Connor beats me to my place and is waiting on the porch, one broad shoulder leaning against the column at the top of the steps. He’s changed from the nice dress pants and button-down he had on earlier and is my favorite version of soft Connor: worn shirt, worn jeans, worn sneakers. In the moonlight and with the diffuse cone of light from the porch lamp overhead, he looks like a Hallmark cuddle come to life.
“How are you?” he asks as I approach.
“I’m great.” I reach him and stretch to kiss his cheek before realizing that’s not a thing I should do with my platonic producer bestie. His expression when I pull away is a mixture of amused and concerned.
“Sorry,” I say, and why not be fully honest here: “I was happy to see you and unfortunately did not hit the mental brakes in time.”
His face does a weird blip through a laugh and a grimace and finally settles on blankness. “No problem.” Soft Connor is now stiff as a board. “I just wanted to check in to see how the first week of shooting went for you, and whether you needed anything.”
“Me?” I ask, unlocking my front door. He follows me inside. “I’m fine.”
“On our end, things are looking fantastic,” he says, toeing off his Vans. “You really are a natural on-screen, Fizz. Today we cut all the sections we want from the dates and tonight we finished editing in the backstory intros and the testimonials.”
“So the episode is done?”
“It’s done. This is going to be great, and it’s all you.”
I turn to face him after setting my purse down and catch how his eyes have warmed. “Actually, it’s you,” I insist. “You’re the one who took that hero archetype challenge and ran with it. The casting is perfect. They’re perfect.” I gently chuck his shoulder. “And hot. Well done. A veritable buffet of beefcake.”
I say this to compliment him and his efforts, of course, but my words seem to drain the warmth from his eyes again. “Well,” he says flatly. “Good. Would you be interested in watching the premiere together at my place? With the crew, that is, not just me.”
“Sure! I’m excited to see how it all looks on-screen. I don’t think I had much of a connection with Arjun or Tex—”
“I think the audience will pick up on that, too.”
“—but I think the others were okay. Any one of them could hop on the Fizzy Express.” I grin at him as I do a dorky little choo-choo gesture. “This will be fun.”
Connor blinks away, studying his shoes by the door, and it means I get to stare at him. I feel light, elated by the success of the first week of filming, and giddy to be alone in a room with him. The sneakiest of thoughts escapes, unguarded: As great as these Heroes are, none are him.
“Do you want a beer or anything?” I say, distracting myself from this truly awful voice in my head.
A short nod. “Sure.”
He follows me into the kitchen, where I grab us each a bottle and lean against the counter. “Who is your favorite?” I ask him.
“My favorite Hero?” He takes a sip as I nod. “I don’t have one.”
“Come on.” I make a buzzer sound. “Really? I see you as an Isaac fan.”
“They all seem like nice blokes. It’s why I cast them.”
“Well, so far I like Nick, Dax, and Isaac. Jude is great but I’m not sure we click.”
“Not Evan?”
“It didn’t work the first time, but who knows?”
“Okay. Just keep an open mind.”
“Oh, I will,” I say, waving this off. “But if you’re asking me right now who I’m most attracted to, that’s my answer. That’s all.”
Connor looks like he’s debating something before he finally opens his mouth. “So, this brings us to my one piece of feedback, which is perhaps to tone down the come-to-bed eyes a little.”
I feel my smile slip from my face. “The—What?”
“Viewers want to see you forging a real connection.”
“And that doesn’t start with flirting? Have I been doing dating wrong this whole time!”
“It’s the way you flirt,” he says, unamused by my humor.
“The way I flirt,” I repeat flatly, and set my bottle a safe distance away. I may need both hands to throttle him.
“Only thirty-three percent of Bachelor viewers tune in for The Bachelorette. Do you know why that is?”
Oh, I know this one. “The patriarchy.”
“Yes. Viewers are far more accepting of a man dating multiple women than they are of a woman dating multiple men. It’s not right, but that’s the way it is.”
“Look who’s suddenly an expert on pop culture TV.”
“I told you, I’m taking this seriously.”
“So you want me to play harder to get? Romance has fought long and hard to get away from the ideal of virginal ingenue heroines. If you think I’m going to play into that stereotype on this show, you’re going to be disappointed.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what did you say?”
He shifts on his feet, neck red. “I don’t mean you can’t—Listen,” he says, trying again. “Never mind. You’re fine just the way you are.”
“Oh, well. Thank you.”
A quiet falls then, and it’s like a match blown out, the way the energy evaporates from the room.
“Why are you suddenly mad at me?” I ask him. “What did I do?”
“I’m not.” He shakes his head, looking briefly miserable. “I’m sorry.”
“I said yes to this show because I wanted to take care of the audience in your clumsy hands—”
He laughs dryly. “You’ve made me well aware.”
“—but it’s fun because I’m doing it with you,” I finish, reaching for his hand.
Finally, he looks up. And I think I get what’s happening. God, I am so dumb sometimes.
“I have fun with you,” I tell him, tugging him closer. “This first week on set was great because I’m comfortable with you. I insisted you do confessionals because I like being with you. I risked my life talking to River because I believe in your amazing ideas. You are doing your job so well, and I’m sorry if—”
My words are cut off when Connor steps forward, cupping my face. His mouth fits to mine and in an instant, every thought melts away.
