without…”
My breaths are shallow. “Without what?”
“Without being affected by personal feelings.” His eyes meet mine and I nearly gasp at the emotions I see lurking just behind the surface of his irises.
The anger, the anguish, the guilt.
He clears his throat. “Because for the first time in my career… I wasn’t sure I could do that. I wasn’t sure I could be impartial.” He pauses. “Not when it came to you.”
It’s mid-afternoon, but there’s no sign of the sun in the pitch-black bedroom; the thick curtains have seen to that. I sit on the bed in the dark, feeling my thoughts spiral outward in a thousand directions. My knees are curled tight to my chest, my spine pressed firmly to the wood headboard. The sound of the shower running is the only noise to drown out my thready pulse.
He’s been in there for a long time. So long, I’m about to go check on him, just to make sure he hasn’t drowned, when I finally hear the valves shut off. A few seconds later, Conor walks in wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips.
I inhale sharply.
His chest is a gorgeous display of chiseled muscle. Water droplets still cling to his wet skin as he strides to the armchair in the corner of the room and pulls a pair of gray sweatpants from the small black bag he carried in from the Jeep earlier.
I try not to stare — much — as he tugs them on beneath his towel. But, hell, I’m only human. And let me tell you, the deep V-lines of his torso are a sight to behold. My eyes track his movements, drinking him in like he’s a cold wheatgrass shot after a session of hot yoga. I’d say his body is a temple, but that wouldn’t do it justice. His body is a Wonder of the World, right up there next to The Taj Mahal and the Great Pyramid.
He dries his hair with the towel as he walks toward the bed, eyes locking on mine as the space between us shrinks from feet to inches. I hardly dare to breathe as he sinks onto the other side of the mattress.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi,” he returns gruffly.
I search for something else to say to him, but my mind is one big blank. I’m exhausted, down to the marrow of my bones. Emotionally, physically. I could sleep for a thousand years; it still wouldn’t be enough.
Conor must be feeling the same way, because without another word he stretches out on the bed and promptly closes his eyes.
Goodnight to you too, Gallagher.
Leaning back against the headboard, I take the opportunity to study the planes of his face. The noble slope of his nose. The lushness of his lips. The clean-shaven jaw. I’ve never seen him without a beard or stubble before. The effect of that jawline in all its naked glory is undeniably hot.
“You’re staring,” he says without opening his eyes.
I flush and glance away. “I was not!”
“Whatever you say, Hunt.” His lips actually twitch, the first sign of life from him since he walked through the door earlier. I’m so relieved to see it, I barely care that his amusement is at my expense.
He cracks open one blue eye and peers over at me. “You planning on sleeping sitting up?”
“Maybe,” I say, just to be ornery.
He watches me, waiting.
With a resigned sigh, I scoot away from the headboard, stretch out my limbs, and roll onto my side so I’m facing him. “There. Happy?”
His eyes are closed again, but his mouth is curled up at one corner in the hint of an undeniable smile. “Depends. You planning on sleeping in that dress?”
I huff. “If I want.”
Another lip twitch. “Suit yourself.”
We’re silent for a moment, simply lying there in the darkness. My eyes close and I think I might actually fall asleep… when he interrupts me with another query.
“You also planning on sleeping in all that makeup?”
I startle. I’d forgotten about my smoky eye and red lip combo. My mouth opens to fire off another snarky response, but instead I tell the truth. “Actually… no. I hate waking up in the morning wearing day-old makeup. I just forgot I’d put it on this morning.”
“Don’t know why you bothered.”
“Excuse me?” I narrow my eyes at his tone. “What’s wrong with my makeup?”
He sighs and shifts his head on the pillow to meet my angry stare. “Nothing wrong with it, per se. I just don’t think you need it. Faces like yours… ”
My eyebrows arch.
“Let’s just say, a priceless work of art doesn’t need a filter or an expensive frame to make it invaluable,” he murmurs.
I blink hard, not sure how to process that.
Did Conor I-don’t-have-a-romantic-bo
ne-in-my-body Gallagher just call my face a work of art?
His hand reaches across the gap between our pillows. I hold my breath as his thumb lands squarely on my bottom lip, not daring to move a single inch. With a gentle swipe, he wipes off the smudge of color using the pad of his finger. The lipstick leaves a red stain on his skin.
“There,” he murmurs, staring at my tingling mouth intently. “That’s better.”
