Conquering Conner (The Gilroy Clan Book 4)

by Megyn Ward

  He lets me go but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I keep touching myself, circling and stroking my engorged clit, pumping my hips against the hard, rough length of his fingers. I can feel it building, an unbearably heavy pressure. A tingling buzz that grazes my skin, bounces and glances off every nerve ending I possess until I’m shaking and strung out, body slicked with sweat, teetering on the edge, so close to falling over, I’m nearly blinded with it.

  “Closer.” He says it again, seconds before dragging me off the chair and into his arms, his mouth crashing into mine, a hot, frantic tangle of tongues that’s only part of the puzzle. Only a fraction of what I need.

  “More—” I moan it, tearing my mouth away from his, my hands streaking down the length of his torso. “Please, Conner…” I rip down the zipper of his jeans, even and I’m trying to shove them down off his hips. Pushing my hands past their waistband, needing to get him inside me, so bad it’s all I can think about.

  As soon I get my hand around his cock, it gives a hard jerk. “Fuck.” The curse comes out loud, a harsh bark that bounces around the room. Next thing I know, I’m on my stomach, rough hands fit around my hips, pulling them off the floor. “Touch yourself for me,” he growls at me, cupping his hands around my ass cheeks to spread me open. As soon as my fingers find my clit, he slams into me, hard and fast.

  I come instantly, clenching my teeth around the scream trying to claw itself out of my throat, while spasms wash over me in endless waves, my pussy clenching and releasing around him so hard it almost hurts.

  Before it’s even over, he’s lifting me again, turning us both until he’s sitting on the floor, shoulders leaned against the bed and I’m straddling his lap. “Again.” He whispers it against my mouth, his hands falling to my hips to lift me up. “I need you to come again.”

  “I can’t,” I whimper, even as I’m raising myself onto my knees, fingers gripping his shoulders to hold myself steady, so he can lower me onto his hard, thick cock.

  “I believe in you.” He flashes his dimples, abs flexing and straining as he slides into me, slowly this time. Filling and stretching me until I’m breathless and desperate all over again.

  Hands on my hips, he sets a languid rhythm, rocking his hips against mine, lifting and lowering me along the length of him. The slide of his callused thumb soft and slow, stroking my clit so gently, I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.

  “I love you.” He lifts a hand, sliding it into my hair, pulling me closer so he can kiss me, the unhurried sweep his tongue against mine, making me feel like we have all the time in the world.

  Like we have forever.

  Fifty-four

  Conner

  For the second time this morning, I slip out of bed. This time Henley doesn’t move a muscle.

  Dressing quickly, I dig around for her keys but come up short. Remembering the way she hung jacket on the hook by the back door the last time we were here, I take the stairs as quietly as possible to rifle through her pockets. Finally finding her keys, I leave her a quick note, telling her I’ll be back in an hour before leaving through the back door.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling up in front of her building, out of my car, and tossing the valet my keys before he even steps off the sidewalk.

  It’s Gerald at the front desk again, making me wonder if he has a life outside of this place. He eyes me as I walk through the lobby, but he doesn’t stop me this time.

  I call that progress.

  Taking the elevator to Henley’s floor, I let myself in with her keys before tossing them on the counter. The kitchen’s a mess. Dirty dishes in the sink. Counters in need of a wipe down. Stove splattered with food.

  Bypassing the mess, I make my way across the living room, toward Henley’s room. Throwing the door open, I flip on the light on my way to her closet.

  Even though she’s not here, even though she’s in my bed, practically comatose from all the orgasms I gave her over the course of several hours, seeing Bradford in Henley’s bed makes me want to drag him from it by his hair and beat the shit out of him.

  Because gay or not, she’s wearing his ring.

  Because he gets to do the things I can’t. Hold her hand while they’re walking down the street. Lean across the table at a restaurant and kiss her. Brush her hair out of her face while they’re standing in line for a movie.

