Taking Connor(41)

“Would you like to head home?” he asks, not meeting my gaze.

I blink a few times as the moment dissipates. Looking to the floor, I clear my throat and answer, “Yes. That’s probably a good idea.” I don’t know what just transpired between us. Was it just me? Did I imagine all . . . that? Whatever it was. Either way, the high I’ve been riding all night dwindles away, and I’m left feeling disappointed. All I want to do is go home and crawl in bed.

Connor takes my hand and leads me off of the dance floor like I’m a child. We grab my small purse, and I scan the bar for our server as I dig through it looking for my debit card.

“It’s already taken care of,” Connor voices and I twist my mouth in annoyance.

“It was supposed to be my treat,” I point out.

With a sideways smirk, he replies, “Count it toward the meals I owe you.”

We say goodbye to Lexi, who swears she’s grabbing a cab and heading home. It’s dark out, but the night is warm, and I rest my head against Connor’s back the entire ride. Once we’ve pulled in the driveway and put the helmets away, we walk inside. Jeff hasn’t finished the plumbing and Connor wants to shower before he goes to bed. After an awkward moment, I hug him.

“Thanks for a fun night. I liked riding the bike.”

“I’ll have to take you out again sometime.”

“Well . . . night.”

“Night, Demi.”

Once I’m upstairs, I change into my night clothes and realize I’m still really drunk as the room seems to be spinning a bit. I’m going to hate myself in the morning if I don’t take some ibuprofen and drink a glass of water. Stumbling back downstairs, not bothering to turn on the kitchen light, I open my cabinet where I keep my pain relief medication, then go to the cabinet where I keep my glasses. As I’m pulling a glass down, I hear, “Oh shit.”

The glass falls from my hand as I whip around, and in the limited light from the moon shining through the kitchen window, I find Connor, naked, rushing back toward the bathroom until he hears the glass crash against the floor and turns back, using both hands to cover his manhood.

Damn.

He really needs both hands?

Stupidly, I move just as he yells, “No, no, no.”

But it’s too late. I step on the broken glass at my feet and slice my toe open.

“Mother freaker!” I hiss as I raise my foot and hop a little.

“Stay still, babe,” Connor orders. I lean against the counter and even grab a dishrag from the counter to get my gushing bloody toe under control. Connor turns from me and throws his clothes on the floor, keeping his jeans and stepping into them quickly. Funny how the pain of slicing open my toe seems to have disappeared as I stare at his ass. I feel like I’m like a horny teenage boy that just saw a girl’s nipple for the first time. What the hell is wrong with me? When he spins back around, his jeans are up, but unbuttoned, revealing that glorious V and the little bit of blonde hair that leads . . . down.

For the love of everything good and holy. Couldn’t he just be ugly? Why, why couldn’t he have been super ugly?

“Stay right there,” he says. “Put that towel over it, babe.”

Snapping to, I find my toe still bleeding all over the place and the dishtowel in my hand. I was too busy staring at him and forgot what I was doing. As I wrap my foot, Connor grabs the broom off the porch and starts sweeping the glass in a pile to the side. Then he drops the broom, letting it smack the ground and comes to me. He lifts me by my waist as if I weigh nothing and places me on the counter. “Let me look at it.” I move my hands and can’t help but hiss a little as he pulls the towel away. “Damn, Demi. This may need stitches,” he tsks.

“No, no stitches,” I insist. “There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom closet upstairs. Will you get it? We can just butterfly it.”

After he covers my toe, he heads upstairs and returns with the kit already rummaging through it. When he pulls out the peroxide, I shake my head. “Oh, hell no. That’s going to sting.”

“It won’t feel as bad as an infection,” he argues as he twists the cap off of the bottle. “Can you put your foot over the sink?”

Twisting around, I manage to get in the right position and prepare myself for the burn as I pull the now blood-stained dishtowel away. I’m expecting him to give me a countdown or something, but nope. He just pours it right on the cut, and I yelp a little.

“No warning, Connor?”

He chuckles a little as he leans down and blows softly on my toe. His lips have that perfect round shape, and I forget the sting when his gaze moves up and meets mine as he continues to soothe my cut. Why is my mouth so damn dry right now? “I didn’t want you to overthink it.”

“Thanks,” I say, dryly, earning a laugh from him. He walks over to the freezer and pulls out the small bottle of Jack Daniels I keep. I don’t drink it often, but every once in a while I enjoy it.

“Do you mind?”

“Help yourself,” I motion. “But give me a sip first.”

“Sure you haven’t had enough tonight?”

“I’m going to feel like ass tomorrow no matter what at his point. Might as well give it my all.” As I take a long swig and choke on it, he turns me and pulls a chair from the kitchen table, taking a seat and placing my foot in his lap.