He’s still touching my lip and I’m barely breathing. There’s a flutter of nerves in the pit of my stomach. They feel almost like butterflies. But that’s crazy. I’m a twenty-nine-year-old woman, for god’s sake. I couldn’t possibly be experiencing something akin to a schoolgirl crush.
Right?
That would be insane.
Because I’m done with love.
A dedicated spinster.
Even if I did, just yesterday, experience the hottest kiss of my life against the wall of a dingy motel room.
Call it a farewell tour. A retirement party. A last lap around the old libido track, before hanging up my ovaries, so to speak.
Except… Conor’s not looking at me like I’m a spinster. Oh, no. He’s looking at me like I’m a midnight snack. One meant to be consumed in the dark, without any restraint or semblance of self-control.
“I’ll just go take this off, then,” I blurt, sitting up abruptly.
His brows lift.
“The makeup!” A blush steals over my cheeks. “I’ll take off the makeup.”
Not my dress.
Definitely not.
Not that I’d necessarily object to someone else removing it…
Shelby Quinn Hunt, you little slut! Get it together!
Cursing myself for even allowing such a thought to enter my warped brain, I practically vault off the bed and race for the sanctuary of the bathroom. I just need a little space. A little time away from those intense blue eyes, to sort through my own thoughts. To get my emotions back in check.
Transference, I remind myself. That’s all you’re experiencing. That’s all this… this… attachment you’re feeling for him is. A perfectly reasonable physiological response to stress and adrenaline.
After I’ve removed my makeup, brushed my teeth, French braided my hair, and changed into a black silk nightie — why, oh why, didn’t I pack my thick flannel pajamas instead? — I stall for as long as possible. Which, as it turns out, isn’t all that long. Lingering awkwardly in a small bathroom without any reading material or source of entertainment is boring as hell.
Steeling my shoulders, I take a deep breath, crack open the door, and tiptoe into the silent bedroom.
With any luck, Conor is already asleep.
Stopping short at the side of the bed, I survey his slumbering form warily. He’s tugged the sheet up to cover his lower half. His eyes are firmly closed. He’s totally still, his breaths steady as a drumbeat.
A fissure of relief shoots through me.
Or… I tell myself it’s relief. If I was being honest, I’d have to admit it feels a bit more like regret. (Thankfully, I have no problem lying to myself for the sake of my sanity.)
Making as little noise as possible, I pull back the sheets and slide beneath them. I settle firmly on my side of the bed, as far from him as possible, feeling unquestionably nervous about our proximity… and the lack of clothing on both our bodies.
The damn FBI couldn’t have sprung for a two-bedroom safe house?
It’s been ages since I shared a bed with anyone. I’ve grown so used to my king-sized solitude, it’s odd to experience the sound of someone else’s small noises.
The brush of bare skin against a pillowcase.
The rhythmic intake of breath in the dark.
Trying to get more comfortable, I roll over onto my back. My eyes spring open when, beneath the sheet, my hand brushes up against something.
A hand.
His hand.
I tell myself to pull away, to yank my arm out of the dangerous no-man’s land in the center of the mattress where it’s wandered. But before I can… Conor’s fingers twine around mine.
Apparently he’s not asleep.
I can’t breathe, can’t think. Can’t do anything at all as our grips lace together, unstoppable as two opposing magnets drawn in by an undetectable charge.
Time seems to freeze.
The air goes still in my lungs.
It’s so silent, I can hear the thudding of my own pulse, crashing like thunder between my ears as he holds my hand. And I know it’s crazy, feeling like this at the inconsequential tangling of two sets of fingers. I know I shouldn’t be affected so acutely. But the longer my palm is pressed against his, the wilder the feelings inside my chest become.
They storm within me, churning and howling in an inescapable vortex, sweeping away every reason in my head telling me this is a terrible idea, obliterating every hesitation in my heart warning me to guard myself against him at any cost…
It’s a thousand mile trip from one side of this mattress to another — a terrifying journey into unknown territory. But the winds within me spin faster still, removing all my resistance, wiping out my worries, scouring the sky of everything except the feeling of his hand in mine. Leaving nothing behind in the wreckage besides…
Desire.
Need.
Longing.
I push off the mattress and launch myself at Conor. We collide with a thud, a breath-stealing impact. My thighs straddle his hips, my hands plant against his shoulders, and I lean down so we’re flush together — chest to chest, eye to eye.
