"Want to," he mumbled, leaning forward again so that his breath tickled my ear. "Want you."
His hands slid inside my open shirt, palms flat against my chest. Despite the fact that I maintained my upper body strength with religious dedication, I felt vulnerable under his touch.
Exposed in ways that had nothing to do with skin.
"Connor," I tried again, grasping for my usual authority. "You need to rest. You've been drugged."
He pulled back to look at me and something in his expression gave me pause. Behind the drug-induced haze, there was a raw desperation in his eyes—a need that went beyond physical desire.
"Don't send me away," he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. "Please. They'll find me."
The reminder of his situation—of the men looking for him, of his own mother's betrayal—hit me like a bucket of cold water. This wasn't just about an unexpected physical reaction or an attractive young man in my bed. This was about someone in genuine danger who had nowhere else to turn.
I took a deep breath, trying to think clearly despite the confusing signals my body was sending. Connor's hands continued their exploration of my chest, his touch alternating between tentative and boldly possessive.
"I won't send you away," I promised, catching his hands again to still their movement. "But this isn't right. Not while you're drugged."
He frowned, leaning forward until our foreheads nearly touched. "But you want me," he insisted, his gaze dropping pointedly to the evidence of my arousal. "And I want you."
The simplicity of his drugged logic was almost charming. As if want was all that mattered. As if the world wasn't infinitely more complicated than desire.
"That's not the point," I said, struggling to maintain my composure as he shifted his weight again, sending another jolt of pleasure through my unexpectedly responsive body.
"Then what is the point?" he asked, his lips forming a pout that shouldn't have been as appealing as it was.
I had no good answer for that. Not when my body was betraying years of medical certainty. Not when this stranger's touch was rewriting what I thought was possible.
"Just... wait," I managed to say. "Until the drugs wear off. Until we can talk properly."
Connor studied my face for a long moment, his expression surprisingly lucid given his state. Then he smiled—a slow, determined smile that sent a shiver down my spine.
"I'm going to make you feel good," he promised, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And you can't stop me."
The challenge in his words was clear, and something inside me—something I thought had died along with my ability to walk—stirred in response.
Connor's lips found my neck before I could formulate a response, his mouth hot and insistent against my skin. I hadn't been touched like this in years—hadn't felt this surge of heat through my body since before the accident.
Every rational thought told me to push him away, to be the responsible one since he clearly couldn't be.
Instead, I found myself tilting my head slightly, giving him better access as his kisses trailed down to my collarbone, each one sending shockwaves through nerve endings I thought had gone dormant.
"You don't know what you're doing," I whispered hoarsely, barely recognizing my own voice—stripped of its usual composure, raw with a need I'd forgotten how to express.
"I think I do," he murmured against my skin, his breath warm and moist. "I think I'm making you feel good."
His confidence was staggering for someone so clearly under the influence. I raised my hands to his shoulders, intending to create distance between us. But once my palms made contactwith the solid warmth of him, they refused to push. Instead, they lingered there, feeling the subtle shift of muscle beneath his shirt as he moved.
"Connor," I tried again, attempting to inject authority into my tone. "You're drugged. This isn't—"
"Shh," he interrupted, pressing a finger against my lips. The casual intimacy of the gesture shocked me into silence. "I know I'm drugged, but I also know what I want."
His eyes, though hazed with whatever his mother had given him, held something that cut through my defenses—a raw vulnerability that seemed at odds with his bold actions. There was loneliness there, and a kind of desperate hope that I recognized all too well.
I knew I should end this. Call Michael. Get medical help for Connor. Handle the situation with the clinical efficiency I applied to every other aspect of my life. That would be the rational choice. The responsible choice.
But rationality seemed to be failing me as Connor's hands explored my chest with increasing boldness, pushing my already unbuttoned pajama shirt aside to expose more skin to his touch.
"You're beautiful," he said, the words slurring slightly as his fingers traced patterns across my chest.
