WITH THE PHONE PRESSED TO MY EAR, I sit in Conor’s room, dwarfed by his t-shirt. I keep pulling the strings of his sweatpants tighter, but they barely cling to my hips, bunching at my ankles.
The dial tone rings for the second time as I run my fingers through damp hair, my skin stinging from the steaming shower that relaxed my muscles a bit more than Conor’s cuddles.
My heart still threatens to snap my ribs, but it’s no longer the roaring thunder or my memories’ fault. Nico’s mansion has an interconnected speaker system installed. Soothing classical music plays in every room, drowning out whatever sound could seep inside through the triple-glazed windows.
The line rings three more times. I’m about to lie my ass off again, and my stomach wrenches at the thought. I should tell Dad about Conor.
I can’t keep him a secret forever.
The only reason he’s not blowing up my phone is Abby. She called a few times while my phone was still in my purse, locked in Conor’s car. Failing to get through, she sent a text saying she told my dad I was with her.
Best friend ever.
“Hey, Daddy,” I say, gripping the phone tightly when he answers. “How’s it going over there? Is the trailer holding up?”
He chuckles, genuinely amused. “Of course. It’s bolted to the ground well enough to withstand a category three hurricane, Angel. We’re safe. You know we’re prepared for these storms.”
Dad’s a survivalist, even if he doesn’t like to admit it. The small pantry at the back of the trailer is stocked with canned food, batteries, thermal blankets, a first-aid kit, a water filtration system… everything you’d need in an apocalypse. He started collecting supplies after the last hurricane ten years ago.
That’s when I grew afraid of thunder. Our trailer wasn’t ready for a hurricane back then. Windows gave in, shattering under the strength of the wind, half the roof flew away, and the inside flooded within an hour.
I was only eleven, hiding under the bed, crying as I held Rose close. The roads to the trailer park were blocked for five days. We ran out of food as quickly as the nearest gas station.
My dad hates relying on others, but that time he had no choice. As soon as he could, he started setting things aside, buying a few items each month in case we were ever in a similar situation. Last year, he bought a generator after a town-wide blackout during one of his team’s games, so even losing electricity isn’t an issue.
It isn’t here, either. Nico’s home is self-sufficient. Otherwise, we’d be sitting in the dark by now. Most of Newport lost power about an hour ago.
“How’s it down at Abby’s,” Dad asks, emphasizing too much. “You girls keeping safe? Did your date drop you off there?”
A chill slips down my spine.
Shit. He knows…
Not that Conor Hayes is the guy I’m seeing, but he knows I’m not spending the night with Abby.
My pulse quickens, whooshing in my ears.
Should I dig my grave deeper or come clean now? It’s been a month since my date with Brian. I’ve not told Dad who I’m dating, but I assume he thinks it’s the same guy.
‘I’m twenty-one, for crying out loud.’ I clear my throat, finding courage. “Okay, you got me,” I sigh, my voice trembling, giving away my nerves. “We were on the beach when the storm started. I panicked, Dad. Like really badly, so he took me back to his place, and now the roads are closed, and—”
“Vee, calm down. You’re twenty-one, for God’s sake,” he chuckles softly, making me aware I said that aloud. “This isn’t the first time you’re having…” He pauses, voice tense because he accidentally veered into murky waters. He swallows so hard I hear it. “A sleepover with a guy, is it?”
“No, it’s not, but I’ve not had a chance to bring him home yet… I know how much you worry.”
“I do. I always will, Angel. You’re my baby girl. It’s only natural that I worry. You’re smart, Vee. I know you wouldn’t be there if you didn’t trust him.”
I flop back onto the pillows that smell like Conor’s cologne, and my eyes roll back in my head. “I do. He’s amazing. I promise I’ll tell you everything soon.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll let you get back to him.” He exhales down the line, so I know he’s not done. “Angel?”
Uh-oh.
God, ‘please don’t let it be about protection’ please, please, please.
“Yes?” I ask, my voice wary.
