He kissed the longest one—a jagged line that ran from my ribs to my hip—with the same enthusiasm he showed for the unmarked skin of my chest.
"These are part of you," he said when he caught me watching him, his eyes clearer than they had been earlier. The drug was still in his system—evident in the slight slurring of his words and the flush on his cheeks—but there was genuine awareness in his gaze. "They're beautiful, too."
"They're not," I argued, an automatic response after years of seeing them as evidence of my failure, my weakness.
"They are to me," he insisted, pressing another kiss to the raised tissue. "They show you survived. That you're strong."
Something about his simple acceptance broke through defenses I hadn't even realized I still maintained. I reached for him, pulling him up for a kiss that contained all the emotions I couldn't voice—gratitude, wonder, a desperate hunger I'd thought permanently extinguished.
The kiss deepened, our tongues tangling as his body pressed against mine. The weight of him was intoxicating, the heat of his skin against mine a revelation. When his hips rolled,creating friction against my unexpected erection, I gasped into his mouth.
"Tell me what you want," he whispered against my lips. "Tell me how to make you feel good."
The question caught me off guard. What did I want? I'd spent so long convinced that sexual pleasure was a closed chapter in my life that I hadn't allowed myself to want anything.
I'd redirected my energy into my company, into rebuilding my life around what I could still do rather than mourning what I'd lost. But now, with Connor's body warm and willing against mine, desire roared back to life with staggering force.
"Touch me," I said finally, my voice rough with need. "Everywhere."
He didn't need further encouragement. His mouth returned to its exploration, working its way down my body with determined focus.
When he reached my navel, he glanced up at me, a question in his eyes. I nodded, unable to form words as anticipation built.
The first touch of his mouth on my erection drew a sound from me I barely recognized—half groan, half sob. Pleasure sharp enough to be almost painful rocketed through me, sensation where I'd resigned myself to numbness. My hands fisted in the sheets, knuckles turning white as I fought to maintain some semblance of control.
"Yes," I hissed as he established a rhythm that had my toes curling. "God, yes."
He hummed in response, the vibration adding another layer to the already overwhelming sensation. My hips jerked reflexively, an automatic response I'd thought lost to me forever.
But even as pleasure built, I found myself wanting more—wanting to touch as well as be touched, to give as well as receive. I reached down, threading my fingers through Connor's hair.
"Come here," I urged, tugging gently.
He looked up, lips swollen and eyes questioning, but complied, sliding back up my body until we were face to face again. I captured his mouth in a hungry kiss while my hands began their own exploration of his body.
I traced the lean muscle of his back, the curve of his spine, the firm roundness of his ass. Each touch drew responses from him—little sighs and moans that fed my growing confidence.
For three years, I'd been the recipient of care, of assistance. I'd forgotten what it felt like to be the one giving pleasure, to be the cause of someone else's gasps and shivers. The rediscovery was intoxicating.
"Yes, there," Connor encouraged as my fingers found a particularly sensitive spot. "Don't stop."
I didn't plan to.
I flipped our positions with a surge of strength that surprised even me, using my upper body to maneuver us until Connor lay beneath me, his lean form stretched out against the tangled sheets.
The new position allowed me to take control in a way that bypassed the limitations of my lower body, letting me use my arms and torso to maintain contact where it mattered most.
"Julian," he gasped as our erections aligned, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through both of us. "Please."
The plea in his voice drove me to a boldness I hadn't anticipated. I reached between us, taking both of us in hand, and established a rhythm that had Connor arching beneath me.
"Is this what you want?" I asked, my voice barely recognizable even to my own ears—deeper, rougher with desire.
"Yes," he moaned, his hips moving in counterpoint to my hand. "Just like that."
We found a rhythm together, our bodies slick with sweat as desire built toward an inevitable crescendo. The roomfilled with the sounds of our mingled gasps and whispered encouragements.
"You feel so good," I murmured against his neck, inhaling the scent of him—a mix of hotel soap, sweat, and something uniquely Connor that I already found myself craving.
