by Megyn Ward
I don’t hesitate this time. This time I wrap my hand around the base of his shaft, holding it steady so I can take him into my mouth. Relaxing my jaw, I drag my tongue over the engorged head of his cock, pulling him in as deep as I can.
“Henley…” He says my name softly, his voice thick and tight. “Jesus.” He makes a sound, low in the back of his throat, drawing my gaze to his face. He’s looking down at me, mouth parted, chest moving rapidly with each shallow breath. Gaze locked on his, I start to move, licking and sucking his cock, the salty taste of his pre-cum filling my mouth, spurring me on. Making me hungry for more.
Watching me, he reaches down to find my free hand. Taking it in his, he guides it up the inside of my thigh, pressing my fingers to my throbbing pussy. Pushing my fingers past my slick, swollen folds to tease my entrance. Showing me what he wants.
Again, I don’t hesitate. I look up at him as I stroke my fingers into my eager pussy, moaning softy around his cock while I work it against the back of my throat. Licking and sucking. Working and pumping the parts of him I can’t fit in my mouth in my fist. Grinding the heel of my hand against the top of my mound. Pumping my fingers in and out of my wet slit. Setting a hungry rhythm neither of us can take for long.
He’s still looking at me, gaze dull. Jaw clenched tight. Chest heaving. Hands in my hair, finger tight against my scalp, holding my head steady while he fucks my mouth, the head of his cock hitting the back of my throat with each shallow thrust.
“Shit.” He barely breathes it, the hands in my hair untangling themselves to push me back onto the bed again. “I want to fuck you.” Skimming down my sides, his fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, yanking them down my legs with a rough jerk. Settling himself between my thighs, he raises himself on his hands to hover over me. “I want to come all over you.” I feel the blunt head of his cock pushing against me and I whimper in anticipation, raising my hips off the bed to take him inside. He responds by pressing the wide palm of his hand against my belly, pushing me down and I moan softly in frustration. “I want to come inside you.” He rubs himself against my swollen clit. Slides between my juice-slicked folds, coating himself in my arousal. Teasing me until I feel like I’m on fire. Until I’m so frenzied, so out-of-control, that I’m reaching between us to grip his cock. Put it where I want it.
Catching me by the wrist before I can make contact, he gives me that cocky, knowing grin of his. “Nope…” he whispers. “That’s my job.”
Gaze locked on mine, he lifts my hand to his mouth, slips my fingers past him lips, sucking them clean of my juices. I know the moment my taste hits his tongue. Watch his eyes darken and dull. Feel the involuntary thrust of his hips against mine. The heavy jerk of his rock-hard cock between my thighs, the head of it twitching against my hungry entrance.
Breathless, I watch him pull my fingers from his mouth before raising my hand above my head to hold it in place.
My free hand is resting on my belly and it starts to creep downward, the back of my fingers brushing against the head of his cock like it’s taken on a life of its own. “Henley.” It comes out on a low growl, his jaw tight, clenched against a groan. “Don’t.”
Ignoring his warning, I turn my hand over and reach further to trail my fingers over the hot, throbbing vein that runs the length of his shaft, following it from base to tip. I tease his weeping slit. Trace my fingertips along the head of his cock, following the curve of its rim before lifting my fingers to my open mouth. Licking their tips, I taste him the way he tasted me.
He doesn’t say anything else, just watches me. Eyes dark. Shoulders tense. Jaw tight.
Waiting.
Somehow, I know what he wants and I give it to him. Pulling my fingers from my mouth, I raise my free hand above my head, offering it to him. He stacks my hands, clamping his fingers tight around my wrists.
Holding me down.
Keeping me with him.
I want him to. Need him to take away the choice, so it’s not mine to make. I want him to make it impossible for me to leave.
I need him to make me stay.
Because as long as I’m here, as long as I’m with him, I’m free.
“Shhh…” he says softly, stroking into me so slow and deep I have to push back against the moan building in my throat, the size and feel of him inside me nearly enough to knock it loose.
