Page 20 of Connor (Total Sinners #2)

Summer

I knew he was still here before I even stepped into the kitchen. The smell of toasted bread, butter, and something else—probably ham, maybe turkey—hit me the second I opened my front door. I’d left this morning, assuming he would too, but Connor had to prove me wrong every since time, didn’t he?

I kicked off my shoes, rubbing my temple as I walked into the kitchen, my bookbag slumping to the floor with a dull thud. And just like I knew he would, he was there, standing at the counter, making himself at home.

Like he belonged.

Like we hadn’t fought. Like he hadn’t forced his way into my apartment. Like I hadn’t meant it when I told him I was done. Like we hadn’t had filthy, monkey sex on my kitchen counter.

God, I hope he cleaned that counter. It was sticky and gross when I saw it last. I didn’t even check this morning, too embarrassed about what I let him do to me. Dear god, what was wrong with me?

Connor didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge me at all as I walked toward the fridge. My scowlgrew more intense when I saw he had, in fact, cleaned the damn counter. Instead of saying anything though, he finished making a sandwich, cut it in half, and handed me a plate without a word.

I stared at it.

I should have refused. Should have shoved it back into his chest and told him to get the fuck out.

But my stomach was already twisting with hunger, and I hated how casual, how familiar it all felt.

He knew I’d eat. He knew I wouldn’t just throw it out. He knew that, no matter how much I wanted to hate him, I wouldn’t throw out a sandwich. Not when, at one point, he’d been the one making me lunch and dinner sandwiches with Vic when Mom and Dad were out of town.

And that pissed me off more than anything.

I grabbed the plate, turned away without thanking him, and leaned against the counter, taking a small bite even as resentment boiled under my skin.

Connor, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate. He finished making his own sandwich, then dropped onto my couch like it was his own personal throne, legs spread, completely at ease.

Like we hadn’t been at each other’s throats. Like we weren’t falling apart at the seams. Like I didn’t still need him, pussy throbbing, even after all the rough, hot sex last night—or maybe because of it.

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to swallow before speaking. "You’re not staying here."

He looked up, unfazed. "Yes, I am."

I gritted my teeth. God, he was so fucking stubborn. Fine, if he didn’t want to go after I explicitly told him to, then I could just get rid of him by making his life hell.

"If you’re going to be in my life, then we’re setting some fucking rules."

Connor smirked, tilting his head. "Like what? You gonna make me sign a contract?"

I ignored the jab. "Like you sleeping on the couch. Like you not pulling the shit you did last night. Like you not thinking you can just control me because of the baby."

Connor breathed out sharply. It seemed like guilt flickered behind his eyes, but he didn’t argue.

"I don’t want to control you, Summer."

I lifted an eyebrow. "No? Because forcing your way in and accusing me of sleeping around sure as hell didn’t feel like you were giving me the freedom to live my life the way I want to."

His jaw ticked, but again—he didn’t argue.

That irritated me more than if he had. Because this wasn’t Connor.

Connor never backed down. Connor never let me have the last word.

But now, he just stared back at me, something lost, something fraying at the edges, and I hated that it called to me. Hated that some part of me still cared.

Hated that I still wanted to fix the cracks he refused to acknowledge.

"You can stay. For now. But this doesn’t mean anything."

Connor shrugged. "Didn’t ask for it to."

Liar.

I expected him to apologize at some point. To admit he’d been a jealous, possessive, unbearable asshole. To say something—anything—that resembled remorse. But he didn’t. He sat there, ate his sandwich, and acted like nothing had happened.

Annoyed, I finished my food, stormed to my room, and slammed the door.

***

Four days later, Connor was still here. Still taking up space, still acting like nothing had happened, still moving through my apartment like he belonged in it.

I hated it.

I hated that a small, disgusting part of me didn’t.

Because he wasn’t just existing here. He was doing things. Making food. Cleaning dishes. Doing laundry, even though I never asked him to. I came out one morning to find him wiping down the counters like he fucking lived here. Like he was trying to be responsible.

As fucking if. This was Connor I was talking about. The man didn’t do responsible. He did running away . He did fucking things up . He never stayed behind to make sure my heart wasn’t bleeding out, but this time it was different. Like he wanted to prove something.

