Taking Connor(42)

“You’ll get blood on your jeans,” I point out as I try to pull my foot away, but his firm grip prevents it. Reaching up, he grabs the bottle from me as he holds my ankle with his other hand, taking a much longer swig than me.

“They’re just jeans, babe.”

He goes to work butterflying and bandaging my toe as I think about how he called me ‘babe.’ He takes his time, only breaking to take swigs from the Jack Daniels, and when he finishes he pats my leg.

“All better.” I eye my toe now wrapped in gauze and groan in embarrassment.

“Thank you so much. I feel like such an idiot.”

“It was my fault. I didn’t mean to scare you. There weren’t any towels in the bathroom, and I thought I could sneak back to my apartment in the dark without anyone seeing me. I figured you were already passed out. Sorry you had to witness the live nude show,” he laughs as he rubs his head with one hand.

“Sorry you had to witness the wet T-shirt contest the other day, courtesy of J.J.” I retort.

He leans over as he tries to control his laughter. “I think he was my new best friend that day.”

I kick him with my good foot. “I might as well have lifted my shirt up and just showed them to you. I’ve probably scarred poor J.J. for life.”

“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.