  Because it’s him or me and despite the fact that she told me she loved me, and I believe her, I don’t like my odds.

  Finally roused by the bright over-head light and the racket I’m making in the closet, Bradford lets out a frustrated groan. “Where’ve you been?” he says, his muffled by the pillow he’s burrowed under. “I tried texting you—Gregg and I had it out after you left.”

  “Who’s Gregg?” I say, pulling a pair of dark wash jeans off their hanger before tossing them over my shoulder. The sound of my voice induces a mad scramble across the bed behind me.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he shouts, “Where’s Henley?”

  “My place.” I toss him a look over my shoulder before pulling a peach-colored sweater and adding it to my pile. “Who’s Gregg?” Leaving the closet, I toss the clothes on the bed. He’s sitting on the edge of it with his head in his hands, wearing a pair of what I’m pretty sure are cashmere sleep pants.

  Finally, he looks up at me with a wary frown. “Gregg is my boyfriend.” He doesn’t want to say it. Not to me. He stares at me, jaw set, probably waiting for me to call him a fag or fairy, or whatever the repressed masses are calling gay people these days. When all I do is turn away from him to open Henley’s underwear drawer, he sighs. “We’ve been together for three years. He’s a resident at Manhattan General.”

  His admission tightens the back of my neck. The fact that he’s gay is irrelevant. It’s the fact that he’s practically kept Henley in a fucking jar for the past eight years while he’s been free to do as he pleases that bothers me. “Bit unfair, don’t you think?” I say without bothering to turn around. If I look at it him right now, there’s a good chance I’ll end up choking him.

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  Yes he does. He’s an asshole, not stupid. “The fact that you’re allowed to be happy—have a life—and she’s not.” I find a matching bra and panty set. Pale blue silk and soft ivory lace. Together, they probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

  When I turn to add them and a pair of thick socks to my collection of Henley’s clothes, he’s still frowning.

  “That’s why I suggested she come here,” he says it like he didn’t just suggest it. He says it like he allowed it. Like I’m supposed to be surprised and grateful to him for such an altruist gesture. “Because I want her to be happy. I wanted her to—”

  “You suggested she come here because you heard that I’ll stick my dick in just about anything and figured I was a safe bet.” His expression tells me I hit the nail, right on the head. “You figured I’d fuck her until the novelty wore off and then me and my dick would move on and she’d come crawling home, broken and ready to marry you. Sound about right?”

  Hearing me say it all out loud, he has the good grace to look ashamed. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  I laugh a little, swiping a rough hand over my face. “Try me—my capacity for comprehension might surprise you.”

  He sighs. “When I met her she was so… different from anyone else that I knew,” he says, reaching for the pair of panties on top of the pile. “There was no pretention. No judgment. I knew I could tell her the truth about me and she’d accept me, as is. That it wouldn’t matter to her.” He folds the scrap of silk and lace into a neat little square. Setting it aside, he reaches for the bra. “I’d dated girls before but to be honest, it was tiresome, pretending to be interested. Pretending to want them. Sex was a nightmare.” Bra folded, he sets it aside, shaking his head while reaching for the sweater. “I need Henley. Being with her, I don’t have to pretend. I can be who I am. Who I really am.”

  �
�Believe it or not, I get it...” The last thing I want to do is empathize with this douche but I do. “You asked me yesterday if I love her.” I lean my hips against dresser, crossing my arms over my chest. “I do. I love her so goddamned much that if I thought marrying you was what she really wanted, I’d let her go. Even though I need her every bit as much as you do, I’d let her go.” I watch him fold the sweater and set it aside before reaching for the jeans. “Do you love her that much? Do you love Henley more than you need her?”

  When he doesn’t answer me, I push myself off the dresser to close the space between us. “She’s a person. Not your beard. Not her mother’s doll. She’s a person. I think she’s forgotten that. I think you and her mother have treated her like a chess piece for so fucking long, she’s forgotten that she has an actual say in what happens to her. That her happiness matter.” Picking up the stack of neatly folded clothes, I stop long enough to glare down at him. “If you really loved her, it would matter to you.”

