Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(20)

Instead, I’m going to bask in the yum—drown in it. And allow myself to enjoy having Connor all to myself. His undivided attention, the feel of his touch on my skin . . . latex covered though it may be . . . and the closeness of the two of us alone in a room together.

“If it’s any consolation,” Connor says, “that wall came out of nowhere. You never had a chance.”

God, he’s adorable. Without even trying. It’s always fascinated me that he’s a man that can go from rivetingly sexy one minute to womb-achingly sweet the next. I don’t know how he does it—I’m just grateful I get to be in his orbit when he does.

“That makes me feel so much better,” I reply.

“That’s what I do.”

In my peripheral, I see the business end of a Novocain syringe in his hand.

“Just a little prick,” he warns.

I close my eyes, joking, “That’s what she said.”

Connor’s chuckle floats between us.

“Not to me,” he teases back.

Every inch of my skin tingles and my palms grow damp, because . . . is he flirting with me? I think he’s flirting with me. Or it’s possible I hit my head a lot harder than I thought.

The pinch of the needle bites into my skin and I gasp at the sting.

“Sorry,” he says in rough, regretful tone.

“It’s okay.”

And then . . . brace yourself . . . Connor Daniels blows on me.

And I almost orgasm on the spot.

The soft wisp of his breath is cool and clean with a faint hint of mint. It soothes the hurt of my forehead and makes me ache deliciously everywhere else. The muscles in my lower stomach clench and throb in time with my pounding heartbeat, and a little moan slips out that I can’t contain.

“What was that?” Connor asks.

I wet my dry lips, fidgeting my hips and crossing my ankles. This moment will live in infamy in my masturbation fantasies from now until the end of time.

“Nothing,” I’m able to manage shakily.

We’re both silent after that—our hushed breaths the only sound—as Connor closes my wound with steady hands and smooth strokes and an unwavering, intense gaze.

In the immortal words of Old Rose from Titanic, it’s the most erotic moment of my life.

I just can’t tell if that’s fantastic or sad.

When he’s finished, he looks down at me. There’s a tenderness in his eyes that fills me with liquid warmth from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

“You good?” he asks.

“Right as rain.” Connor helps me into a sitting position, turning me so my legs dangle over the side of the gurney. I steal a glance at my reflection in the silver metal of the spot lamp. “Pretty nice work, big guy. You could join the sewing circle—let me know if you’re interested and I’ll hook you up.”

He smiles but sticks to business, watching my eyes as he holds up his pointer finger in the center of my line of sight.

“Follow my finger.”

He moves his hand left, then right, checking for signs of a concussion as my eyes track the movements.

“Good. Are you seeing two of me?” he asks. “’Cause that would be pretty awesome.”

“Har-har. You’re funny today.”

He lifts one broad shoulder. “I try.”

Connor snaps his gloves off, tosses them in the waste bucket, and moves to the sink to wash his hands.

“Listen, Vi—about what Garrett said in the cafeteria . . . it’s okay if you want to back out on the wedding. It’s not a big deal.”

It feels like I walked into the wall again. But harder this time.

Worse.

I’m glad his back is to me. Glad he can’t see me. I don’t think I’d be able to hide the crush of disappointment that’s on my face right now.

By the time he does turn around, drying his hands with a paper towel, my expression is blank and emotionless. It’s a countenance I’ve perfected when speaking to the family of patients who we know aren’t going to make it.

“Don’t feel like you have to go with me just because we told them we would.”

He’s smiling at me as he says it. Like I should be pleased. Like he’s doing me a favor.

And it pisses me off.

“Right.” I nod sharply. “I see how it is.”

He’s confused by my response. Or bothered—or both.

“Wait a second. What do you see?”

“You were just being polite—of course you were.”

Stupid hopes, stupid dreams. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. Or feel . . . pressured to go to the wedding with me because of my brother and Dean.”

I uncross the arms I hadn’t even realized I’d crossed—lifting them out on my sides.

“Jesus, Connor, I’m not some wilting flower.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” I snap. “I have a mouth, you know.”

“Trust me,” now he’s snapping too. “I’m keenly aware.”

“I can speak my mind if something is bothering me.”

“I know you can, Violet. I . . . I like that about you.”