Page 40 of Forever Then

Chapter Thirty-Three

A GENTLEMAN WOULD ASK FIRST

Gretchen

He’s always had me.

Despite the hurt, I could never let him go. Not entirely, at least. I missed him too damn much. Certain people I’ve long since tossed into my rearview would say that makes me weak. Yet, I don’t regret that thread of hope I’ve carried with me all this time, that hope that he would come back to me.

He hurt me and that pain was real, but I know he didn’t do it intentionally. The choices he made then were rooted in his loyalty to my brother and loyalty to a friend is noble, even if it clouds your capacity to think clearly sometimes.

A world without forgiveness is a world full of bitter people with resentment in their hearts and I don’t want any part in that.

I choose him because I trust him. Heart, soul, mind and body—I trust him with all of my pieces.

Only him.

Like a master musician, he plays my body like an instrument. His hands, mouth, and the rock of his hips pluck and tune every taught string of pleasure coursing through me.

He links our hands above my head, an anchor that says I’ve got you . When he shifts his weight, his hips lift, the pressure between my thighs now gone. I crave for it to return.

“Connor, please don’t stop,” I pant.

“I need to do this right. I don’t want to rush this. I wanna take you on a proper date. I want you to be my girlfriend. I should do those things first, but right now I just wanna make you come.”

“A gentleman would ask first,” I tease, lips against his ear. He pulls back, a challenge in his eyes. “Politely,” I add.

He gives me a wry smile. “Gretchen Fisher,” his mouth hovers above mine, “will you, pretty please,” kiss , “with a cherry on top,” kiss, “go on a date with me?” kiss.

I think I say yes, but his lips crash down on mine too hard and too fast to be sure. A blissful, erotic haze clouds my senses as his finger runs delicate circles around my nipples through my swim top.

“Gretch,” he whispers, “will you,” lazy circle, “be my,” flick , “girlfriend?” pinch.

I arch into his touch, my voice aching when I cry, “Yes.” The curve of his smile ghosts along my neck.

His hand glides down until it rests just above where my body lay burning with desire, swollen, aching for him. I’m on fire, my nerves buzzing, electrified by the feel of his hands and lips on my skin.

“Fish.” His voice rumbles, the vibrations sending shivers across my skin.

His hand lowers to cup me between my legs, but he doesn’t apply any pressure.

My toes curl. My feet scrape against the comforter, hips falling open in anticipation.

“Do you want me to make you come?” Sudden and firm, the heel of his hand presses into me, exactly where I want it to.

I moan. “Please!”

He shifts, bringing his hand to the waistband of my swim bottoms. “Gretch, look at me.” I blink my eyes open to find his right above mine, soft but ravenous. “Ask me what I’m thinking?”

Breathless, I oblige. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking of all the ways I’ve imagined being with you, none of them compare to the real thing. I want it all. The sweet and slow and, God , I wanna break some damn headboards with you too.” I swallow deeply. “All of it.”

A warm hand lands on my cheek, no doubt having read the shock on my face. “I’m telling you that so you understand how badly I want you, but I’m not going to rush you— us —through anything.”

I bob my head, relieved. He knows what I need and offers it without me having to ask for it. I kiss him softly. “You know I want all of that, too, right?”

He smiles against my lips. “We’ll get there, Fish.” He kisses me hard. Heat stirs in my core again as he tucks his hand inside my waistband. “I’m only gonna use my fingers, okay?”

I sigh my approval against his skin.

Flattened palm against my stomach, his hand slides all the way down to rest firmly between my legs.

Slowly, his fingers rub and swirl until they’re drenched.

“ Holy shit , you feel amazing” he mutters, lips hard against mine, as all the sensations hit me at once and I moan, breaths erratic and shaky.

His fingers continue to move below. Pressing, circling, and prodding, teasing my entrance. Lips brush over my nipple through my swim top as one finger pushes inside me. The flick of his tongue over the hardened peak and the foreign pressure of his finger has me clutching at the sheets.

“You’re so good and so tight, baby,” he groans, holding his finger in place as I adjust to the sensation. A few seconds later, I can’t wait any longer. My hips writhe in protest and his finger begins to thrust steadily in answer.

My breaths come loud and heavy. Shamelessly, I drag my hand all over his back and muscled chest, through his hair, seeking purchase. I need to feel more of him, to climb inside of him.