“It’s not about that, but since you’ve mentioned it—”
“Dad, don’t,” I squeak, my cheeks scalding. “Please don’t. You said I’m smart so let’s leave it at that, okay?”
“I might be old, but I’m not senile, Vivienne.” He lets out a long breath. “You have a great friend in Abby, you know that? I knew you were staying with your boyfriend, but she was very convincing. She had a whole story stitched about how she was taking a bath, and you were in the kitchen with her mom and couldn’t hear her calling.”
I chuckle, imagining Abby frantically put on the spot like that. “She’s the best. I’ll be home once the roads are clear.”
“I know. Night, Angel.”
“Night, night.” I cut the call, roll onto my stomach, and bury my face in the pillow. Shower gel. Cologne. The faint scent of washing powder.
Conor must’ve changed the sheets a few days ago.
I yank myself upright at the sound of the door handle moving. Conor walks in, freshly showered, hair damp. He left me here, free to use his en suite while he used the guest bathroom. Now the air moves with him, the citrusy, minty notes of his shower gel dazing my senses.
His chest is bare. Obscenely sexy gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, and heat builds between my legs as I examine the hint of muscles rippling down his abdomen.
“Don’t look at me like that, baby,” he says, crossing the room to crouch before me. “I promised my brothers we’ll come down, and if you keep staring like you want me inside you, we won’t leave this room until tomorrow.”
“Sorry, you’re just… ripped.” I feather my fingers along his six-pack. ‘That’s so hot.’
“Vivienne,” he warns, encasing my hips with big hands, caressing me softly. “You’re staying the night. We have time, but right now, we’re going back downstairs. Colt’s cooking, and Nico’s setting up the home cinema.”
“Okay,” I whisper, my throat parched, desire coursing through my veins. I steal a kiss. A quick, gentle peck.
It doesn’t end there.
Conor groans, biting my lip…
He doesn’t let me sit up. Grabbing my waist, he scoots me further up the bed, bearing me down until I lay flat.
“We should go,” I whisper, not an ounce of conviction in my tone. It comes out like I’m arguing the opposite. “Your brothers are waiting.”
“Which is why you’ll come hard and fast.” He climbs on the bed and pins my wrists far above my head. “You’re wet, aren’t you?” He spreads his fingers over the middle of my stomach. “So fucking needy.”
Harsh words spoken with raw, primal delight that sends pulsing need across my nerve endings. I love how he says that, like I’m being bad, and he absolutely craves it.
“Hard and fast,” I echo, loving the idea, my brain skipping ahead, drowning in what I know will come… edging, denying, fierce desire. “Please.”
He yanks my sweatpants down, palm running the underside of my thigh as he pulls my legs up, knees under my chin.
“Look at you,” he whispers, eyeing my pussy, his pupils blown. “All mine.”
He’s teasing, sliding one finger up and down my folds, up and down… He doesn’t give me enough to scratch the itch, let alone make me come. It’s frustrating. Blissfully addictive.
I think it might be the greatest weapon in his arsenal. Little touches nowhere near where I want and need him most. The anticipation he builds, how my craving escalating the longer he touches without getting me off… The orgasm he promises and makes me wait. ‘Torture.’
He smiles darkly, pushing my knees to the side as he dips his head to the peak of my nipple. Timing his teeth grazing me through the fabric, he slips two fingers inside me.
“You’ve seen nothing yet,” he whispers, his mouth gliding along my skin until we’re eye level, the kiss a breath away. “I haven’t even started.”
Taking my mouth in a deep, hard kiss, he shows me the truth of his words, pistoning his fingers in and out, teasing my G spot with measured precision.
I moan, gasp, whimper, and he swallows it all, beckoning my orgasm to the surface so fucking fast I forget to breathe.
Minutes.
Three, maybe four. Maybe not even that, and I’m hanging over the precipice, balancing a tightrope, ready to come.
I try to wiggle my hands free. I need something. Sheets, his back, my thighs, anything to sink my nails into. “Let go, please. I need… I need…”
“Will you keep your hands where they are if I let go?”
“No. God, no.”
