His thumb traced my jaw. “Can I show you what I want instead?”
My breath caught. “Okay.”
“Will you get on the bed?” His voice dropped lower, almost shy. “Please?”
The “please” did something to me. In all my past relationships, sex had been transactional, a way to keep the peace. No one had ever asked like my participation was a gift, not a given.
I crossed to his bed on unsteady legs, suddenly self-conscious that I was still wearing my pants while he was half-naked. He followed close behind, catching my waist and pulling me close, finding my mouth again. This kiss was different than before—still hungry, but slower. More deliberate.
His hands slid under my shirt, lifting it up over my head and tossing it onto the bed, then his palms cupped my breasts through lace, and his voice came out in a low rasp: “This bra is sexy as hell.”
“I wore it for you,” I admitted. My voice came out choppy as his thumb found my nipple through the fabric and rubbed it into a tight peak, the lace creating delicious friction.
He lowered his mouth to my neck, slowly kissing his way down over my collarbone as his fingertips traced up the bra strap and lowered it over my shoulders. Each kiss was maddeningly slow, and I had no patience for his sweet seduction. I reached around behind my back to unclasp the hooks and shimmied to let the bra fall to the floor.
He groaned, bringing his mouth to my nipple, and as he sucked on the sensitive skin, I unbuttoned my pants, tugging them down.
“You in a rush or something?” he asked against my nipple, voice amused.
“Really fucking horny for my fake boyfriend,” I teased.
His mouth stilled for just a moment, his breath warm against my sensitive peak.
“What’s our backstory, anyway?” I asked as his tongue swept over my nipple. “How long have we been dating? Because I think I’m overdue for an orgasm.”
“Oh, are you?” he said, gazing up at me from his position hovering over my tits, his expression playful. “Poor Hannah. I’ll have to take care of you.”
His mouth returned to my breast as one of his hands slid between my legs. I gasped at the contact, already so worked up from having him in my mouth.
“Please tell me that you have condoms in one of these drawers,” I said, reaching for his nightstand.
“You haven’t looked?”
“Connor, I haven’t gone through your stuff,” I said quickly. “That would be—”
“No secrets here,” he said. He reached over and pulled open his nightstand drawer, revealing chapstick, lotion, athermometer, throat lozenges, all boring, practical items… and a box of condoms.
I started to reach for them, but he caught my hand gently. “Can I ask you something first?”
“Okay?”
“These past two weeks, I've been thinking about you in my bed.” His voice dropped lower, intimate. “Have you thought about me?”
The honest answer wasconstantly—in his shower, making coffee in his kitchen, sleeping in his sheets that smelled like his cologne.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Show me.” The words came out almost pleading. “I want to know what you do when I’m not here. When you’re alone in my bed.”
Oh.Oh.
Then his gaze drifted meaningfully toward his nightstand. “I don’t want to go through your things, either, but I’m guessing you have something…?”
Heat flooded my cheeks.
“Under the bed,” I admitted quietly. “In the shoebox.”
“Will you show me?” His hand came up to cup my face. “Please, Hannah. I’ve been thinking—” He broke off, breathing hard. “I need to see you.”
