Taking Connor (23 page)

“I’m not into that shit.”

“What shit?” I ask, shaking off my thoughts.

“Women that only want to sleep with me so they have something to gab to their friends about.”

I narrow my eyes. “Well, what
shit
are you into?” The question causes him to rear his head back slightly. It’s a pretty bold question. I’ll admit, I want to know. What does Connor Stevens want in the bedroom? What does he look for in a woman? I know I’m crazy for asking him, but I’m so enthralled now waiting for the answer I feel like I should have a bucket of popcorn and be sitting cross-legged on the floor.

He raises his head to the ceiling and clenches his eyes closed, but when he looks at me again, I see something I haven’t before. He drops the wall. That wall where he talks to me like I’m his cousin’s quiet and sweet widow. That wall where he works so hard to be respectable. But I’m not afraid to hear his answer. I want to know, and I refuse to back down or shy away. “If I tell you, will you tell me?” he asks.

I swallow hard. Then I shy away . . . slightly.

He certainly knows how to turn something around on a person. How did I not think this would somehow get flipped around on me? But I refuse to back down from the challenge. Maybe he thinks I’ll get shy or meek, and that’s why he seems so . . . crass, but I won’t. I’m a big girl. I can talk about what I want in bed . . . even with Connor Stevens, who happens to be the person I want in bed.

“Okay,” I agree, straightening my posture.

“It’s not just about what happens in the bedroom,” he begins.

“Okay.”

“I’m looking for a woman that . . .” he pauses and scratches the back of his neck as if stalling, searching for his next words, “can put her full trust in me.”

I stare at him a moment, hoping he’ll elaborate, but he doesn’t. So I ask, “What does that mean?”

“I have a need to . . .” again, another pause, “to take care of people. I want a woman that trusts me to do that.”

I sip my beer while I try to understand his meaning. What would it be like to be taken care of by Connor Stevens? I imagine he means in the bedroom as well. My cheeks heat at that thought. I want to ask him more, but even in my drunken state, I control myself. Connor chuckles and I snap my gaze to his.

“What?”

“You were doing some deep thinking just now.”

My cheeks just went up in flames.

“Your answer while intriguing was somewhat vague,” I sass, hoping my face isn’t as red as I know it is. “I was just trying to understand.”

“Well . . .” he looks at me.

“Well, what?”

“It’s your turn.”

“Oh no,” I argue. “You’re answer was vague. It didn’t really answer anything.”

“Can’t keep your end of a bargain,” he teases.

I scowl. “Yes, I can. You just didn’t answer the question.”

“You’re really not going to tell me?” he confirms.

“Do you really want to know?” I laugh.

His gaze flickers and I can feel the heat. “I definitely want to know.”

Damn.

We’re flirting.

Like . . . really flirting.

“I give as good as I get, Mr. Stevens. You give me a real answer, I’ll give you one.”

He turns in his seat, facing me. “Okay, how about we play pool and loser has to answer the question?”

“You know I’ll kick your ass,” I boast. “Just save us both the time and tell me now.”

Connor throws his head back and laughs. It’s . . . beautiful. When his dark eyes meet mine again, they’re filled with happiness, and my heart feels full at the sight of him.

“Okay, Miss Smack-talker. Maybe I’ll make a comeback tonight, huh?”

“Doubtful,” I tease as I slide off the stool.

“We’ll see,” he murmurs as he follows me to the back where the pool tables are.

It’s ten minutes later. Connor is grinning ear to ear. I’m not kidding; he’s grinning so hard my face hurts just looking at him. I haven’t moved at all in two minutes. I’m still standing here like an idiot, holding my pool stick. Connor not only kicked my ass at pool, he annihilated me. I didn’t even get to shoot. Well, I broke, but I didn’t sink one ball.

“Demi?” Lexi calls as she approaches, but I don’t respond. I still can’t speak. “You just got your ass kicked,” she points out. She watched the entire ass-kicking take place—all two minutes of it.

“Just give her a minute, Lex,” Connor advises. “She’s still processing.” The lilt in his voice can’t be missed. He’s loving every minute of this.

Before I can respond, Dusty approaches and pats Connor on the back. “Still hustling I see.”

Connor shoots his gaze to me, still grinning, “She was a worthy adversary.”

I can’t help it. I start giggling, more out of disbelief than humor. He really did hustle me. I can’t believe it. “You let me win last time?”

“
Let
is not the word I would use,” he says, as he chalks his pool stick.

“Oh really? What word would you use?” I retort.

“Damn,” Dusty grumbles and Connor and I both follow his line of sight. Lexi is standing on the bar, dancing. My brows rise a bit, but not in shock. Lexi dances on bars all the time, but how quickly she got to the bar surprises me. Wasn’t she just standing right here? “Excuse me,” Dusty mumbles as he leaves Connor and me to our dispute and heads toward the bar.

“So . . .” Connor preens, fighting a smile.

“So . . .” I reply.

“I think we made a deal, didn’t we?”

My heart starts thundering in my chest. Why does the idea of telling Connor what I want in bed excite me and terrify me all at once? And how in the hell did we even get on this topic? Oh, I asked . . . that’s right.

I swallow and push some of my hair behind my ear. The heat on my face could probably fry an egg right now. I haven’t moved from the place I’ve been standing. I’m still planted on the spot holding my pool stick like an idiot.

“Okay, well . . .” I begin, nervously.

