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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.