I was choosing the whole thing.
27
CONNOR
The confession hung in the air between us like smoke after a fire—thick, lingering, impossible to ignore.
I'd laid it all out for her. Every ugly scar from St. Paul's. Every choice that had shaped me into the man I was now. And she'd stayed.
Not just physically, but in the way that mattered—her eyes steady on mine, her hand warm against my chest, her presence a quiet anchor in the storm I'd unleashed.
We hadn't moved from the bed. She was still curled against me, her body soft and yielding where it pressed into mine, her breath even and calm. The room felt smaller now, more intimate, as if the truth had drawn the walls closer.
Or maybe it was just us. The space between our skin vanishing under the weight of what I'd shared.
I expected questions. Recoil. That careful distance people put between themselves and damage they can't fix.
But Mila didn't pull away.
Instead, she shifted closer, her thigh draping over mine, her fingers tracing idle patterns across my abdomen. The touch waslight, almost absent, but it ignited something deep in my gut—a slow-burning need that had been simmering.
The confession had stripped me bare in a way that felt more vulnerable than any physical nakedness. And now, with her still here, still touching me, still looking at me like I wasn't ruined—I felt something crack open inside me.
Not breaking.
Opening.
"Connor," she whispered, her voice a soft caress in the quiet.
I turned my head, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were dark pools, reflecting back not pity, but understanding. Desire flickered there, too, subtle but undeniable, mirroring the heat building in me.
I didn't say anything. Words felt inadequate now.
Instead, I rolled toward her, my hand sliding up her arm, fingers grazing the curve of her shoulder before tangling gently in her hair. I pulled her closer, our lips meeting in a kiss that started tender but deepened quickly, her mouth opening under mine with a sigh that sent fire racing through my veins.
This wasn't about release. Not yet.
This was about worship.
About showing her with my body what my words could never fully convey—that she was everything. That loving her meant revering every part of her, slowly, deliberately, until she felt it in her bones.
I broke the kiss, trailing my lips along her jaw, down the column of her throat. Her pulse fluttered under my tongue, quick and alive, and I lingered there, sucking gently until a soft mark bloomed—a temporary claim, faint and intimate.
She arched into me, her breath hitching, but I didn't rush.
I wanted her to feel the build. The slow unraveling.
My hands moved to the soft plane of her stomach. I kissed her there, open-mouthed and reverent, tasting the faint salt of her skin.
She was warm, yielding under my lips, and I took my time, tracing circles with my tongue around her navel, dipping in briefly before moving lower to the dip of her hip bones. I nipped gently at the sensitive flesh there, feeling her shiver, her fingers threading into my hair.
"Connor ..." she breathed, the sound half plea, half wonder.
I looked up at her, our eyes locking.
Hers were hooded, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The sight of her like that—open, wanting—stirred something primal in me, but I held it back.
This was for her. About her.