He smiles, sealing my lips with featherlight biting kisses. “Then I’m not letting go.” His hold tightens, and I’m at his mercy, drowning in pleasure so intense it borders on pain.
The world’s shattering at the edges. I don’t know how he does it, but the orgasm he’s building feels like ten in one and gains momentum every time he brings me oh so close, then eases off.
“Yes, just like that,” he encourages, even though he’s doing all the work.
I can’t do much other than take what he offers and dissolve into the mattress, my body in his possession, humming, buzzing like a bee in a watering can.
“Next time, I’ll tie you to the headboard. I need that hand.” He squeezes the fingers cuffing my wrists. “But you won’t keep them here if I let go.”
“No,” I pant, straining against his hold. I don’t want him to let go. Something about being under his command—helpless—adds wood to the fire running rampant beneath my skin. “No, I won’t keep them there. God I’m close. So, so close.”
“I know, baby.” He lets out an amused, breathless chuckle that tickles my nose for a second before he kisses my forehead. “You’re clamping around my fingers so hard, but we have a few more minutes. You can wait a little longer.”
I open my eyes, staring him down. If looks could kill, he’d be deader than dead. Words clump on my tongue. Instead of telling him off, I’m begging. “Enough. Please, enough. I need… I need, oh God—”
The rest is swallowed by my disjointed moans because now is when he sends me over the edge.
“Give it to me,” he rasps, showering my jaw, cheeks, and eyes with soft kisses.
He crushes his body against me, tethering me in the here and now, and somehow the weight of him magnifies the orgasm. He’s not easing off, still working my G spot, teasing out faint tremors, the sensation so intense I’m sure tears stream down my cheeks.
I’m delusional. Overstimulated. Exhausted in the best way. His t-shirt sticks to my damp skin. My moans fill the room, drowning out the music, but I don’t care who hears.
“So pretty when you come…” Conor mutters against my forehead. “Shh, baby, I’ve got you. I’m right here,” he adds like he knows I’m losing touch with reality.
Slowly he eases off, gathers me to him, and flips us so I’m on his chest. His hands tangle my hair, lips soothing my temple in slow kisses.
That was by far the most intense orgasm of my twenty-one years. I’m wrung out to the point my bones bend.
“Again?” Conor asks, amusement lacing his voice. “I think you can go again.”
“Not for the foreseeable future,” I mumble, endorphins roaring through my head as I burrow into his solid chest. “You can’t do this to me. Not like this. It’s too much, Conor. All I want is to sleep until morning.”
“This is nothing, baby. I told you I haven’t even started yet. Wait till you come on my cock.” He pushes me flat on my back, his eyes glimmering with satisfaction even though he hasn’t come. “It doesn’t take much to make you look like you’ve been thoroughly fucked.”
“I feel like I’ve been thoroughly fucked six ways back to Sunday.” I run my hands down my face, tucking back a few unruly locks.
Conor huffs quietly, a silent no, you haven’t hidden in that sound. “Did you call your dad? How are they doing?”
“They’re fine. Dad’s got enough supplies to last a month.”
He leans over me, pressing his lips to mine, and quickly, the sweet peck becomes a full-on, dominant make-out session. As always, he doesn’t pass the opportunity to bite my lower lip.
“That’ll swell up real nice in a minute.”
One more peck, and he rises to his full, over six-foot height. He pulls a black t-shirt from the closet, yanking it over his head. My breath falters when his back muscles stretch and bulge before the fabric covers the view.
Dozens of different-sized question marks are tattooed over his spine, a long scar running down his right side. I’ve touched him there but couldn’t feel it under my fingertips; it’s pale, smooth, and blends almost seamlessly with his skin.
I sit up slowly, certain I’ll get a headrush if I’m not careful. Dragging my feet across the carpet, I lock myself in the en suite, wiping between my legs not to make a mess of Conor’s sweatpants.
I’m not used to parading around without underwear.
A moment later, we head downstairs. It’s not until we’re there that I realize the music has changed. Still classical but no longer flowing from the speakers. Now it comes from the piano where Mia sits in crisp white denim overalls, a glass of wine perched on a small, tall table beside her.