  “I do love Henley,” Bradford insists, and I believe him—but he doesn’t love her more than he loves himself. That much is obvious. “I want her to be happy. That’s why we reached a compromise.”

  Fifty-five

  Henley

  There is a stack of neatly folded clothes on the nightstand, six inches from my face. My shampoo and conditioner lined up, just as neatly beside it.

  Conner went to my apartment.

  The thought tightens my gut. Jeremy is there. When I left, he was sprawled across my bed, asleep. I thought about waking him up and making him mover to the guestroom but in the end, I left him where he was because I didn’t have an intention of coming home anyway.

  I don’t want to think about Conner’s reaction to finding Jeremy in my bed.

  Finding my sweater and pulling it back on, I gather my things and creep down the hall to the bathroom. I’m not sure why I’m sneaking around, the house is as quiet as a tomb. No television in the living room. No laughter in the kitchen.

  Nothing but silence.

  I’m not sure why it bothers me, but it does. Fills me with a sense of foreboding that makes me want to skip the shower, throw on my clothes and run out the front door.

  Quit being ridiculous, Henley.

  My mother’s voice rings in my ears, chastising me, from across the ocean and the thought makes me laugh.

  Shutting the bathroom door, I start the shower. Waiting for the water to warm up, I pull off my sweater. Taking a good look at myself in the mirror, I feel a flush of heat erupt over my skin. Conner is everywhere. The marks left with his mouth on my breasts. My belly. My neck. Between my thighs.

  I get that feeling again. That I should be ashamed. That I should be angry. Horrified by what he did to me.

  That I let him mark me.

  That I wanted him to.

  That I want people to look at me and know I belong to him.

  You look like trash, Henley. Poor, common trash.

  “Shut up, mother.” I say it out loud before turning away from the mirror, stepping into the shower.

  Coming downstairs, I expect to find another note from Conner. Another math equation, propped against the coffee pot. Maybe stuck to the fridge with a kitchen magnet. Instead, I find him standing at the kitchen counter, arms cross over his chest, staring out the kitchen window. On the table behind him is a neat stack of legal-length paper, several inches thick.

  “Good morning.” He hears me, I know he hears me, but he doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t say good morning back. Moving toward him, I pull a mug from the rack next to the coffee pot and pour myself a cup. I don’t really want it, it’s just a prop. An excuse to move closer so I can see his face. Leaning against the counter next to him I blow carefully across the rim of my mug. “Did you sleep?”

  The corner of his mouth jerks, quick and sharp. Not a smile. More of a grimace. “Nope.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it. I turn my head, aiming my gaze in the same direction as his, trying to figure out what he’s looking at.

  The hammock.

  He’s looking at the hammock, struck between two bare branched oaks. He talked me into it once. Talked me into taking off my shoes and reading to him while he counted the freckles on my feet and teased me about how much I wanted him to kiss me. He was right. I did want him to kiss me. I still want him to kiss me. I suspect I’ll want him to kiss me for the rest of my life.

  “Conner.” I try again, saying his name in that calm, gentle tone that he hates. “I—”

  “I want you to tell me about the compromise,” he says, dropping his arms. “The one you and Bradford agreed to last night. The one you came over here to tell me about.”

  “You talked to Jeremy.” My voice sounds strange. Strangled, like it’s being shoved through the eye of a needle. “I wish he hadn’t—we…”

  “Tell me,” he says it softly, his tone at complete odds with what I’m seeing in his eyes.

  I can feel panic, a wild fluttering in my throat, and I have to take a deep breath through my nose and let it out slowly to try to calm it. I try again. “I told him that I love you. That you love me, and I want to stay with you. I want—”

  “Just tell me.” He shouts at me, and I can’t help it, I flinch away from him, my hands coming up to protect my face before I can stop myself. He stares at me, horrified by my reaction, that he did something to elicit it.

