Damn.
It’s only when he catches his breath and lies down on top of me that I realize he was talking about his hearing.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Connor
I watch Lexi passed out on my sheets, dead to the world. The opposite of me. My pulse is running a fucking million miles a minute like I just snorted a pound of blow.
I’m acting like I’m in a relationship. I’m acting like we’re two lovebirds playing house here.
I invite Lexi back to my inner sanctum, bare my secrets piece by piece, make love to her six times. Thinking that’ll scratch some damn itch. Yeah, I’m actually calling it making love because I stared dreamily into her eyes the whole time like a love-sick teen. Like I used to stare at Willow’s mom’s poster, my first crush.
But I know the score. Lexi’s not built for flings—she catches feelings too quick. And me? I’m too dysfunctional to give anyone more of myself. Selfish bastard that I am.
She’s the last thing I need complicating my trainwreck of a life right now, but I can’t stay away, and that’s the goddamn problem.
But she’s not just some fling I can send packing. I at least owe her basic human decency for Christ’s sake.
All of this is meant to be making me feel more relaxed, and while I certainly love to lose myself in having sex with her, I can’tdamn well shake this feeling that we’re heading straight for a steep drop.
I shocked myself by opening up to her about my condition. I hadn’t planned to when I stopped in her street. I got desperate that she was going to walk away and leave me festering in my bad mood and dark thoughts.
Then I went further off script, bringing her here. The guy who wouldn’t trust a barista with his coffee order is trusting someone in dire need of cash—who didn’t take my money.
I do trust her though, as reckless as that sounds. Trust she’ll keep her lips sealed even if I give her reason to despise me later on.
Although there’s a realistic part of me that knows it’s a risk. Everyone has the capacity to fuck someone over, it just depends how far they’re pushed. I could make her try to sign an NDA, but I don’t think that would go down too well. I guess I’ll have to take the risk and trust her. It’s too late now anyway.
I graze her cheek, ensuring she keeps sleeping. I don’t know how to play this.
I’m a selfish bastard for wanting her like this. Can’t help it though. The way she melts under my touch, responds to my every move—it’s like I’ve got total control over my body. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.
Her breath spills out in tiny chainsaw snores that make me grin. She’s got a smudge of mascara or some shit on one cheek and her mouth hangs open like she doesn’t have a worry in the world.
Now she’s snoring loudly in my thousand thread count sheets, looking more at home than any woman before her. It sets off a weird panic in me, like it’s highlighting how dangerously close we’ve veered into acting like a couple. Which is absurd.
And yet as the sheet slips off her bare thigh and she sprawls out, I realize I’ve never seen anything as sexy as busted-ass snoring Sleeping Beauty.
I can’t stop my hand from reaching out and reverently trailing down the length of her body.
A thunderous snort jolts her awake. She blinks, dazed, catching my amused gaze.
“Was I snoring?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep.
“You? Never,” I reply, the corners of my mouth twitching in a barely contained smile. “Sounded more like gentle doves billing and cooing.”
A pillow thwacks my face. “Oh god, was it bad?” She scrubs the sleep from her eyes. “Crap, what time is it? I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I should jet . . .”
Christ. I’m supposed to agree with her, not do what I’m about to do.
“You hungry? How about I order us some food?”
Her eyes light up. “Like pizza?”
“I was thinking something more along the lines of Le Grand Cochen. They do have pizza, if that’s what you’re craving.”
“That’s one of your Michelin-star restaurants. That’s an annual treat, not takeout.” She eyes me. “So, I’m staying for dinner, then?”
