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This was it. Conor was going to finally let me in. Let me in close. Conor was going to fuck me. Arms around my narrow shoulders. Hands clutching at my hips. Heat claiming heat. Closer. Closer.
Conor’s eyes were warm as I stopped just before him. I shivered when his fingers intertwined with mine. He led me farther down the dark hallway toward the back. He was taking me away. He was bringing me with him. This was it.
He was going to find a quiet room. A quiet room for just the two of us. He was going to take me inside. The door would click quietly shut behind us. Would he lock the door? Would my toes curl at the very sound of it? Would I even be able to hear it over the thudding, thudding, thudding of my heart?
Would he flick on the light? To see me. To trace his eyes over my nakedness. To claim me before he even laid a single finger upon the throbbing vein in my inner thigh.
Or would he leave the light off? Would he want to find me with his hands out before him like a blind man? Would he desire to learn my curves with the rough calluses of his thumbs, with the sweat-slick lines of his open palms? Would he want the darkness to heighten his hearing so that he was surrounded by my breathing? My breathing which grew faster, rougher, more desperate under his mouth and hips? My breathing turned to panting? Would he want to turn on the lights only once I was laid breathless? Body glistening? Limbs boneless? Eyes dazed like I was on drugs as I stared up at him?
Conor’s fingers tightened on mine as we came to the door of the small storeroom at the back. Inside I knew there was only room for a few tall shelves and a flimsy round table in the centre. Ah, of course. He’d take me against the shelves. Rough and desperate. Punishment for how crazy I’d made him. He’d pound into me till ink fell and splattered all over the floor. All over us. Or did he have the table in mind? Testing its strength against his? Did he want us to fall together? To lay in its ruins? To lay in our ruins?
I thought my heart would beat right out of my chest as Conor reached for the handle to the storeroom door. It was all going exactly as I imagined. His calling of my name. His leading me where Rian and Mason couldn’t see us. His finding an empty room. His pushing the door open…
Conor stepped inside just like I thought he would. His arm extended and my arm extended and in the dark, he glanced back at me over his shoulder. There was something on his lips you wouldn’t call a smile unless you knew Conor Mac Haol. It was the faintest lifting of the corners. It was the tiniest softening of the tenseness of his strong jaw. It was the smallest hint of happiness.
I finally had what I wanted: Conor wanting me. Conor taking me. Conor making me his. This was it.
His arm extended and my arm extended and then he was tugging me toward him. I went without complaint. Without protest. Would he prefer that I struggled? Would he prefer that I tugged back against his grip? Like I had the first time we met? Like I had on the motorcycle? Like I had every other time? Would he like it better if I provided even the smallest bit of resistance?
Well, it didn’t fucking matter. Because there was no struggle in me. No resistance. No fight.
I wanted this. I wanted all of this. I came like a lamb to the slaughter and fuck how I wanted it. Heat was already pooling between my thighs as I stepped inside. I could feel the brush of my threadbare cotton t-shirt against my nipples and knew they were already hard. There was already a low moan at the back of my throat as Conor brushed against me on his way to close the door behind us.
I could already imagine what it would be like to be together in a room with him. His musk would smell stronger. He would feel even bigger than he already was. Anywhere I moved I would be within his grasp. I would be trapped. He would be my prison. Inescapable. And that was all I fucking wanted.
I winced against the sudden flood of light. It wasn’t like I was unprepared for light. It was just that when I imagined it, I imagined something softer. This was the glare of an office building. Not like the brush of warm sunlight.
Maybe if my eyes had been able to adjust just a little bit faster, I might have stood a chance. I blinked and winced against the overhanging bulb and the stack of papers and pens on the flimsy table came into focus slowly. Too slowly.
“What the—”
I was interrupted by a sound. I turned around to find the door closed just like I had imagined, just like I had hoped. Only one problem: Conor was on the other fucking side of it.
I ran to yank at the knob, but not before I heard a lock click into place.
“Hey!” I shouted. “What the fuck?”
“Get to work,” was all Conor said from the other side of the door.
“Get to…” I mumbled as I turned around and went to curiously glance over the materials gathered on the table.
There was my art portfolio. There were pamphlets on how to fill out applications. There was a stack of applications. To goddamn art school.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I shouted, darting back to the door.
“Be thorough with your answers. I’ll be checking.”
“You’ll be letting me out of here is what you’ll be doing,” I shouted.
There was no response after that.
“Conor?” I shouted.
I pressed my ear to the woodgrain of the door. I heard nothing.
“Conor?” I yelled a little louder. “Hello? Conor?”
I pounded on the door, but no one came. Art school applications? That wasn’t how the afternoon was supposed to go. If I was supposed to gain entrance to anything, it was Conor. His heart. His body. All of him. Not fucking art school. I pounded on the door harder.
Oh, the irony. I thought I was gaining a lover. Instead I got a father. And he’d just sent me to my fucking room to finish my homework.
