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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Monday, June 28 (the wee hours)
“You’re quiet,”Connor says in the cab on the way home. Wine and laughter flow together in a heady mix that has me reeling from the surreal events of the evening.
We spent four hours and more money than I care to think about at a posh Big Apple eatery after my concert. Both Ox and Tori toasted me at least twice. Ginger, a clone of her beautiful mother but with her father’s emerald green eyes, told me over and over how impressed she was with the concert. Connor couldn’t stop complimenting my “extraordinary talents and skills.” My Inner Maestro likes having groupies. #fanclub
“Hmm?” I turn my gaze from where I’m staring out of the cab’s dirty window, distracted by the flurry of activity all around us. The sidewalks bustle with people. Bright flashing lights show every shop and restaurant are open. It truly is the city that never sleeps. Even at 2 a.m.
“You’re very quiet,” he repeats. “Was it too much tonight?”
“It was. It was so much, Connor. But it was perfect.” I snuggle next to him. “I hardly know how to thank you.”
“Hmm,” he muses playfully. “I can think of a couple of ways.”
“Name it. Whatever it is, you deserve it. Nothing you could do could surprise me more than that, Connor. I want to give something to you.”
“I can have anything?” He cocks a brow and his eyes turn into dark pools of lust.
“Anything.” I gaze up at him, knowing exactly what he wants. I want it, too.
He slips his hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out a butterscotch lollipop. “Go ahead and get warmed up then, Lainey Bird. You’re going to be busy again tonight.”
It turns out, I enjoy the “anything” Connor has in mind. I tell him just that as I slowly peel away my clothes and get down on my knees in front of him in our hotel room. I relish the delight I can give to him. I slip open his belt, then unbutton his pants. Cupping him, he hisses his pleasure and I know he’s staring down, watching me. Sliding his zipper down, I brush my lips over him, nipping softly and then lapping hungrily. He groans and his fingers fist into my hair. This isn’t an obligation. It isn’t a payment or an earned reward. I’m giving to him, and in doing so, I’m giving to myself, too. Giving love.