“This is how it should’ve been.” Braced on his elbow, mouth hovering above mine, his dips his head to trace his tongue along my upper lip, licking at the freckle that straddles my lip line, near the corner of my mouth. “Exactly like this…” He lifts his head, so he can watch me, his hips moving against mine, each stroke of him inside me so excruciatingly tender, so perfectly right, I feel tears prickling behind my eyelids, hot and salty.
Rearing up as far as I can, I lift my head to press my mouth to his chest, the wild thump of his heart beating against my lips.
My heart.
“I love you, Conner,” I say it softly, lifting my chin to find his mouth with mine, wrists straining against the hold he has on me. “I always have.” The last of it come out on a shuddering sigh when I feel his hand wrap around my hip, tilting my pelvis, angling me against him so he can fuck me deeper, each thrust stretching me. Filling me. Hitting me just right. The calloused pad of his thumb circling and teasing my hot, juice-slicked clit, over and over, until I feel it. The tightening in my belly. The slow spread of heat up the length of my spine.
“Stay with me.”
It’s the last thing he says to me before his mouth covers mine, swallowing the sounds of my orgasm, giving me the sounds of his own.
Stay with me.
Fifty-two
Conner
As a closeted over-thinker, this has been a rough couple of hours.
I shouldn’t have said it.
Logically, I know she can’t stay.
Won’t stay.
This isn’t her life anymore and no matter what she says, she can’t just walk away from them.
Her mother.
Bradford.
Even if I discount the obscene amount of money she’s been drowning in for the past eight years, even if I accept that she does love me, and that she finally believes me when I tell her I love her, nothing has really changed for her. She’s still Henley. She still thinks it’s her personal responsibility to take care of her family. That she’s the only one who can.
The ugly truth of it is if she does love me, want to stay with me, that makes me the low man on the totem pole. Henley has never made her own wants and needs a priority.
Except when she’s rejecting you. Pushing you away… so maybe it’s not her own wants and needs that don’t rank. Maybe it’s just you—huh, fuckface? Maybe she just doesn’t think you’re worth the risk.
Swiping a rough hand over my face, I start to sit up. Pull away from her. It’s how I survive. Keep myself together. I pretend that she’s right about me. That they all are. That I’m just another blue-collar local, graced with good genetics and loose morals. The guy who winks and grins and fucks his way through life without giving a shit about the path of destruction he leaves in his wake.
But that’s not who I am.
I’ve never been that guy.
Never really wanted to be.
Being with Henley, then and now, showed me that. Showed me that I was more. That being who I really am is okay. That I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not.
That’s why she’s dangerous.
Because she makes me want things I can’t have. Be someone I can’t be.
Not without her.
As soon as she feels my weight shift beside her on the mattress, her arm tightens around my waist and she raises her head from my chest, frowning slightly. “Con—”
“Thirsty,” I say, letting her pull me closer, angling my head to catch her mouth with mine, ignoring the twinge in my chest when she sighs against it when we part. “You need anything?”
She shakes her head, letting it fall
against the pillow we were sharing, her eyes slipping closed. “Just you.”
Fuck.
She doesn’t know what she’s saying.
She doesn’t mean it.
Remember that, genius.
Finding my pants, I pull them on, zipping up on my way out the door. Shutting it softly behind me, I take a quick trip to the bathroom before hitting the back stairs that feed directly into the kitchen. The light is on. Seeing it slows my stride. Sticks me in place. Brings back memories.
“If you come down here, I can’t promise you it won’t be awkward.” My mom’s voice floats up the stairs to meet me, making me smile. “But I can promise I won’t give you the talk.”
Laughing softly, I take the rest of the stairs, landing in the kitchen to find her at the table in her bathrobe, looking up at me, a mug of tea sitting in front of her. “Why are you awake?” I say, dropping a kiss on top of her head as I head to the cabinet to pull out a mug of my own.
“You’re awake. I’m awake.” It’s what she used to say to me when I was little, and she caught me sneaking around the house in the middle of the night.
