He pulled back just enough to look up at me, eyes fierce with want. “Fuck, Mila,” he rasped, voice rough with raw honesty. “I could live between your thighs.”
The words hit me low and hard. I’d been with men who treated this like a favor, something to endure or rush through, their reluctance a quiet humiliation I’d learned to ignore. Somehad avoided it entirely, making me feel like my desire was too much, too messy, too inconvenient.
But Connor looked at me like I was a feast he’d been starving for.
“Not all men feel that way,” I whispered, my voice trembling with old ghosts and new wonder.
He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to my inner thigh, then another higher, eyes never leaving mine. “Those weren’t men, baby,” he said, low and certain, the words vibrating against my skin. “They were boys playing at pleasure. A real man knows heaven is right here—” his tongue traced a slow, deliberate circle around my clit, drawing a shuddering gasp from me—“and he gets on his knees to worship it every chance he gets.”
My heart cracked open at the reverence in his voice, the absolute conviction. No shame. No hesitation.
He groaned against me, the sound primal, unfiltered. “You have no idea how much I love this. Feeling you get wetter on my tongue, hearing those little sounds you try to hold back … it’s better than anything else in the world.”
Then his mouth was on me again, devoted and insatiable, licking deeper, slower, like he was memorizing every sigh, every tremor.
One hand steadied my hip; the other slipped two fingers inside me, curling softly, stroking in perfect rhythm with his tongue. I moaned quietly, fingers threading through his soaked hair, anchoring myself to him as pleasure built in soft, rolling waves.
It wasn’t frantic morning sex—it was a gift, a quiet claiming, a reminder that we belonged to each other now.
He brought me to the edge with devastating patience, watching my face, adjusting to every hitch of breath, every tremble. When I came, it was deep, my body shuddering againsthis mouth as he held me through it, lips never leaving me until the last pulse faded.
He rose slowly, water cascading off him, and I pulled him into a kiss, tasting myself on his tongue. His erection pressed hot against my stomach, and I reached between us, stroking him once, twice.
“Now, you,” I whispered.
He smiled against my mouth, then turned me to face the wall. I braced my palms on the tile, arching back as he slid into me from behind in one slow, perfect thrust.
We both sighed.
He moved with long, deep strokes, one arm banded across my chest, hand splayed over my heart; the other low on my belly, holding me close. Water rained softly around us, slicking every glide. I pushed back to meet him, savoring the fullness, the intimacy of him filling me while the world waited just beyond the glass.
“I’ll be thinking about this all day,” he said against my ear, voice rough. “About being inside you again tonight.”
The words unraveled him. His thrusts deepened, pace quickening just enough to chase his own release without losing the tenderness. I felt him swell, felt the moment he let go—hips pressed flush to mine, a low groan against my neck as he came hard, pulsing deep inside.
We stayed like that for a long moment, breathing together, water cooling on our skin. Then he pulled out gently and turned me for one last slow kiss—soft, lingering, full of quiet promise.
“We really should get out now,” he said, a smile in his voice.
I laughed, resting my forehead against his chest. “Yeah. We should.”
By the time we stepped back into the bedroom, wrapped in towels and warm from steam, the world felt close enough to reenter.
There was a soft knock at the door.
Connor and I both turned toward it, the sound measured and deliberate. Connor shifted, tightening his towel, and crossed the room to open it.
Ellsworth stood in the corridor, composed as ever. He didn’t step inside until Connor nodded once, granting entry.
“Good morning,” Ellsworth said calmly as he moved just far enough in to place a neatly arranged set of clothing and a small kit of toiletries on the chair by the window. Everything about it was thoughtful. Precise. As if my comfort had been accounted for long before I ever thought to ask.
“Morning,” Connor replied, inclining his head. “Ellsworth.”
Ellsworth’s gaze flicked briefly to me before returning to Connor, his presence efficient without ever feeling intrusive.
I felt a flicker of self-consciousness, but Ellsworth’s gaze was respectful, neutral. As if this—this version of Connor, this version of me—fit neatly into his understanding of how things worked.
“I’ve arranged clothing and essentials for you, Miss,” he said, gesturing toward the chair. “Should you wish to return to the residency today.”