Her delicate fingers tickle the keys as she plays “War of Hearts” by Ruelle. Each note reverberates through the acoustic space, electrifying the air and sending goosebumps up my arms.
No wonder Rose wanted to learn from her. She’s amazing.
Nico sits on the couch holding a tumbler of whiskey and a remote. A huge screen slowly slides from the ceiling, and a projector hangs on the opposite wall.
“Be a doll, and grab a case of beer from the garage,” Cody says, stopping by us with popcorn and eyeing Conor with a smirk. He turns to me after Conor playfully smacks his head while he turns to go downstairs. “What do you want to watch? Action, horror, comedy? Don’t say rom-com. Those are banned in this house.”
“I don’t mind. I’ve not watched anything in ages, so whatever you choose is good.”
The microwave dings in the kitchen. The aroma of pizza sauce fills the house, making my stomach remind me I’ve not eaten anything since breakfast.
“Can I help with anything?” I ask, finding Colt expertly juggling dough.
“Sure. Only the sauce is ready. Grab whatever you like from the fridge and start the toppings.” He motions at the island, where three perfectly round, stretched pizza doughs await dressing.
“Anyone here a picky eater?” I ask, checking out the fridge.
“Mia likes cheese and sweetcorn, so make one half just with that. Conor’s allergic to asparagus, so none of that. And as long as you don’t put pineapple anywhere, it’ll be good.”
While Colt stretches the dough, I pile up ingredients, wash the vegetables, and slice the cheese before I start layering the toppings.
“First one’s ready.” I hand the baking stone to Colt, watching him slide it into the pizza oven.
Conor comes back, dropping a case of Coronas by the fridge, then immediately wraps an arm around my middle. A kiss follows. Quick, sweet, and only a touch inappropriate as he sucks my neck, undoubtedly leaving a raw mark.
“You need help?” he asks, snatching a handful of olives. “Say no.”
“No, but I wouldn’t mind a glass of water.”
“Coming up,” Cody says, setting a glass of wine beside me. “Grape water.”
“That’ll do, thanks.”
As soon as the pizzas are done, we move to the living room, where Mia’s under a thick blanket tucked against Nico. An odd yet soothing visual. I would’ve never expected a big, scary man like him to act so soft with his girl.
Nico’s the kind of man I’d imagine ending up in handcuffs on domestic abuse charges, but seeing how he handles Mia, it’s clear he’d rather break his own hands than hurt her or let anyone else do that. His moves border on extreme protectiveness wherever she’s concerned, and I notice that in Conor.
Earlier at the beach, him hanging over me, my mind alight with pleasure… the look in his eyes was nearly as fierce as Nico’s whenever he seeks Mia out for a kiss.
I take a deep breath, fanning away the memory of Conor pinning me to the ground. Despite the recent orgasm, I’m ready for more. Ready for him to make good on his promise and get started.
Cody picks a movie, pressing play as we all dig in. The takeout Nico mentioned earlier sits in the bin, wet and soggy after he left it on the roof of his car to chase Mia.
She’s a great plot twist. Timid and tiny outside, cheeky and brave inside.
“Full?” Conor asks quietly when I fall back after finishing three big slices.
I nod, not wanting to interrupt anyone. He pulls me into his chest, gently manhandling my arms and legs until I’m cuddling his side. Within seconds, his fingers slowly stroke my hair. It’s nice. So nice my eyelids grow heavy.
I drink more wine, blinking sleep away, but the next time I blink, the room is dark. I jolt upright, confused for a moment before I adjust and the haziness gives way.
“You fell asleep downstairs,” Conor whispers.
I turn to look at him, nothing more than his silhouette visible in the darkness. “I’m sorry. Why didn’t you wake me? How did you get me up here?”
Snaking his arm around my middle, he pulls me back down and flips me onto my side, little spoon to his big. “I carried you. Sleep, baby. You’re exhausted.”
I must be if being hauled up a flight of stairs didn’t wake me. “Night, night.” I reach under the duvet, take his hand, and wiggle my butt against his warm body.