You’re awake. I’m awake.
She’d make me chamomile tea. Sit with me. Talk to me. Let me tell her what was on my mind, even when what was on my mind was well beyond her comprehension. Even though what came out of my mouth probably scared the shit out of her and confused her half the time.
She was my best friend—until I realized that it wasn’t normal for a twelve-year-old boy to call his mom his best friend. That’s when I settled on Ryan. He was around my age. The other kids liked him. He was reasonably intelligent. Loyal. Liked baseball. Being around him didn’t make me want to shove a screwdriver in my ear. As far as I was concerned, he was perfect best friend material.
“I’m not a kid anymore.” I fish a tea bag out of the box and drown it with hot water from the kettle on the stove. “You don’t have to get up and take care of me.”
“It was never a have to,” she says, watching me slide into the seat across from her. “And you’re right. You’re not a kid. You’re my kid and you’re under my roof.” The corner of her mouth kicks up, showing me the dimples she passed down to me and my brother. “So, drink your tea and tell me what’s on your mind.”
I tell her everything. Or, a PG-rated version of everything. That Henley came back to Boston looking for me. That she’s leaving again in a few weeks. That she’s getting married and why.
That I love her.
That she says she loves me.
That she’s never going to choose me and that I know it’s going to destroy me when she leaves.
“Lydia did a real number on her,” my mom says before taking a sip of her tea. “Ryan too.”
Lydia. I’ve always known that it was Henley’s mom’s name, but I’ve never heard it said out loud. “I didn’t know you knew her that well.” I knew she and Tess’s mom were close, but I’ve never heard her talk about Henley’s mom before. Not even to gossip about her like the other neighborhood moms.
“Lydia, Sophie, and I were inseparable in college.” She looks up at me, her blue eyes heavy and sad. “She latched onto Jack right away. He was a few years older. Here on a baseball scholarship. Already being scouted by the major leagues. He got an offer from the Dodgers in the middle of his junior year and Lydia talked him into quitting school and taking it. Taking her with him. She saw him as her way out.” She sets her mug down, and sighs. “I’m almost positive she got pregnant with Ryan on purpose.” Her lip curls in disgust. “She came back to visit once when he was little. She called him her little insurance policy,” she says, her mouth tight, eyes narrowed. “Three months later, Jack blew out his arm and they were back, living with her mother.” She takes a drink from her mug before setting it down again. “Their relationship was always volatile but after it became obvious Jack was never going to recover, things went from bad to worse.”
I think about Jack O’Connell, the only father Henley has ever known. The shroud of bitterness he lives under. Her mother. How cold she was when I knew her. How calculating. Her children, nothing more than burdens to be dragged around. Leverage to be applied. Never wanted. Never loved.
Not really.
“I think Henley loves you, son—I do.”
I look up to find my mom watching me, the expression on her face caught somewhere between fear and sadness. “I’m just don’t think anyone’s ever showed her how.”
Fifty-three
Henley
It’s somewhere between four and five in the morning. I’m laying here, listening to Conner, talk to his mother, the soft murmur of her voice is unmistakable. I can’t make out the words, but it reminds me of the conversation she and I had, sitting at the kitchen table while she begged me not to hurt her son.
I love you, God knows I do. You’re like a daughter to me, but please don’t hurt my son.
Not again.
It’s enough to push me out of bed. Prompt me to find my sweater. To pull it on so I’m not completely naked while I root around for my jeans.
Pants in hand, I run out of steam because the truth is, even though I know I should leave, I don’t want to. Can’t seem to force myself to do what’s right.
I can’t stay away from you because it’s too late. I’m fucking done. I was done the minute you walk back into my life.
He’s not alone in that.
Conner isn’t the only one who’s ruined.
The realization hits me hard. So hard, I sink into his desk chair, jeans in hand.
I reach into the back pocket of my pants and pull out the piece of paper I tucked in it before I left my apartment. Opening it, I study the complex series numbers and symbols stretched across it. It’s deceptively simple answer.
