Up in Smoke (Crossing the Line, #2)(36)

“You’re goddamn right this * is the first place my hand touches you. I’m its owner, Erin. That’s why it feels so good.” He searched her face from beneath weighted eyelids, rough groans falling from his lips. “Come on, sweetheart. Work your sexy * on my hand and come in that tight thong. I need it as bad as you do.”

His hand squeezed her. Hard. Erin screamed as the orgasm blasted her, bombarding her from all sides. She tried to ride it out by pumping her hips, but it had a mind of its own and it couldn’t be controlled. Connor’s mouth sealed over hers and instantly, a thread of calmness pervaded, even as the flesh between her thighs continued to spasm and weep. She focused on his mouth, the confidence in every stroke of his tongue, and it was glorious. But reality started knocking on the door, demanding to be let in. The beautiful afterglow of his touch, his taste started to set off alarm bells. She was getting too complacent. Never secure. Not even with him…security was impossible.

She released his mouth on a gasp, taking in her position in one panicked glance. Pinned to the steering wheel, a big masculine hand between her legs. Keeping her there. The driver’s side door being open saved her marginally, but she couldn’t prevent her instincts from intruding, making her scramble off his lap into the passenger seat.

“Erin, everything is okay. You’re here with me. Safe. Always safe.”

Don’t trust him. They lie. Her fingers hammered at buttons, attempting to lower the window or unlock the door, but it wouldn’t work. The car roared to life beneath her and she stamped a hand over her mouth. Caught. I’m caught. Cool wind hit her in the face as the window rolled down and she sucked it into her depleted lungs. She buried her face in her hands, peeking out at her escape through parted fingers, trying to focus on it.

“Look at me.”

She jerked her attention back to Connor and felt some of the riotous tension flee from her chest. The stark misery etched into his face is what did it. What brought her back. Oh God, she’d f*cked it up. Again. She took the shirt he offered her gently and dragged it over her head, wishing it covered her belly. When she glanced back at Connor, he was no longer in the driver’s seat. Gone. He left. I don’t blame him.

After tugging her jeans back into place, she sank down further into the seat, wishing she could curl up and never move again. Before her pity party could turn into a full-blown barn burner, Connor appeared at the passenger door and opened it only after her nod. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s take the bus home.”





Chapter Twelve


Connor had never been out of the Bronx for longer than a couple hours until he enlisted with the navy. At first, it had been because his family couldn’t afford vacations, or hell, even a trip to Ellis Island, on his father’s disability check. Connor couldn’t remember a time when his father hadn’t sat on their living room couch, bitter and disgusted with the world. Demanding meals, arguing with his insurance provider on the phone, drinking. Always, the drinking.

His father’s penchant for imbibing too much whiskey and turning violent had been the latter reason Connor hadn’t strayed too far from the Bronx. Maybe at one time he’d been too young to protect his mother, but around age thirteen, that had drastically changed. Over the course of a summer, he’d outgrown his father in every way possible. He’d started to meet the fists that had been flying at his mother since he could remember with blows of his own. He could still remember the first time he stopped his father’s fist in midair and felt bones creak in protest against his palm. Connor felt no shame admitting there had been ample satisfaction in seeing his father’s shock.

By age sixteen, Connor thought he’d had his father handled. There was an unspoken threat that if something happened to his mother ever again, Connor would make him sorry. His father had even cut back on the drinking, even attending the odd AA meeting. It had been a rare snippet of time in their household where it had felt almost peaceful. His mother, Joanna, had started to smile again. Started going back to church since she didn’t have to hide the black eyes anymore. He’d gotten comfortable, even dating a couple girls in his sophomore class.

The night his father died, Connor had walked into the house after one such date and stopped cold in the entryway. It wasn’t even late, but all the lights were off, except for in the kitchen. He could see it emanating from beneath the still-swinging door. Silent. So silent. He’d known before he even entered the kitchen that he’d find his mother. She sat with her back against the refrigerator door, knees pulled up to her chest, pressing a bag of frozen carrots to her eye.

“How was your date?” she’d asked him, words muffled because of a busted lip. Then she’d promptly burst into tears.

Connor could remember mentally checking out, almost as if there’d been an audible click. He’d left his mind in the kitchen and taken his rage-filled body elsewhere. Operating on pure testosterone, he’d stormed back through the house to find his father attempting to sneak down the stairs with his jacket. They had both frozen for a split second, long enough for Connor to communicate what he was going to do. But his father fell out the door first, fast on his feet despite his obvious inebriation. Connor had sprinted after him out onto the sidewalk.

What happened after that remained clear in his head. It might as well have happened last night. Or this morning. It was his greatest shame and yet only the beginning of what the following years would bring.