Page 125 of Make Me Mean It

“Don’t make me leave.”

My eyes open and I finally look at him, only to find his face tipped up towards mine, close enough that the smallest movement would put his mouth against mine.

Connor’s fingers dig into my hip, keeping me pressed against him while the edge of the dresser bites into my palms behind me. I hold on harder, because I can already feel myself giving beneath his hands. He came here. He’s asking me to let him stay, and fuck, I want to give him exactly what he’s asking for.

I just don’t know if I can survive him changing his mind again.

“You have no idea what you’re asking me right now.” My voice cracks slightly on the last word, and Connor’s eyes drop to my mouth.

“Then tell me.”

My forehead drops against his shoulder, a rough breath breaking out of me. “This isn’t fucking fair.”

I grip the edge of the dresser until it bites into my palm because if I let go, I already know exactly where my hands are going.

“You can’t,” I shake my head against him, frustration catching in my throat. “You don’t get to keep doing this to me.”

Connor goes still against me, and I grip the dresser harder because I’ve already said too fucking much and somehow it still isn’t enough. Every time he puts his hands on me, I believe this. Believe him. Then he pulls away, and I’m left feeling like a fucking idiot for forgetting that wanting me never seems to last past the moment.

His fingers slide beneath my chin, my breath stalling as he tips my face up, forcing me to meet his eyes, and fuck him for touching me so gently when his other hand is still gripping my hip like he can’t bear to let me move an inch away.

“This really isn’t fair,” I say, the words rough in my throat.

“I know,” he sighs, his thumb dragging slowly along my jaw while his eyes hold mine.

“Fuck, I know, baby.”

Connor’s breath catches, his thumb going still against my jaw before his fingers slide slowly around the side of my neck, keeping my face tipped towards his as he closes what little space is left.

My pulse kicks hard against Connor’s palm, impossible for him to miss as his gaze slips from my eyes to my mouth.

“But I can’t-” his breath touches my lips, warm and uneven, drawing me firmly against him. “I can’t stand here pretending it’s not fucking killing me thinking about Tristen having his hands on you.”

My grip shifts against the dresser as Connor drops his forehead to mine, his thumb still moving slowly beneath my jaw.

“I’ve been thinking about it since you left,” he admits, breath warm against my mouth. “His hands on you. His mouth.”

The words go straight through me, my breathing turning rough as Connor keeps his eyes on mine.

“Connor.”

“I know.”

My chest fucking aches.

“He didn’t,” I say, looking away. “He didn’t touch me.”

I can’t tell him I spent half the date thinking about the way he’d buttoned my shirt outside his flat. That every time Tristen leaned closer, all I could see was Connor backed against that wall telling me he didn’t want someone else touching me. That apparently one night with him was enough to make being there with anyone else feel fucking wrong.

Connor’s hands move down my sides, palms dragging over my waist before slipping around the backs of my thighs.

“What are you—”

I curse as he lifts me, my hands flying to his shoulders, legs closing around his waist as he pulls me against him, and the rough sound that leaves his throat sends heat straight down my spine.

“Good,” he growls.

His mouth finds my neck, lips moving over the skin beneath my jaw, and my head tips back as everything I told myself about keeping him at a distance starts slipping straight through my fingers.