10500
“Are you leaving?”
I look up to find Conner in the doorway, a mug of something steamy in his hand, a slight frown marring his face.
“No.” I shake my head. I’m not leaving. I was going to. I was going to run like I always do but that was before I realized it’s too late. I can run for the rest of my life and I’ll never outrun him. I thought that by coming back home, I’d gain some sort of closure. That I’d finally be able to reclaim the part of my heart he’s been clinging to like a bur. That I’d finally be able to move on, but I know now that will never happen. I’ll never move on.
Neither of us will.
“Brought you some tea.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a crooked smile as he moves through the door and shuts it. “Still no crumpets.”
I laugh a little, watching him cross the room, his joke reminding me of that night. The night he said yes. Made me come on his kitchen floor. The way he’s looking at me tells me he’s remembering the same thing and knowing that warms my cheeks.
“What is this?” I ask when he sets the mug down on the desk I’m sitting at. “I saw it on the board in your room but—”
He kneels in front of me, takes the piece of paper out of my hand and tosses it onto his desk next to my tea. “Poetry.” He leans into me, pressing his lips to mine. Sliding his hands up the length of my bare thighs.
“Really?” I let my head fall back when his mouth moves along my jawline. Gasping when the hand on my thighs push under my sweater. “Because it looks like physics.”
“Physics. Poetry.” He cups my breasts, feathering the rough pads of his thumbs over my nipples, tightening them instantly. “Same thing.”
“Your mom…” It comes out breathless and shallow. “I heard her downstairs. What if she—”
“Farmer’s market in Backbay. Da too” He runs his tongue along the line of my throat. “So, feel free to come as loud as you want.” He says it against my neck, right before he closes his mouth over the side of it, sucking and nipping my skin, hard enough to leave a mark. It feels different this time, the energy between us. Needy. Desperate.
“Conner…” I’m supposed to outraged that he’s marking me. Worry about who will see it. What they’ll think
.
“Do you want me to stop?” he says it against my neck, the harsh push of his breath, cool against the place where he had his mouth on me.
I should. I should tell him to stop but I can’t. I don’t want to. “Harder.” I arch my back, pushing my breasts into his hands. “Do it harder.”
He groans a curse against my neck, untangling his hands from my sweater so he can yank it up over my head to toss it on the floor. Before I can take a breath, his mouth is on me again, licking and sucking. Nipping and grazing. Marking me as his. My neck. My breasts. My nipples. My hands in his hair, urging him on. Pushing him lower. Begging for more.
“Closer,” he growls against me, letting go of me long enough to fumble with the base of the chair I’m sitting in until it reclines. Suddenly staring at the ceiling, I feel his hands grip my thighs, dragging my ass to the edge of the chair, while pushing them apart, wide enough to stain my cheeks pink.
“God, I love it when you blush for me.” He lowers his head, pushing his face between my legs. “How wet your pussy gets.” He slides two of his fingers inside, pumping them into me, slow and deep, while he runs his tongue along the slick folds of my pussy. Nips me with his teeth. “How every single inch of you is covered in freckles.”
“Ohmygod.” I moan. “Con—” The rest of his name gets lost on a gasp when he sucks my labia into his mouth, licking and nipping at it while his fingers work and rub against the walls of my pussy.
“That I’m the only one who knows all their secret hiding places.” He runs his tongue of the middle of me, licking and sucking me with his mouth, stretching and stroking me with his fingers.
Reaching down, I try to push my fingers through his hair, but he lifts his head, catching my hand in his. “You want to know what I love the most, though?” Still holding my hand, he pushes my fingers past my slick, swollen folds, skimming their tips along the base of his finger, still stroking and pumping inside me. “I love that you think about me when you touch yourself.” He drags my fingers up the length of my wet slit. “That you imagine it’s me between your legs. Fucking you…” He finds my clit. Guides my fingers over it, again and again. “making you come.”
