Up close, he was even more unfair—dark hair cut with disciplined precision, the kind that suggested habit rather than vanity, his face all hard planes and restraint. A mouth that looked like it had learned early not to say everything it knew. Eyes darker than I expected, steady and intent, like nothing about me was accidental.
He didn’t look polished the way men back home tried to look polished. He looked used—in the best way. Like the world had tested him and found him capable.
Exotic wasn’t the right word, but it was the only one my brain offered. Not foreign exactly—other. As if he operated by a different gravity, one I hadn’t grown up learning to navigate.
I pressed my mouth to his jaw, then his neck, tasting him—clean skin, salt, something warm and masculine underneath that made my pulse jump. He tasted like restraint barely holding. Like danger kept on a short leash. His breath hitched when my lips lingered, and the sound went straight through me, low and sharp, like a reward.
My hands slid lower, over the hard lines of his torso, mapping muscle that felt earned rather than displayed. This wasn’t a body sculpted to be admired. It was built to do things. To protect. To endure. To take control when needed—and let go when it mattered.
Every inch of him felt deliberate. Different from the men I’d known before, who wanted to be wanted. Connor felt like a man who decided.
“Wait,” he said, rough.
And the word—God—didn’t cool anything.
It only made me want him more.
I froze.
He rested his forehead against mine, breathing hard, his grip tightening briefly before loosening.
“If we keep going,” he said again, “I won’t stop. And tonight isn’t the night I want to take you.”
Frustration flared hot and immediate. “Why?”
“Because you’re choosing,” he said. “And I won’t let this turn into something you wake up from wondering who had the power.”
My chest heaved. My body screamed in protest.
“You already do,” I said, breathless.
His eyes darkened. “Only if you give it to me.”
I stared at him, torn between wanting to push him away and wanting to pull him back harder.
Finally, I laughed—a shaky, breathless sound. “You’re infuriating.”
“Yes.”
I pressed my forehead to his chest, letting myself feel the thud of his heart beneath my ear. Strong. Steady.
Alive.
“This is new,” I admitted.
“For me, too,” he said quietly.
That surprised me more than anything else.
He stepped back first, creating space even though it clearly cost him something. My body hummed, aching, my skin still buzzing where he’d touched me.
He picked up his coat, then paused, looking at the camera again.
“Those photos,” he said. “They stay with you.”
“Yes.”
“And if you ever want to show me how you see me,” he added, “I’m not afraid of that.”
