Page 109 of If You Claim Me

“There has to be a reason.”

His eyes dart to the side, and he sighs, like he’s preparing to share something that makes him uncomfortable. “I like how I feel when I’m with you and you’re happy. I like watching your face light up when I do something nice for you. I like this.” He motions to our surroundings and hugs me closer. “Surrounded by your softness and warmth because I did something that pleases you.”

He craves acceptance and connection as much as I do, longs for it in a way I understand. “You like me,” I whisper.

His expression softens. “I’ve always liked you, Mildred.”

“I like you, too.” It’s enough for now.

I tug on the back of his neck and push up on my toes. His mouth meets mine. Lips part and tongues sweep. I’m grounded by the hot press of his body. His fingers flex against my hip. My pulse thrums and an ache flares, heavy in my belly.

Sex has always been an act driven by desire for me, compartmentalized into a tidy box of pleasure. But the weight of who Connor and I are to each other and how we arrived here is shifting my world. Everything he does, every soft side he shows me, chips away at the armor I’ve built. I want to find out what it’s like to be part of him more than I want to protect my own heart.

“I’d like to see the bedroom.”

CHAPTER 28

DRED

Connor laces our fingers and leads me across the rough-hewn hardwood floor into the bedroom. Like the living room, the wall facing the lake is all windows. Pines and maples frame the cabin, but don’t obscure the view. Vases of fragrant night lilies dot every surface in the room. To the right, in front of the windows, is a barrel chair piled with pillows and throw blankets, a table stacked with books beside it. From the spines I can see they’re my favorites.

Connor doesn’t have to tell me he likes me with his words, because he keeps showing me with his actions that he pays attention to the things that bring me joy.

“This is incredible,” I whisper.

Connor exhales a relieved breath. “Good. I’m glad I got it right.”

I turn to face him. “It’s perfect. All my favorite things are right here.” I settle a hand on his chest. “You promised I could play with you when we were alone again.”

He hums his agreement. “I did say that.”

“And we’re definitely alone.”

His eyes darken as my fingers drift down his broad chest. “Then it looks like I’m yours to do with as you please.”

I slide a hand under the hem of his shirt, the fabric bunching as I smooth my fingers over his warm, tattooed skin. Connor bows to make it easier for me to pull the shirt over his head. He straightens and runs a hand through his hair, smoothing out the strands. They settle obediently back into place.

I trace the cursive letters on his chest that spellCatch Meabove a falling angel. His entire chest, stomach, arms, and back are covered in pieces that tell his story. Some are vibrant in full color, like the landscape that frames his chest on either side of the black-and-white angel. Flowers trail over his right shoulder, leading to a wolf on his bicep. Trees wrap around his forearm, and a gorgeous, full-color loon floats on the surface of a calm lake. His left arm is covered in mythology, gods and angels from history tumbling across his skin. “Your art is magnificent.” I skim the wings of the falling angel, his muscles jumping under my touch.

“I’ll tell my artist you said so the next time I see her.”

A spike of heat shoots down my spine. “You must see her fairly regularly.”

“Most of the pieces require multiple sessions.”

“I’m sure that’s a real hardship for her.” I don’t mean for it to come out with bite, but it does.

He grins. “You sound jealous, wife.” He cups my cheek in his palm.

“Maybe I should come with you next time,” I suggest. “So I can see if there’s anything to be jealous of.” How deep into his life will he let me go? How close do I want to get?

“If you’d like.” He tucks my hair behind the ear with the falling star tattoo. “Maybe you want to add to your own art.”

“I just might.” I pop the button on his pants and pull the zipper down.

Connor’s lids are low, his eyes sparking as I tug his pants down his thick, muscular thighs, leaving him in nothing but boxer briefs and socks. He’s all taut muscles—broad shoulders, adefined chest, and rippling abs all painted in stunning designs. His deep V disappears under the black waistband of his boxer briefs. His erection presses against the fabric.

He watches me intently as I follow the line bisecting his abs and gently cup him through his boxers. His eyes slide closed, and goose bumps rise along his skin as I curve my hand around him through the cotton and stroke from base to tip. Connor’s head falls forward on a deep groan.