  He moves away from me, putting distance between us because he thinks I need it. Thinks I’m afraid of him. Lowering himself into a kitchen chair, he braces his elbows on his knees before dropping his head into his hands. “Just tell me.” He pushes his fingers through his hair, tightening his grip like he’s going to pull it out. “Please, Henley just…”

  “We’re going to London for the holidays. We’ll announce our engagement on Christmas eve, as planned.” I don’t sound strangled anymore. I sound flat. Like a lifeless drone spitting out words that have no meaning. “After we come home, we’re going to relocate to Boston. I spoke with Margo—there’s a good chance I’ll be hired on at the library, at least part-time. If not…” I let my explanation trail off because it’s not what he wants to hear. It’s not what he’s asking me. “We can be together, Conner.” I sound as desperate as he looks. “Nothing has to change. I can stay. We can still—”

  “Sneak around and fuck?” His head comes up, his beautiful face twisted into something angry and sad and so hopelessly desperate it nearly kills me. “You can still pretend you barely know me and I can still pretend it doesn’t fucking kill me every time you look right through me.” He laughs, but it sounds broken. Painful. “I can park around back and use the service entrance and you can climb through my window at 3AM. I can get you off and you can pretend to be in love with someone else.”

  “It wouldn’t be forever.” I show him my palms, shaking my head. “All I’m asking for is five years. Just—”

  “Five years of watching you get led around like a show pony? Watching you live as another man’s wife.” He shakes his head when I open my mouth to protest. “It doesn’t matter if it’s real. Not to me, because he doesn’t love you—not like I do—and it’s not enough for you. He doesn’t love you, Henley, but he’s the one who gets to kiss you.”

  The tone of his voice says it’s final. That he won’t change his mind.

  That it’s over.

  But I still have to try.

  “I made a promise to Jeremy.” I shake my head, swallowing hard against a lump big enough to choke me. “I know this isn’t ideal, but—”

  “Ideal?” He laughs again.

  “I’m asking you to be reasonable.” I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. “This is the only way he can access his trust fund.”

  “It isn’t,” he says, shaking his head at me. “But it’s the only way you can get paid.”

  My mouth falls open. “You think I’m doing this for the money?”

  “I don’t know.” He sits back in his chair, spreads his hands wide. “Five-hundred million dollars for five years
of your life is a lot of motivation—especially if you get to keep your fuckboy on the side.”

  “Please—” A wave of nausea rolls over me when he says it and I have to close my eyes, press my hand to my stomach to quell the urge to throw up. “Please, don’t say things like that.”

  “It’s okay, Daisy.” I hear the scrape of his chair legs across the kitchen floor. “I know what I am.”

  He’s standing in front of me, so close I can smell the soap on his skin. The faint scent of leather and axel grease that he carries with him. “Don’t worry…” he lifts my hand from my stomach and separates my fingers. “You got what you came for and, in a few weeks, you’ll get to go home.” He pushes something onto my finger. “You can pretend I never happened.”

  “That’s not what I want.” I grip my hand around his and shake my head, desperate to make him stay. To make him understand. “I don’t want to forget. I want you. I want—”

  “What you want is all I’ve ever cared about.” He slips a hand around my neck, cupping the back of it while his thumb stokes the soft skin of my cheek. “Anything to make you happy. Anything to make you stay. It’s all that ever mattered.” His brow furrows, like he’s confused by what he’s saying. Like he’s trying out a new language and isn’t sure he’s getting the words right. “I need to matter.”

  “You matter.” I whisper it, trembling chin tipped up so can see his face. “You matter to me.”

  “Maybe I do…” The corner of his mouth lifts slowly while his eyes seem to eat up the sight of my face, like he’s never going to see me again and he needs to remember what I look like. “Just not enough.”