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I find a dress I think will be perfect for the holiday party, it’s red and flirty, with short fluttery sleeves and looks like it’ll hit right above my knees. I grab it and head toward the fitting room, very aware of the man who hasn’t said more than a few words all day following closely behind me.
I’m about to close the door, but Conor is right there. Right there. He’s taking up so much damn room it’s hard for me to concentrate on anything other than the way his broad shoulders fill the doorway.
Conor has always been the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. There’s something rugged about him, which I’m sure is helped along by his strong jawline and his slightly crooked nose. I know he’s spent some time in the boxing ring. It’s how Declan and Conor met; it’s a story I’ve heard many times over the years.
His hair isn’t red like mine, it’s more of a strawberry blonde and he always keeps his beard immaculately groomed. It’s a turn on and the subtle hint of the cedarwood smell from the beard oil he uses, the same one I bought for him as a Christmas gift years ago, has me remembering better times. Times when the chasm between us wasn’t so vast.
Anger floods me—anger at him and myself—and I snap at him, “What do you want, Conor?”
He steps forward and I step back farther into the dressing room. I shouldn’t have chosen the last one, it’s a little more secluded here than I would like with the way his seafoam green eyes flash with lust and something else which looks a lot like regret.
“You haven’t looked at me all day, Saoirse,” his voice is a husky rasp which goes straight to my traitorous clit. The hussy. “I don’t like it.”
My lip curls and the laugh that comes out of me is derisive as fuck. “You don’t like it?” He closes the door behind him and leans back against it, crossing his arms across his chest like he doesn’t have a care in the fucking world. It does not help the anger flowing through my veins. Like a broken record, I repeat, “You don’t like it?”
“No, I don’t.”
I step closer to him and can’t help but poke him in the middle of his chest. I shouldn’t touch him, I know this, but I’m not thinking straight. “I’m not the one who put so much distance between us that I don’t even know who you are anymore, Conor,” I sneer his name.
He catches my wrist in his large hand and pulls me flush against his chest. “I love your sass, mo bhanphrionsa,” he purrs.
My princess.
I suck in a sharp breath and the jacket draped over my arm falls to the floor in a heap. He hasn’t called me princess for so damn long and, somehow, this time it sounds very different. His hands slide up my arms and then down my sides, barely touching my ribcage. His touch doesn’t have to be heavy or rough, it doesn’t even need to be against my skin, to feel like fire.
I try and keep hold of my anger, but it’s hard with the way he’s looking down at me. “Don’t call me that,” I whisper.
Conor buries his face in my neck and takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to breathe me in. His fingers go down to the edge of the long tunic I’m wearing and then up underneath until he gets to the waistband of my leggings.
“Then I’ll just call you mine,” he murmurs against my skin, kissing my neck in a way that makes me wonder if I’m just dreaming.
My voice is unsteady, “What are you doing?”
“I realize that I fucked up, Saoirse. I’ve known it for a while, but then you left Boston. Having you so far away felt like a part of my soul was missing,” he confesses.
Yup, I’m totally dreaming.
When his fingers push past the waistband of my leggings and panties, I gasp as he runs a finger up and down the seam of my pussy. My knees go weak, and I cling to his shoulders to keep myself upright.
If I’m dreaming, I don’t want to wake up.
He kisses right below my ear, his breath hot as it washes over my skin, “I can’t continue to lie to myself about what you mean to me. I need you. You’re mine. I’m not going to stop until you believe it with everything in you. Until I prove it to you.”
He finds my clit with his thumb as a finger probes my entrance. He doesn’t push inside, and I whimper, “Conor, please.”
“I’ve got you,” he assures me. “I’ll never let you go. I’m not pushing you away anymore.”
I should be pissed. He’s taking liberties I haven’t given him consent to take, but my mind blanks as my body melts against him. This is everything I’ve wanted for so long. The words. The actions.
I start to pant and bite my lip to stop myself from moaning. When a whimper of need escapes, Conor pulls back and stares into my eyes for a moment. Pleasure curls in my belly and my hips start to move, chasing the orgasm that is right there. One that Conor O’Brien is giving me.
I want to close my eyes and savor it, but I’m afraid he’ll disappear.
“So wet for me,” he growls right before he slams his mouth down on mine.
Just fucking in time as he swallows a moan that rips from my chest. When he fills my pussy with one of his fingers and his thumb presses down on my clit with the perfect amount of pressure, I come all over his hand.
I’m a shaking mess in his arms and a feeling of euphoria I’m afraid to trust fills me. He kisses me with a passion I have wished on shooting stars to feel.