When he rounds the pool table to get closer, I stumble back. I’m about to share my sexual desires with him while he’s standing close. When he reaches me, he pulls me close and turns us so that my back is to the pool table. I immediately sit on the edge, hoping I look as casual as he does, but something tells me I look like a puppy being scolded. He smiles softly at me and leans down, placing both hands on the edge of the pool table on either side me. When the side of his face touches mine, his cheek to mine, my breath hitches.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he whispers quietly, his voice gravely. “Because a woman shouldn’t tell a man what her fantasies are unless she wants
that
man to fulfill them.” He turns his head ever so slightly, so his mouth is against my ear, and I close my eyes, breathing him in, letting his scent travel through me, and relishing his closeness. Why can’t I fight this attraction to him? Whenever he gets close to me, my body starts firing on all cylinders. He draws a reaction out of me, and I can’t seem to fight it; it’s out of my control.

“I’ll tell you, though,” he continues. “I want a lady—a woman that blushes when asked to describe her fantasies. What I want is a woman that sees past the rough exterior and sees me . . . the man I am. I want a woman that trusts me to give her everything she needs; in her life and in bed.”

Then, he backs away slowly, softly dragging his face against mine as he moves, leaving me aching and stunned. He looks off and signals to our server for another round of drinks as if he didn’t just paralyze me with his words. There’s no doubt I’m buzzed, and maybe that’s contributing to all of these . . . feelings I’m feeling. But as I replay his words, one thing occurs to me. He said I shouldn’t tell a man my fantasies unless I want said man to fulfill them. But he told me his fantasies . . . or at least what he wants. Does that mean . . . Connor wants me to make his wants a reality? Or am I reading too much into this? Probably looking too much into this.

Shit.

He finally moves his gaze back to mine and has the sexiest smirk on his face. My body is wracked with nervous excitement, my mind a whirl with his words, but his dark stare captures me. It’s as if he knows what I’m feeling—what I’m thinking—and has the strength and patience to wait it out—to wait for me to tell him.

“I want to feel worshiped,” I blurt out. I’ve surprised him. His mouth falls into a flat line as he steps toward me, his eyes saying,
Go on
. I look to the floor, unsure of how to explain myself or what words to use without sounding like an idiot. His finger finds my chin, and he lifts my head, so I’m forced to meet his gaze again.

“You deserve to be worshiped,” he tells me, his tone certain.

I lick my lips and breathe in. I’m telling Connor Stevens my desires. In his mind, I’m telling him that he’s a part of those desires. Is that what I want? It is. I want him.

“I want to feel so loved and wanted that my body moves to a man unconsciously like we’re magnets—positive and negative. Like being in his presence draws me to him. I want to feel wanted and sexy. I want to feel like the man I’m with couldn’t even think of another woman because I give him everything he needs; because I
am
everything he needs.” When his hand cups my cheek as I look up at him, I can feel his body tensing. My admission is revving him up and feeling that; knowing that I’m affecting him this way, only makes me heady with courage. “I want it fast and rough and soft and slow. I want him to know me so well that he knows when to push my limits, how to read my body language even when my words are saying something else. I want to be so consumed with want and need that the world just doesn’t exist when I’m in your arms.”

His brows rise, and my cheeks flame with heat. I said
your arms
, not
his
arms. I blink rapidly, unsure of what to do. He’s so damn quiet, and it’s only intensifying my freak out. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and I stand. But he doesn’t back away so when I do, we’re an inch apart.

“Sorry,” I shake my head. “I think I got a little carried away there.”

His hand threads in my hair and he presses his mouth to my forehead. “That was beautiful,” he murmurs, then meets my stare again. “Thank you for telling me.”

Lexi has a failure rate of nine out of ten when it comes to interrupting at times I might actually want her to, but on this occasion, I couldn’t be happier to have her obnoxiously break up an intense moment.

“Demi,” she yells as she grabs my hand, jerking me with her as she heads toward the dance floor. “Let’s dance.” We hit the floor, and I do my best to keep up with her, but my mind, body, and heart are all tuned into one person: Connor Stevens. I shouldn’t have told him those things. It’s wrong, and I know it is. But I can’t deny . . . it felt really good.

Cue the awkward ride home.

Connor has been dead silent. So much so, the silence is deafening. I stare out the passenger window and try to calm down. What happens now? Did I just make things between us super uncomfortable between us? Maybe he didn’t think I would want him. Maybe I read it all wrong . . . I suck at this. I’m like an infant woman when it comes to the opposite sex. I don’t know anything, but how to suck my thumb and crap my pants—metaphorically speaking.

He pulls my car in the drive and my stomach twists. Vick is sitting on the tailgate of his truck, waiting. When we pull in, Connor parks beside him and judging by the look on his face, he’s pissed.

“I have this,” I tell him, placing a hand on his arm. He’s tense, poised to fight.

“Why don’t you let me—”

“Let me take care of this,” I interrupt him. “Please, Connor.”

He stares straight ahead and nods once. We both climb out of the car and Vick immediately approaches. “Hey,” he greets with a smile. “Hi, Connor,” he waves. Connor looks to me, his eyes saying,
I want to kill him
. He never looks at Vick, just shuts the driver’s side door and heads into the garage.

“Wow,” Vick breathes as he looks me up and down. “You look . . . fantastic.”

“Thanks,” I manage.

“What happened tonight? I called you a million times. I thought we were meeting tonight.”

“We were,” I pipe up. “But plans changed.”