The walk back to the cottage takes twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of barefoot trudging through the forest and dodging roots and rocks and replaying every moment of last night. I get angrier with each step. By the time I reach my front door, I’m practically vibrating with rage.
I slam inside, strip off the ruined dress, and head straight for the bathroom.
The shower takes a few seconds to heat up. I step under the spray and let the water pound against my shoulders. The heat washes away the dirt and leaves, and evidence of what we did. My skin still smells like him. That woodsy, masculine scent clung to me all night and made me feel safe even when everything else was spinning out of control.
I hate that I liked it. I hate that even now, furious and abandoned, part of me wants him here.
My hands move on autopilot. I reach for the soap, work it into a lather, and scrub my arms, stomach, and thighs. Everywhere he touched. Everywhere his mouth explored. The memory of his tongue between my legs makes heat pool low in my belly, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the unwanted arousal.
Stop it. He left you. He doesn’t deserve your thoughts.
But my body doesn’t listen to reason. My body remembers how good it felt when he lifted me against that tree. His fingers curled inside me and found that spot that made me see stars. He growled my name when he came, like it was the only word he knew.
My hand drifts lower without conscious decision. I press my palm flat against my stomach and let my fingers trail down through the slick heat between my thighs. The first touch against my still-swollen flesh makes me gasp.
This is wrong. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be standing in my shower and thinking about the man who dragged me into a forced marriage and then disappeared before dawn.
But I can’t stop.
I brace one hand against the tile wall and let the other work between my legs. My fingers find my clit, and I circle it slowly and imagine Connor’s hands instead of my own. His rough palms. His calloused fingertips. The way he touched me like he was memorizing every inch of my body.
Water streams down my back as I increase the pressure. In my mind, Connor is here with me. He’s pressed against my back, and his erection is hard against my ass, and his mouth is hot on my neck. One of his hands cups my breast while the other mirrors what I’m doing now and strokes me toward release with maddening patience.
I slide two fingers inside myself and moan at the fullness. It doesn’t feel as good as him. Not even close. But it’s enough to chase the building pleasure coiling in my core. I pump my fingers in and out and grind my palm against my clit with each thrust. The tile is cool under my supporting hand, and the contrast to the heat flooding through the rest of me makes me shiver.
My mind conjures the image of Connor on his knees in front of me. Those blue eyes looked up as his tongue worked magic between my thighs. He gripped my hips to keep me from bucking against his mouth. He made obscene sounds while he devoured me, like I was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
I add a third finger and curl them the way he did. The stretch burns, but the pleasure far outweighs the discomfort. My legs start to tremble. I’m close now. So close. I chase the peak with desperate strokes.
I think about how he lifted me against that tree and drove into me with one smooth thrust. He filled me so completely I couldn’t breathe. He whispered filthy things against my neckwhile he fucked me and told me I was beautiful and tight and perfect.
My thumb presses harder against my clit as my fingers pump faster. The pleasure builds and builds and coils tighter with every stroke. I’m panting now. My breath fogs against the shower tile, and my whole body trembles on the edge of release.
I remember the weight of him on top of me. The way he pinned my wrists above my head and thrust into me so deep I felt him everywhere. The growl that rumbled through his chest when I clenched around him. He told me to come for him, and I did. I shattered into a million pieces while he watched with those burning blue eyes.
“Connor,” I breathe, and the sound of his name on my lips tips me over.
The orgasm crashes through me in waves. I cry out, and my voice echoes off the bathroom tiles. My inner walls clench around my fingers as release pulses through my body. I ride it out and work myself through every last tremor until I’m left gasping and weak-kneed under the cooling spray.
Then reality crashes back.
I just touched myself to thoughts of the man who took my body last night and then abandoned me in the forest like I was nothing.
“Damn it.” I yank my hand away, shove it under the water, and scrub like I can wash away the shame along with the evidence. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”
What the hell is wrong with me? How can I still want him after everything he’s done?
The bond. It must be the bond messing with my head and making me feel things I wouldn’t normally feel. That’s the only explanation that makes sense.
I shut off the water, grab a towel, and dry myself with more force than necessary. My reflection in the foggy mirror looks pale and drawn. Dark circles sit under my eyes, and a bruise is forming on my hip where Connor held on too tight. Evidence of passion that felt earth-shattering in the moment, but now just feels like another way he claimed me without permission.
I get dressed for work on autopilot. Professional slacks. A soft sweater. Sensible shoes. I pin my hair up and apply minimal makeup to cover the evidence of my night. By the time I’m finished, I almost look like a functioning human being.
Almost.
***
Two days pass without any sign of Connor.