It is a simple kiss, soft lips, firm pressure, and then he gives me another from a different angle before he pulls away. Connor’s green eyes search mine, flickering back and forth in question. My thoughts scream to not let him retreat again, but before I think to tug him back to me, he’s already resolved, stepping closer, crowding my space. I stand on my toes as he bends to meet me, his mouth softer and hungrier now, going after those angles we found last time, deeper, his tongue teasing and hot. Connor groans and the sound drops me into a pool of want, and all I can think about is diving down, finding more of that hoarse need he’s hiding away. I keep expecting him to break it off, to pull away again and apologize, remind me that we weren’t going to do this again, but the more we kiss, the more his intensity ramps up.
Connor lifts me, setting me in front of him on the counter, pushing my legs apart so he can step between them. His hand roams up my back, around my ribs, cupping my breast while the other pulls my hips forward, pinning me to his body. I’m rewarded with another groan, and another when I grind against him. He doesn’t stop me as I unbutton his shirt, spreading it open, flattening my hands against the warm wall of his torso, broad and tight.
Connor’s mouth is on my neck, his fingers curling around the strap of my tank top, dragging it off my shoulder and lower, stretching the fabric, pulling my bra with it to bare me to his mouth and teeth. The feel of his bite and kiss on my nipple is pleasure undiluted, making my vision spot black as my body greedily steals every available molecule of oxygen.
His hair is so soft in my hands, and he seems to like when I pull it, grunting into my skin, biting me in delicious retaliation when I’m rough. When I pull it hard enough, he moves with the gesture, standing again and claiming my mouth. I want his kiss for hours. I’ve never been kissed like this before, with such command and confidence, with an energy that’s nearly angry. He shows no signs of stopping tonight, and adrenaline dumps heat into my bloodstream.
Connor’s teeth are bared against my jaw, hands digging up my skirt to drag my underwear down my legs.
“All right, sweet?” he asks roughly into my neck, and I nod, keep nodding, because he has permission, frankly, to do whatever the hell he wants. I want to put together a coherent thought about what this feels like, the way his hands wrap so imposingly around my thighs, the heat and scrape of his teeth on my skin, but only later will I really be able to process anything but the flood of sensation, this feeling of what it’s like to be completely consumed with wanting someone. We are live wires, bare nerves, moving on instinct.
His palm slips back up my thigh, teasingly slow, his kiss still rough and playful, teeth tugging my bottom lip. And then his fingertips graze over me, slippery and hot for him. His mouth goes soft and overcome against mine before he pulls away a fraction, balancing care and command, watching my face as he fucks me with one finger, and then two, maddeningly slow. I’m watching his mouth, the way it shapes these half-formed words, the way his teeth bear down on his lower lip when he presses his thumb to me, circling, the cocky smile that appears when I let out an involuntary cry.
Under my impatient fingers, his pants are soon down around his knees, beautiful cock finally in my hand, and I bring him to me, teasing us both until we’re a fevered mess, kisses sloppy and biting, the head of him pressing into me and—
We pause, sensibility over sense, fumbling for that stray condom in the junk drawer, laughing into a kiss about how convenient that was, how being a mess is sometimes useful. He does it because my hands are shaking and his are steady, but I watch because I’m smart and naked Connor is the sexiest thing I have ever seen.
And when he steps forward again, I say his name, a question mark in my voice, but he kisses me, says, “Don’t,” against my mouth, “I can’t say no again,” as he pushes forward.
It’s slow, perfect torture. Sanity is so fragile, I think, losing my mind in inches, one after another as he works his way into me, carefully, his focus on my expressions and sounds. But then it goes from careful to starving the second he’s all the way in, like stone in silk, and I become a wind tunnel of thoughts, tiny particles and fragments flying by too fast for me to process. I am a selfish monster wanting more. I am a wizard toying with time to make this sex last an eternity. I am the first woman to ever be with a man, I’m sure of it.
I’m still sitting on the counter but it’s a formality. His hands are under my ass, arms holding me up, angling me so that he can move in a way that makes us both gasp. There’s so much power behind each thrust, so much pent-up need coursing between us. For all my talk about enjoying sex, I’ve never been a noisy lover, but with Connor there isn’t room for anything else and there’s too much sensation to hold inside, it has to escape somehow. Sharp, rhythmic gasps. Surprised cries. The sound of our sweat-slick skin coming together. I hear myself and wonder at it, feeling half out of control of my own body and brain. Maybe I am. I don’t care. I’m not worried about anything, not wondering for a second if it’s good for him because the answer is written in the furrowed lines of his forehead, the soft bow of his lip as he stares between us, slowing to watch, moving to touch me, thumb stroking.
“Like that?” he asks quietly.
I nod, whispering, “Come here,” and pulling his face to mine.
We should take our time, but it’s hard when everything feels strung too tight inside, ready to snap. He reaches up, pressing a flattened hand to the cabinet beside my head, closing me in, watching me take over for his touch. Almost immediately, I’m falling.
I should hold back, but it’s too late. Pleasure hits me with euphoric devastation. I thought I’d only get this once; it was, after all, what I thought I needed. Just to clear my head of him.
But that was before. I mean, I’ve had all kinds of sex and this wasn’t like any of those experiences. I wish I knew what this was.