His finger retreats to tease around my entrance as he pinches my nipple between his teeth. Then, he plunges two fingers inside. My body jolts, my mouth falling open on a silent gasp. I arch into him, telling him please don’t stop and I need more.

“Oh my Go—” The words die in my throat as he curls his fingers, reaching a blissful spot deep inside my core that brings me near my climax on a guttural gasp.

Then he’s too many places at once. His fingers scissor on the inside while his thumb works me over on the outside.

His tongue flicks my nipple through my swim top, hips thrusting into the flesh of my thigh.

The feel of his hard length as it rubs against me, his deep groans and grunts he brands onto the skin of my chest and shoulders—my senses are out of control.

Every sensation he’s masterfully wound so tight over the last several minutes spins into another dimension inside me and I come, hard .

I cry out my pleasure, moaning, panting, grinding into his hand to ride out every last second of this ecstasy.

He doesn’t stop until my thighs clamp together, nerves throbbing and over-sensitive.

Body limp with pleasure, my eyes open a minute later. Connor looks at me, wonderstruck, and I feel beautifully exposed. Even though we’re still fully covered by our swimwear, it’s a look that leaves me raw and vulnerable in the most I-just-got-wrecked-into-blissful-oblivion kind of way.

He shifts his weight so he’s balanced evenly, my legs cradling him between my thighs. I can still feel he’s hard through his shorts, but he makes no move to do anything about it. Instead, he kisses me deep and slow like he’s a man with nowhere else he’d rather be.

He pulls back. “You’re perfect.”

I hold his gaze and bite back a smile. “Now,” I lift up to kiss him, “what are we gonna do about that situation in your shorts?”

“ We aren’t going to do anything. I am gonna take care of it in the shower. Dibs!” he declares before he plants a peck on my nose.

“What? Why?” I pout as I roll my hips in an attempt to change his mind.

He brings his knees under him and pushes to his forearms. “Ah ah ah, no ma’am.”

I run my hands down his broad chest, over the valleys of his defined abs, until I arrive at the waistband of his swim trunks. Brow arched, I smirk, daring him to stop me.

“I swear to God, Fish, the second you touch me I will come in my shorts.” His voice drops low, all grit and gravel when he adds, “The first time you make me come, I wanna be buried inside you.”

Heat begins to stir again. It’s intoxicating to know I have this effect on him.

Fine, he wins this round.

I let out a playful sigh, hands falling dramatically to the bed. “You’re a buzzkill.”

He kisses my forehead. “You’re beautiful.”

Connor emerges from the bathroom ten minutes later in nothing but a towel and I’m in the exact same position he’d left me in: on my back, flushed and sated, hair splayed across the mattress.

“Well, that didn’t take long,” I tease. He rounds the bed to stand behind my head. I have to crane my neck to look up at him.

He swoops down low and kisses me. “I told you it wouldn’t take much.”

Unfortunately for me, the towel doesn’t miraculously fall to the ground as he tugs his boxers on. His narrowed gaze finds mine—he knows exactly what I’d been hoping to see.

“See? Buzzkill,” I say.

I launch myself from the bed and scamper to the bathroom to remove my contacts.

After turning on the shower, I gather my hair into a messy bun.

When I step back into the bedroom to grab my glasses, Connor’s at the ready, dressed in a pair of thin, black sweatpants and a well-loved Chicago Cubs t-shirt, holding my glasses out for me.

He watches me put them on and then takes my face in his hands. “Beautiful,” he whispers. The next second he unceremoniously spins me around, slaps me on the behind, shoves me back into the bathroom to take a shower and announces he’s ordering us room service for dinner.

An hour later we’re leaning back in a lounge chair on the balcony, bellies and hearts full, pajamas on well before dark. My back against his chest, he cradles me between his legs, his arms wrapped around me. And that’s where we stay for hours as we watch the sun sink slowly toward the horizon.

Conversation ebbs and flows, stretches of quiet filled with nothing but the mindless weaving of our interlocked fingers in, out and over.

“How are you feeling about tomorrow?” he asks.

I inhale a deep breath, considering. It’s been over eight hours since I left the note on Cheyenne’s door and there’s still no word. Even to my surprise, I’m not worried. Like Connor pointed out earlier, I’ve done all I can and there’s a peace that comes with that. Having him here helps, too.

“Would I sound crazy if I said I’m not worried?”

He smiles into my hair and curls an ankle over mine. “Not crazy.”