Page 17 of Connor (Total Sinners #2)

Summer

Connor was sitting on the steps of my apartment when I got back from school on Wednesday.

My first instinct was to turn around and walk the other way. Not because I was afraid. Not because I couldn’t face him. But because I knew myself—knew him—and if I opened my mouth, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop.

He looked like shit. Dark circles under his eyes, his fingers laced together like he was barely holding himself up. He looked like he hadn’t slept, like he hadn’t eaten, like he had been suffering. And maybe that should’ve made me feel something. Maybe it would’ve before.

But now?

Now, I wanted him to suffer.

I wanted him to feel every ounce of pain he had shoved into my chest when he laughed in my face. When he accused me of lying. When he spread some other bitch’s thighs while I sat at home trying to figure out how to breathe through the wreckage he left behind.

My fingers grabbed my keys, pressing into my palm hard enough to leave indentations. The pain kept me grounded. Kept me from marching up those steps and slapping the exhaustion right off his face.

I didn’t slow down. Didn’t hesitate. I took the stairs two at a time, shoving my key into the lock. If he wanted to sit there and drown in his misery, fine.

He deserved to choke on it.

But then— His head lifted and his eyes met mine and suddenly, I wasn’t just angry and depressed anymore. I was raging. Fuck him. I tore my gaze away, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached, and kept moving. He wasn’t worth the air it would take to tell him to get the fuck off my porch.

But then—his voice came. Low. Wrecked. Like he had any fucking right to sound like that.

“Summer.”

The syllables crawled under my skin, hooked themselves into my ribs and pulled. My fingers clenched around the doorknob.

I should have kept walking. Should have slammed the door in his face. Should have done anything but what I did—because I was better than this.

Or at least, I used to be. Iforced my expression into something flat, and pushed the door open.

I didn’t invite him in. I didn’t tell him to follow.

But I left the door cracked just enough.

Because if he wanted to say something—if he wanted to stand in my living room and try—if he wanted to lie to my fucking face again—then fine.

Let him. Let him choke on the words before I threw them back in his face. I kicked off my shoes and walked into the living room, my pulse thrumming against my skull. The air behind me shifted, a new weight pressing into the walls, and I knew—knew—he had stepped inside.

Connor lingered near the door.

He should be bracing.

I crossed my arms, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs, barely restrained fury curling hot and tight in my chest. “Say what you came to say, Connor.” My voice was sharp. Cold.

His jaw flexed. A muscle twitched in his cheek. He took a slow breathlike he was trying to calm himself down—like he had any fucking right to be the one who needed calming.

“I’m sorry.”

A bitter laugh shot out of me, sharp enough to cut. “For what?” I snapped, tilting my head. “Be specific, because there’s a lot to be sorry for.”

“For everything.”

I scoffed. “That’s convenient.”

“I mean it, Summer.” His voice was rough. Strained. Like saying those words was physically painful.

I stepped closer, voice low and dangerous. “Do you?”

His nostrils flared, but he nodded. “Yeah.”

I let that sit between us for a second. Let him think that those two syllables would fix anything before I ripped the ground out from under him.

“Good,” I said lightly. “Because if you didn’t, I’d really hate for you to go around fucking strangers with a clear conscience.”

His entire body locked up. There it was—that was all the evidence I needed. My blood boiled.

“You always were good at that, weren’t you?” I continued, voice syrupy-sweet with venom. “What was it this time, Connor? Did you tell her she was the best you ever had? Did you get bored halfway through? Did you picture me?”

I should’ve stopped. I should’ve shut up and let my silence be the last thing I ever gave him.

But I wanted to see him hurt.

I wanted him to feel the exact fucking agony that had been sitting in my chest since the moment he opened his mouth and called me a liar. He stepped closer, crowding me, his breath sharp.

“Is that what you think?” His voice was lower now, a growl beneath the anger, something raw and dangerous.

I tilted my chin up, refusing to back down. “I don’t have to think, Connor. I know.”

His lips curled, but there was nothing amused about it. “Yeah?” His voice dipped, sharp and cutting. “Then tell me, Princess—” The old nickname was a mockery now, laced with bitterness. “What do you know?”