For a half-instant, I register surprise in his eyes before my mouth crashes against his. Any sense of shock is overridden by lust in a heartbeat. His arms come around me, locking me against his body in a cage of muscle. Not that I need a cage to hold me. I can’t imagine ever wanting to escape the fire of his touch, the feeling of his hands on my back, twisting in the thin fabric of my nightie.
As I kiss him, that storm inside me pours outward in a great tempest. With every brush of my lips, every press of my fingers into his skin, I feel myself spiraling faster, further out of control.
He responds to my urgency in equal measure, growling low in his throat when my mouth drops to his neck, his chest, anywhere my lips can reach. His hand shoots out like lightning and tears the band from the base of my braid. The chocolate waves tumble loose, coming undone in an instant thanks to the quick work of his fingers.
Leaning forward, I let my hair spill across his chest in a curtain as I bring our mouths back together and suck lightly on his bottom lip. He nearly bucks up off the bed at the sensation.
“Christ, Shelby.”
I laugh lightly, enjoying myself, but the sound quickly turns to a gasp as Conor’s hands land on my thighs. Without hesitation, he takes the thin fabric of my nightie between his strong fingers and tears the lacey slit wide open, baring me from hem to neckline in one clean rip. The black fabric falls away in tatters.
“Conor!” I blurt, stunned he’s managed to strip me naked in approximately three seconds. “That was my only nightgown!”
I see a flash of teeth — a grin of dark, delicious intent. “Don’t worry. You won’t be needing your clothes anymore.”
My retort never makes it past my lips, because suddenly he takes control, flipping me over onto my back with a sudden thrust of his hips. I gasp as he comes down on top of me, pressing me into the mattress with bone-melting weight. I feel his length, hard against my core through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, and want nothing more than to remove that last barrier keeping us apart.
No more space.
No more excuses.
He touches me everywhere, memorizing every inch of my skin, working his way slowly down my body with his hands and lips. After the not-so-delicate treatment of my nightie, I fear my underwear is about to suffer a similar fate. I’m even more stunned when, instead, he proceeds to use his teeth to drag the lace bottoms — inch by torturous inch — down my thighs, over my knees, past my shins, all
the way to my toes.
It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever experienced, by a mile.
Looming over me like a demon about to inflict the most exquisite destruction, he tosses my panties to the floor with a jerk of his head.
My breath catches in my throat. There’s a look in Conor’s eyes I’ve never seen before as he stares down at me, laid completely bare beneath him on twisted sheets.
“You are exquisite,” he murmurs in a tone that staggers me. It’s something like reverence. Like devotion.
I sit up on the bed, rising to my knees so we’re face to face. My hands settle on his sides, tracing the drawstring waistband of his sweatpants with fingers that are shaky from need. As I push the fabric down his hips in a rough jerk, freeing his rock hard length, Conor takes my face between his hands and tilts it upward so he can kiss me again.
He groans into my mouth when I begin to stroke him, clutching me tighter. His hands lace into my hair and the kiss goes wild — a desperate, unyielding dance of tongues and teeth. I’m dizzy with desire, aching for him like I’ve never ached for anyone else.
“Conor,” I murmur as his hands move between my thighs. “Conor, please… I need you.”
The lust thrumming through us both has reached a tipping point. It needs a release, an outlet. Surrendering to the fever, we fall backward onto the bed, our mouthes still fused together. He breaks away long enough to look down into my eyes.
“God, Shelby.” He groans as he settles between my legs, his massive length brushing up against me in a mere hint of what’s to come.
“Please,” I beg, nails digging into his back.
His forehead rests on mine, his labored breaths puffing against my kiss-swollen mouth. “Tell me again. Tell me you need me, Shelby.”
“I need you.” I arch against him, nearly moaning when I feel his cock poised at my entrance. “Right now.”
“Tell me you’re mine.”
My eyes are hazy. My thoughts are scattered. I hardly let myself think about the meaning of the words on my lips as I breathe, “I’m yours, Conor.”
His gaze never shifts from mine as he drives his cock inside me, so deep I feel him everywhere. So hard I see stars swimming like constellations across two indigo irises as he begins to move, driving us both toward the brink of something that eclipses mere lust. Something so powerful, my heart is ready to combust along with my body.
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