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“I-I’m sorry.” I attempt to backtrack. “I was just worried and was so relieved to see you weren’t hurt. It came out all wrong. I’m sorry.”
His expression doesn’t soften as I’d hoped.
“Prove to me how sorry you are.”
I’d do pretty much anything he wanted right now if it rid him of his anger. I’ve come to realize that Conor has demons he keeps buried deep for reasons unknown to me. I’ve seen them often enough, swirling in the grassy depths of his eyes. However, I’ve also seen the playful, flirty version of Conor, who resides beneath that residual anger. The version I have rapidly fallen in love with.
This monster who occasionally inhabits my boyfriend, I don’t like him, and I wish I knew a way to banish him for good. I don’t understand why he exists, whether it’s to do with Conor’s upbringing or family, neither of which he likes to talk about, or whether it’s related to work. I can only hope that as Conor learns to trust me and open up, it might help him put this side of himself to rest.
For his sake, and for my own, I pray that is the case.
He’s watching me so intently that he catches my small, nervous nod, and before I can blink, I’m lying on my back on the rug, stripped of my sleep shorts and panties. With his hand still pressed against my throat, Conor slams his steely length into me in one hard thrust, and I cry out, the sound strangled and garbled.
Conor’s pace is fast and relentless, yet with each stroke, heat builds in my core, chasing away my anxiety, until I’m tightening around him and giving as good as I get. “That’s my dirty little slut,” Conor growls. “Such a filthy little whore for me, aren’t you?”
His hand slowly constricts my airway, until only a trick of air can sneak past. Black spots form, growing progressively larger as my pulse hammers against his big hand.
Everything falls away. I can’t hear anything over the rushing of blood in my ears, and all I can see are the two green orbs hovering above me. My body is numb except for the ball of pleasure expanding in my lower abdomen, vibrating with energy before it explodes and radiates outwards.
The most intense orgasm of my life rips through me, threatening to tear me to shreds. I must black out, as when I blink my eyes open, Conor’s hands are gone from my throat, and he’s pulling me into his arms.
“I’m sorry, babe. I had a crappy day at work, and coming home to you yelling at me just pushed me over the edge.” He presses his forehead against mine. “I really needed that release, however. That was fucking unbelievable.”
I give him a wane smile, too high on endorphins and lack of oxygen to muster anything more. He presses his lips to mine before carrying me to the sofa. He strips out of his clothes before crawling on top of me. This time, his movements are slow and leisurely as we make love.
Several hours later, I’m gathering our discarded clothes off the living room floor before I wake Conor so the two of us can go to bed. I pause when I notice the droplets of blood soaked into the arm of his white shirt, frowning down at them. I didn’t notice any abrasions or cuts on Conor, so whose blood is this?
Absently, I brush my thumb over the dark spot before sparing a glance at Conor’s peacefully sleeping face. I don’t know what he was up to last night, but I know asking him is out of the question.
Bunding the last of our clothes into my arms, I try to ignore the uneasy feeling that settles over me that I don’t truly know the man I’m falling in love with.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I wake up late the next morning to breakfast in bed and an apologetic Conor. “Let’s spend the day together,” he suggests with an easy smile.
After shoveling a forkful of scrambled eggs into my mouth, I ask, “Don’t you have work?”
He shrugs. “I’m taking the day off. I want to take my woman shopping and out for a nice meal.”
With my mouth full, I nod, and with our day planned he goes to shower and get ready. Once I’m finished eating, I do the same, and it’s not long before we’re climbing into the backseat of a sedan.
“Why aren’t we taking your car?”
“Parking can be a nightmare, besides”—he offers me a delicious smirk that sets my insides aflame—“it means I can do this.” He pulls me into his lap so my head is resting against his shoulder, his arms banded around me as the car drives through the city traffic.
We ride in comfortable silence, my thoughts still stuck on last night. The elusive questions keep circling in my mind, preventing me from moving on and forgetting about them.
Where was he? What was he doing? Whose blood was that?
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop the questions from spilling out. They would only anger him, and I like this version of Conor. This easy-going, adoring side of him.
The car pulls up to the curb a while later, and the driver opens the door. Conor helps me out of the car, and as I lift my head, I catch sight of the street sign. Newbury Street. My gaze roams over the various shops. Valentino. Chanel. Cartier.
Expensive. Expensive. Expensive.
I smother a smile when I remember Carla and me having come here one day and making fun of all the housewives dolled up to the nines with their nine-inch heels and ridiculously overpriced outfits.
Conor’s hand slips into mine, and before I can ask if we can go elsewhere, he’s dragging me into the first shop.
