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I can’t speak. I collapse back down against the bed, my body quivering, my head swimming. I had no idea sex could be like this.
Nothing I have experienced is anywhere near the same page as this. I am hollowed out and rebuilt by what Connor has made me feel.
With his fingers.
His mouth.
He frees himself from me and stands, and I stare at him with a look that must speak of dismay because he laughs softly.
‘Are you going to just leave me here?’
‘No.’ His eyes narrow. ‘I don’t have the strength for that. I’ll be right back.’
I am alone in the room, alone with my thoughts, and it strikes me that this is my opportunity to pull myself together. But I can’t. The pillows smell like him. I move my head a bit, closer to it, and breathe in deeply, tasting the tang of his masculine fragrance on the tip of my tongue.
I am on fire still, and if my hands were free I would touch myself. Not because I’m unsatisfied but because I’m addicted to what Connor just made me feel.
He’s holding...things. I push up as high as I’m able with my hands tethered above me. A bottle of champagne, its distinctive yellow label obvious. A piece of fabric which, as he moves closer, I realise is his bow tie. And a couple of the bulldog clips that had held the papers together downstairs.
Curiosity is thundering through me. I stare at him as he moves closer, and my heart is banging against my ribs like a hammer to an anvil.
‘Connor...’ It’s a murmur and a plea.
‘Trust me.’
Our gazes mesh. Something seems to glide between us. Understanding—agreement. ‘I do.’
He presses the bow tie over my eyes and clips it behind my hair.
The absence of sight isn’t fair. He’s too beautiful; doesn’t he understand how the sight of him nourishes me? ‘I want to see you.’
He laughs softly. ‘We have all night.’
We do. All night. And I am going to use it. I can sleep tomorrow. This night is for Connor and me—his body and mine.
‘Open your mouth.’
I arch a brow and then realise he won’t be able to see my unspoken question. So I say, ‘Why?’
His fingertip presses to my lip and I gasp. A dribble of champagne pours between my lips. ‘Drink.’
His command sends shivers of awareness down my spine. I swallow.
‘Good.’
His approval makes my tummy squeeze.
‘You like this.’ He touches my breasts and then squeezes my nipples.
I do. I like it very much. ‘It’s...amazing.’
‘How about this?’
There is a pause—a dramatic pause—as I wait for the fulfilment of the promise in that question.
One of my nipples is compressed in something cold and hard. The small clip he’d brought back with him is my guess. It is painful, but in a way that I adore.
‘Two minutes,’ he says gruffly. ‘See if you can handle it for two minutes.’
