The smile that spreads across Conor’s face is both tender and wicked, his eyes gleaming with carnal promise. He lowers himself between my trembling thighs, his hot breath teasing my already slick folds before pressing open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin there. Each touch of his lips burns like fire, working his way inward with maddening slowness until I’m quivering, desperate for more.
My fingers tangle in his thick hair, not pushing, just clutching those silky strands as my anchor while pleasure threatens to drown me. When his tongue finally slides through my wet heat with one long, deliberate stroke, I cry out, my back arching sharply off the couch. His deep, hungry groan vibrates against my most sensitive flesh as he devours me, his tongue circling, flicking, then plunging inside with devastating precision. One large hand splays across my lower belly, the heel pressing just above where I need him, holding me in place as I writhe and buck beneath the exquisite torture of his mouth.
Through half-closed eyes, I watch him watching me, his midnight gaze locked on mine as his tongue performs wicked magic between my thighs. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of my hips, possessive and demanding, while his mouth devours me like a starving man at a feast. When he groans against my swollen flesh, the vibration shoots electric currents up my spine, making my back arch and my toes curl.
My nipples tighten to aching peaks as his tongue flicks mercilessly against that bundle of nerves, then plunges deep inside me, tasting my arousal. Unlike Devon’s mechanical performance, Conor worships every inch, learning my body’s secret language, deciphering what makes my thighs tremble and my breath catch. As he sucks that sensitive bud between his lips, as tension coils molten-hot in my core, I surrender completely to the delicious pressure building inside me, knowing I’m about to shatter spectacularly beneath his talented mouth.
The tension inside me becomes unbearable, a coiled spring wound too tight. My fingers clutch his hair as my thighs begin to tremble uncontrollably against his shoulders. I’m hovering on the precipice, suspended in that exquisite moment before release.
“Let go for me, Betsy,” Conor murmurs against my slick flesh, his breath hot and tantalizing. “I want to feel you come apart.”
His words are the final push I need. The orgasm crashes through me with devastating force, wave after wave of pleasure radiating outward from where his mouth is still working against me. I cry out his name, my back arching off the couch, stars exploding behind my closedeyelids. My body pulses and clenches around nothing, desperate to be filled.
Conor doesn’t relent, his tongue and lips continuing their sweet torture as he works me through every aftershock, drawing out my pleasure until I’m whimpering, oversensitive, and boneless. Only then does he press a final, reverent kiss to my inner thigh before lifting his head. In the silvery moonlight, his lips glisten with the evidence of my arousal. The sight sends another jolt of desire through my spent body. "You’re beautiful when you come,” he says, his voice husky with want. He crawls up my body, the hard planes of his chest brushing against my oversensitive nipples. “I could spend hours making you fall apart like that.” I reach for him, pulling him down for a kiss. The taste of myself on his lips is shockingly intimate, more so than what we’ve just shared. His erection presses insistently against my thigh through his pants, a reminder of his own unfulfilled desire.
“Let me,” I whisper, sliding my hand down to cup him through the fabric.
Conor groans, his hips instinctively pressing forward into my touch. For a moment, he surrenders, eyes closing as pleasure washes over his features. Then, with visible effort, he captures my wrist, bringing my hand to his lips.
“Not tonight,” he says, pressing a kiss to my palm. “Tonight was about you.”
Confusion flickers across my face. “But don’t you want?—"
“More than you can imagine,” he interrupts, strain evident in his voice. “But when we do this—when I’m inside you for the first time—I want it to be perfect. Not rushed on a couch after too much wine.”
The sentiment is so unexpected, so different from Devon’s take-what-he-wants approach, that tears prick behind my eyes. I blink them away, suddenly aware of my nakedness, my vulnerability. Conor seems to sense my discomfort. He reaches for the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch and covers me gently before lying down beside me, gathering me into his arms. “Stay?” I ask, hating the note of uncertainty in my voice. His answer is to pull me closer, tucking my head beneath his chin. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.” The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear lulls me toward sleep, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare shoulder. Just before consciousness slips away, I feel his lips press against my temple, tender and promising.
“Sweet dreams, Betsy,” he whispers, and I drift off feeling safer than I have in years. Morning arrives with gentle persistence, sunlight filtering through the curtains and painting golden stripes across my living room. I stir, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar weight of an arm draped across my waist. The events of the previous night flood back, bringing with them a delicious ache between my thighs and the memory of Conor’s mouth there. I shift carefully to look at him, not wanting to wake him yet. In sleep, his face is relaxed, almost boyish, with dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. A shadow of stubble darkens his jaw, and I resist the urge to run my fingers along it, to feel its roughness against my palm. The blanket has slipped down during the night, exposing his bare chest. That thin scar curves beneath his left pectoral, and now in daylight, I wonder about its origin. There’s so much I don’t know about him, and yet lying here, wrapped in his arms, feels strangely right.
My phone buzzes somewhere in the room, the sound muffled but insistent. Reluctantly, I extricate myself from Conor’s embrace, wrapping the blanket around my naked body as I search for the device. I find it buried beneath my discarded dress, the screen illuminating with a name that sends a chill through my warm contentment.
Devon.
CHAPTER 13
BETSY
Three days later, I sit at our favorite wine bar, my fingers anxiously tracing the stem of my glass as Della and Liana lean forward, their expressions a mixture of concern and curiosity. The low lighting casts a warm glow across the polished mahogany table between us, the background jazz providing just enough cover for our conversation.
“So let me get this straight,” Liana says, her hazel eyes widening as she sets her glass down with a decisive click. “Devon has been driving by your apartment at all hours, and he showed up at your office yesterday?”
I nod, taking a fortifying sip of my Cabernet. “Twice. His excuse was that he ‘happened to be in the area’ and thought we could ‘talk things through.’” I make air quotes with my fingers, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
“After ghosting you for weeks when he met a TikTok influencer who he claimed was the ‘one’,” Della adds, her blue eyes flashing with indignation. She reaches across thetable to squeeze my hand. “That’s not normal behavior, Bets. That’s stalking.”
“I know,” I sigh, pushing a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “And the timing... It’s like he has some sixth sense that I might actually be happy with someone else.”
“Tell us more about Conor,” Liana prompts, a small smile playing at her lips. “And don’t leave out any delicious details.”
Heat creeps up my neck as memories from that night flash through my mind—his mouth on mine, his hands exploring every inch of my body, the way he looked at me like I was something precious.
“He’s... different,” I say finally, unable to keep the smile from my face. “He listens—actually listens—when I talk. And he’s patient and kind and...”
“And?” Della prompts, leaning forward.
“And he made me come so hard I saw stars,” I blurt out, immediately clapping a hand over my mouth as my friends burst into delighted laughter. “I didn’t know someone could do so much with their mouths.”
“Now we’re talking!” Liana crows, raising her glass in a toast. “To Conor and his apparently magical tongue!”
