“I’d like that,” he said. “When you’re ready.”
Notif. When.
I knew that men like Connor didn’t waste words. They weren’t built for long speeches. They spoke sparingly, deliberately, as if language itself carried weight they refused to misuse.
He wasn’t the kind of man who talked about the future to soothe or impress. He talked when something was decided. And the fact that he’d saidwhen—so simply, so unguarded—told me more than a thousand reassurances ever could.
It was a quiet declaration that he saw me in his life beyond this city. I believed him completely. And I held that word carefully, like something precious, letting it warm me from the inside out.
We drifted back into sleep after that, tangled together in true, pure bliss.
Morning arrived quietly.
Paris light filtered through the curtains in pale gold bands, illuminating dust motes and the curve of Connor’s shoulder where my cheek rested. The city sounded distant—muffled traffic, a faint siren far away, footsteps echoing off stone somewhere below.
Connor was awake when I stirred, his arm loose around my waist, his hand resting low on my stomach like it belonged there.
“Morning,” he murmured.
I lifted my head, brushing my lips against his chest. “Morning.”
There was no rush to move. No scramble back into reality. We stayed there, exchanging soft kisses, hands roaming lazily, the connection between us humming like it hadn’t dimmed at all overnight.
When we finally rose, it was together.
The shower felt like an extension of the night—steam curling around us, water sliding over skin already too familiar to pretend to be new. Connor washed my hair with the same quiet care he’d shown everything else, fingers massaging slowly, deliberately, as if the act itself was intimate rather than a means to an end.
I washed him in return, palms tracing muscle, relearning the geography of him in daylight. The broad plane of his chest. The subtle scars my fingers already recognized. The strength there—unapologetic, contained, like it existed in service rather than display.
He was devastatingly handsome in a way that didn’t soften with intimacy, only sharpened. Stripped of tension, stripped of armor, he looked even more dangerous for how calm he was.
God, you’re magnificent, I thought, the realization landing low and slow in my body.
He watched me through lowered lashes, something dark and knowing in his gaze, like he could feel exactly where my attention lingered. When his mouth curved just slightly, it wasn’t a smile meant to charm—it was a private acknowledgment.
“What?” he murmured.
I slid my hands over his shoulders, letting them linger there longer than necessary. “You’re unfairly attractive,” I said. “You know that, right?”
A quiet huff of breath left him, almost a laugh. “Only to you.”
“That’s not true,” I replied, dragging my palms down his arms, enjoying the way his muscles shifted beneath my touch. “But it’s especially true to me.”
Heat flared instantly—sharp and familiar. I was acutely aware of him then. Of the way his body responded to minewithout him having to move at all. Of how turned on I was simply being this close, this unguarded, this chosen.
He leaned in, kissing my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. Each touch felt intentional, like he was reminding me that wanting didn’t have to rush itself to be powerful.
We stood under the spray, bodies clean and slick, steam still curling lazily around us. Connor’s palms settled on my hips, pulling me back against his chest. I felt him hard against the curve of my ass, and a soft laugh escaped me.
“Already?” I teased, tilting my head to the side so he could press a kiss to my throat.
“Always,” he murmured, lips brushing my wet skin. “But we have the whole day ahead … and tonight.”
The promise in his voice sent a shiver through me. I turned in his arms, facing him, water droplets clinging to his lashes and sliding down the planes of his chest. We both knew we needed to get out soon. But neither of us moved toward the door.
Instead, he guided me gently until my back met the tiled wall. “Let me take care of you one more time,” he said, voice low, eyes dark with the same tenderness that had undone me all night.
I nodded, parting my legs as he sank to his knees in front of me. Water streamed down his shoulders and back as his hands slid up my thighs, parting them wider. His mouth found me—warm, slow, devastatingly gentle. The angle was intimate, exposing, perfect. He licked me with long, unhurried strokes, tasting me like he had all the time in the world, even though we both felt the day tugging at us.