My pulse was a violent rhythm against my ribs.

“I know you couldn’t even look me in the fucking eye the other night.” My voice wavered, but I pushed through. “I know you ran straight to the nearest open pair of legs to make yourself forget.”

Connor’s expression flickered for half a second. But that half-second was everything.

I laughed, harsh and empty. “That’s what I thought.”

He was vibrating now, his hands clenched into fists, his breathing harsh. “You wanna talk about fucking other people, Summer?” His voice was sharp, dangerous, a threat wrapped in desperation. “Go ahead. Tell me how long it took you before you let someone else between your thighs.”

I saw red. Before I could think, my palm slammed against his cheek. The sound cracked through the air, echoing through the tiny apartment.

Connor didn’t flinch. He just took it. That smug, self-satisfied, infuriating look that made me want to claw his fucking face off.

“Oh?” He chuckled darkly, tilting his head, taunting me. “That struck a nerve, didn’t it?”

“You’re a piece of shit.” My voice shook.

Connor took another step forward, closing the distance, towering over me, his breath ragged. “And you still want me.”

“I don’t.”

I hated how weak it sounded. How it wasn’t convincing. How I didn’t believe it myself.

“I have a child to raise, Connor,” I spat, voice shaking with fury, with exhaustion. “And I’m not raising you too.”

The words were a slap to the face. Harder than the one I’d actually given him. He went still. Silent. And then—he nodded. Once. Sharp. Resigned. But his eyes—fuck, his eyes told another story. Something cracked open between us. Something violent and ugly and unfixable.

His jaw worked. His chest heaved. He swallowed, like he was about to say something. But he didn’t. Instead—without another word—he turned and walked out.

The door slammed shut behind him. I stood there, shaking.

Fury burned beneath my skin. It was too much. I wanted to scream, to break something, to burn this entire fucking apartment down just so it would stop feeling like him.

I wiped my face, hating myself for how my hands trembled.

If he wanted to fuck away his pain, then so could I.

Fuck Connor. I was so done waiting for him to come back to me. The silence in the apartment bothered me and the longer I stood there, the more I started shaking.

My breath came in sharp, ragged bursts as the echoes of Connor’s voice rang through my skull. His anger. His desperation. The way he had looked at me—like he still fucking wanted me.

My stomach churned. My hands trembled. I forced myself to move.

I grabbed my phone off the counter. The screen lit up, notifications blurring in my periphery. I didn’t care. My mind was already racing through names, flipping through conversations, grasping for anything to ground me—to drag me away from the lingering weight of him.

And then—I found it. My study group’s messages. I scrolled through the messages until one number stood out.

Nate.

Tall, broad-shouldered, always sitting just a little too close in study group, laughing a little too hard at my jokes, dropping casual, flirtatious comments that I had brushed off before. He’d been trying to get me alone for weeks. I never gave him the chance.

Until now.

I opened our last conversation. The messages were easy, harmless. A few study notes. A joke about our professor’s terrible handwriting. Nothing serious. Nothing important. But that didn’t matter.

I took a breath. Typed.

Summer: Hey. You busy?

It took him less than thirty seconds to respond.

Nate: Not for you. What’s up?

I hesitated. Only for a second. Then—I made my decision.

Summer: Do you wanna come over?

I saw the three dots pop up instantly.

Nate: Now?

Summer: Yeah. Now.

Nate: On my way.

I swallowed hard as I stared at the words. He’d be here in fifteen minutes. Maybe less.

I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t second-guessing. I was done second-guessing.

If Connor could run to some random woman and forget me between her thighs, then I could do the same. I could burn away the memory of him, wipe him from my body, replace the way he touched me, the way he felt inside me, the way he ruined me over and over again. I could do this. I needed to.

I moved on autopilot, walking to my bedroom, stripping off the hoodie and tossing it onto the floor like it was poison. I pulled my hair down, ran my fingers through it, forced myself to look in the mirror.

My reflection stared back.

