Home was the way The Sanctuary now held space for both of us—not just his work, not just his history, but my presence, my messiness.
Ellsworth pretended not to notice the extra shoes by the door. The second mug in the kitchen. The way my scarves had quietly colonized a corner of the entryway. But I caught the small, satisfied glint in his eye when he passed the room that was now unmistakably ours.
Connor had never called it moving in.
He called it staying.
As if that had always been the only option.
Most nights now ended the same way: the door closing behind us, the city muted beyond thick walls, and Connor’s hands finding me like they’d been searching for hours.
Tonight was no different.
He walked in from the hallway, coat still on, eyes already dark with the kind of hunger that never dulled. I was barefoot in one of his shirts, the hem skimming my thighs, hair loose and still damp from the shower. I’d been reading on the sofa, legs tucked under me, but the second he saw me, the book hit the floor.
He crossed the room in four strides.
No words at first. Just his mouth on mine—deep, claiming, tasting faintly of the night air and the bourbon he’d had with Micah earlier. His hands slid under the shirt, palms rough and warm against my bare skin, lifting me against him so my legs wrapped around his waist without breaking the kiss.
He carried me to the bed like I weighed nothing, like he’d done it a hundred times and would do it a thousand more.
The shirt came off somewhere along the way. Then my panties. His clothes followed in a careless trail—jacket, shirt, belt, pants—until it was just us, skin to skin, breath to breath.
He laid me down gently, but there was nothing gentle about the way he looked at me—like I was the only thing keeping the darkness at bay.
“Spread for me,” he murmured, voice low and reverent.
I did, thighs parting slowly, deliberately, watching the way his jaw tightened, the way his cock twitched at the sight of me already wet for him.
He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, hooked my legs over his shoulders, and buried his face between my thighs like a man starved.
I arched off the mattress with the first long lick, his tongue flat and thorough, tasting every inch of me. He groaned against my pussy, the vibration rolling through me, and I felt the sound in my bones.
“Fuck, you taste like mine,” he said against my clit, words muffled, hungry. “Every time. Every goddamn time.”
He ate me like he’d never get enough—like the taste of me was the only thing that could quiet the noise in his head. Slow circles, then long drags, then sucking my clit between his lips until my hips bucked. Two fingers slid inside me, curling, stroking, while his mouth never stopped. I threaded my fingers through his hair, holding him there, riding his face without shame, chasing the edge he loved to push me toward.
When I came, it was loud—his name, broken syllables, curses—my thighs clamping around his head as waves rolled through me. He didn’t stop until I was trembling, oversensitive, gasping.
Only then did he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes blazing.
He flipped me onto my stomach, pulled my hips up, and entered me in one deep thrust. I moaned into the pillow, back arching, taking every inch of him. He stilled for a second, letting me feel him—thick, hot, perfectly full—then began to move.
Slow at first. Deep. Controlled.
Then faster.
His hand fisted in my hair as he fucked me with the kind of relentless focus that made my toes curl. The other hand slid around to my clit, rubbing in tight circles that matched his thrusts.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he growled against my ear. “Taking me like you were made for it.”
I pushed back against him, meeting every stroke, wanting more, always more.
“Come again,” he ordered, voice rough. “Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel you.”
I did—shattering around him, clenching hard, pulling him deeper. He followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt, groaning my name as he came inside me, hot and pulsing, marking me in the most primal way.
We collapsed together, sweaty and breathless, his arms wrapping around me like he’d never let go.