I should have told him to leave. I should have thrown it all back in his face.

But when I got home from work—the job he didn’t know about, the one I was keeping to myself because I didn’t want him to act like he had a say in any of it—and there was food waiting for me, when the sink wasn’t piled with dishes, when my apartment didn’t feel like it was caving in on me…

I melted.

And I hated myself for it.

Because it was the bare fucking minimum.

Because this wasn’t Connor.

Connor wasn’t a responsible person. He wasn’t the guy who stayed. He wasn’t the guy who did nice things just because. And yet, here he was. Cooking. Cleaning. Making sure I ate. Like he was trying to be the person I once thought he was. I didn’t know if I believed it.

I didn’t know if I should.

And I didn’t know if I should just fucking kick him out before I got too comfortable.

***

The next morning, I sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through job listings on my laptop. The job I’d gotten was at that restaurant Quinn found me at. And I didn’t have anything against waitresses, but damn it was hard making tips when you refused to flirt with the pigs that came through the door.

Connor was at the stove, flipping pancakes, acting like this was just a normal morning.

"Want some?" he asked, his voice casual, like we weren’t locked in a cold war of silence and stolen glances. I didn’t answer. Didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge him at all. And I heard him chuckle under his breath, the sound low, knowing, fucking insufferable. "Suit yourself, sunshine."

My eye twitched at the nickname, but I kept my focus on the screen, even though I hadn’t actually read a single word ever since he walked out of the bathroom in a towel and nothing else.

Connor sat down across from me, taking a bite of his food, eyes locked onto mine, watching, waiting.

Then—like the last week hadn’t been pure, agonizing tension—he said, way too amused. “Heard some strange noises last night, Princess.”

My body tensed. Noises. I gulped, face heating as I remembered pulling out the vibrator I’d bought just over a year ago.

"Sounded like you were having some troubles," he purred.

My jaw locked.

"Because damn," he continued, biting into a piece of bacon, "just a couple of days ago that little pussy was squeezing me like it didn’t want me to pull out. But last night you were huffing and puffing like you couldn’t hit that special spot. Did you need me, Princess? You know you can just call me, baby girl. Couch was only a few feet away.”

I slammed my laptop shut. “I could make all that tension fade, sunshine. Make your pussy nice and noisy, and relaxed.”

“Fuck you!” I hated him.

I stood, chair scraping against the floor, grabbing my coffee, needing space before I did something stupid. Like grab that towel and see if he was still hard after his shower. My face flushed again, for another reason, one I refused to admit had me turned on ever since I walked in on him.

Connor, still lounging like he hadn’t just said the most fucked-up thing imaginable, leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. "What, you know I'm good for it," he called after me, then murmured normally, like he was talking to himself. "It’s all I can fucking think about."

I gritted my teeth. "Shut up."

His grin was all sharp edges and trouble.

And then, before I could walk away, before I could shove my way past the bedsheets and pillows in the living room—I learned yesterday that they were Quinn’s when she angrily growled out about having to fucking redecorate her perfect spare bedroom —, he spoke again.

“That shower head you got would help a lot, too. But I prefer your shampoo when I can’t replace your slick. ”

I froze, unwillingly turning to face him as my pussy clenched. Connor licked syrup from his thumb, watching me, watching my reaction like it fed him.

"You liked that, didn’t you?" he said, voice lower now. "Didn’t say a damn thing when you caught me earlier, did you, sunshine? Just stood there, listening. Suppose you needed it though, Princess. Your pussy’s probably still frustrated from last night."

He leaned back, clapping his thigh the same way you’d call over a dog and I bristled. A smirk darkened that face of his. “Come on, Princess. Let me make you feel better. Use me.”

Please, that haunted look in his eyes said and, I just fucking couldn’t. Stomping off to my room, I slammed my door in response.

And Connor? Connor fucking laughed like he knew what I was about to do even before I pulled out my vibrator and went to town losing all that fucking tension he was talking about.

And when I heard him groan from the living room, I reimagined what I’d found when I walked into the bathroom this morning.

His rock hard cock and the panties he’d stolen from me, sopping wet from the water and slick from the shampoo as he roughly fucked his fist.

Jokes on him because it sure as hell sounded like he’d been having just as much trouble as me, releasing all that fucking tension .