Eyes rimmed with red. Cheeks flushed from the argument. I looked… different. Not like myself. Good. I didn’t want to look like myself tonight.

A knock on the door jolted me out of my thoughts. I turned, my pulse kicking up. Not from excitement. Not from want. Just—adrenaline.

I walked to the door and pulled it open.

Nate stood there, leaning against the frame, grinning. His blue eyes flicked over me, darkening slightly as he took me in. “Damn, Summer,” he murmured, stepping inside. “This is a nice surprise.”

I shut the door behind him. “Glad you think so.” I didn’t give him time to talk. Didn’t give myself time to hesitate. I grabbed his shirtand pulled him into me.

He barely had time to react before my mouth was on his, desperate, messy, demanding.

Nate made a pleased sound, his hands sliding to my waist, his body pressing into mine as he kissed me back. It wasn’t bad. He was a good kisser, I guessed. Confident, knowing exactly what he wanted. His lips were soft. His hands were steady.

But it wasn’t Connor.

I told myself that was a good thing.

I tilted my head, deepening the kiss, parting my lips to let him in. His tongue flicked against mine, slow, teasing. His fingers brushed my bare skin, skating beneath my shirt, making me shiver—but not in the way I wanted. Not in the way that made my breath stutter, my body melt.

Not in the way that felt like fire. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I pulled at his belt, tugging him toward my bedroom, not letting myself think as he followed, his hands already moving lower.

We fell onto the bed in a mess of tangled limbs and heated desperation. His hands were on me, sliding under my shirt, tightening my hips, pressing his weight into me. His mouth traced my jaw, then my neck, then lower.

I let him.

I let him pull my shirt over my head, let him strip me bare, let him kiss a path down my stomach while his fingers dipped lower, slipping between my thighs, seeking, teasing.

I arched into his touch. Not because I wanted to—but because I was supposed to.

I forced myself to moan when he slipped a finger inside me.

I forced myself to react when he kissed me again, when he pushed inside me, when he let out a sharp breath against my lips like this was exactly what he’d been wanting.

Nate pulled out his cock and slipped a condom on, then spread my legs wider and slipped inside me. He felt nothing like Connor. His dick wasn’t curved the way I liked it, nor was it as thick. But more than that, he didn’t make me cum before driving into me.

My body moved like it was supposed to, but my mind—my mind was somewhere else.

Somewhere in the past.

Somewhere in the middle of hot, tangled sheets and rough hands and Connor’s breath against my ear, growling my fucking name like it was the only thing that mattered.

This wasn’t him. It would never be him.

Nate thrust harder, groaning in my ear, his fingers digging into my hips like he was trying to leave a mark. But all I could feel was the absence of something.

The space where Connor should be. I squeezed my eyes shut, nails biting into Nate’s shoulders, and let it happen. Let him use my body the way I was using his.

Let him finish, let him shudder against me, let him murmur something sweet that I didn’t fucking hear. And then—it was over and he collapsed beside me with a breathless, lazy grin stretching across his lips. “Jesus, Summer,” he murmured. “That was—”

So fucking terrible? Yeah.

I rolled away from him, sitting up, pulling the sheets around me as I ran a hand down my face. He was still talking. Still looking at me like we were something now. But all I felt was empty. I let out a slow, shaky breath and forced myself to smile. Fake it.

“Yeah,” I whispered, staring at the ceiling. “It was something.”

It was nothing. I didn’t feel better. I felt like I had just made the biggest mistake of my life. But it was too late for that now. I turned to Nate, brushing a hand over his chest, leaning in just enough to fake interest. “You want some water?”

He grinned, still basking in his post-fuck haze. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

I nodded, slipping out of bed, wrapping a sheet around me. But as I walked to the kitchen, as I caught sight of my reflection in the hallway mirror, I stopped. I didn’t recognize myself.

My lips were swollen. My skin was flushed. My hair was messy, tangled.

But my eyes…

My eyes looked fucking dead.

And I hated that. I hated that Connor had left me feeling like this.

But I hated myself even more for wondering how the fuck he managed to fuck other people—or if maybe he preferred it this way.