Page 5 of Meesha & Connor (What Happens In Vegas #2)

I watch Dennis leave with the property listings tucked under his arm, then turn back to Meesha. Her smile seems forced. Something’s off.

“Are you okay, ma belle?” I place my hand on her forehead like Maman used to do when I was sick. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine.” She places her hands on my shoulders and reaches up to kiss me.

This isn’t the Meesha I know. My Meesha would have bounced into my office with a story about her day, mentioning a patient who made her laugh or sharing some hospital gossip.

She’d sit on the edge of my desk, legs swinging, as she talked. This tense woman in front of me feels like a stranger. The discrepancy makes my gut knot uncomfortably.

“You wanted to tell me something?” I pull away to look into her eyes.

“There was a pipe burst at Bridal Elegance this morning. My wedding dress got ruined.”

“Tabarnac,” I mutter. “That’s terrible. So what happens now? Will they order another?”

“Yes.” She sinks to her knees and begins removing my belt. “It should be here in two weeks.”

I gently grasp her wrists, stopping her. “Meesha, what are you doing?”

Her eyes dart up to mine, a mix of determination and something like desperation in them. “I need you to take my stress away, Connor.”

I glance at the door, which isn’t locked. My receptionist could walk in at any moment. “This isn’t like you.”

“Maybe I want to be spontaneous.”

I help her to her feet. This sudden sexual aggression feels off.

“Tell me what’s really going on,” I say softly.

“Nothing’s going on. I just want to do something different for once.” She pulls away from me, crossing her arms over her chest. The sudden shift in her demeanor catches me off guard.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She gives a dismissive wave of her hand. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have come here.” She grabs her purse and turns toward the door.

“Meesha, wait.” I reach for her arm, but she sidesteps me.

“Why? So you can tell me everything will be fine?” Her voice rises, and I glance nervously at the door, hoping my receptionist can’t hear.

“Where is this coming from?”

“Come on, Connor. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Our whole relationship is just... predictable.”

“Predictable?”

“Yes. And boring!” She throws her hands up. “When was the last time we did something spontaneous? Something exciting? Something that wasn’t planned weeks in advance and written into your little schedule?”

I stare at her, stunned. My jaw clenches tight enough to feel a twinge of pain shoot through my temple. This doesn’t sound like my Meesha at all.

“C’est pas juste, ca. You’re not fair.”

“Aren’t I? You couldn’t even let me give you head in your office. What man turns that down?” She makes to leave again.

I reach out and grasp her arm, pulling her back.

My fingers flex against her skin, wanting to hold tighter but carefully controlling the pressure.

“That has nothing to do with being—” I stop, swallowing the hurt rising in my throat.

The words I want to say—that her accusation cuts deeper than she knows, that I’ve always feared I’m not enough for her—remain locked behind my ribs.

Instead, I take a deep breath. “That’s about being professional. ”

“Professional. Responsible. Practical.” She ticks off the words on her fingers. “That’s all you ever are.”

Something in her eyes makes me pause. This isn’t really about me; there’s something else going on here. But her accusation stings, feeding into my deepest insecurities.

I’ve always worried I wasn’t exciting enough for her, that someday she’d realize she wanted more than what I could offer.

“You think I don’t have passion?” I growl, backing her against the wall. “You think I’m boring?”

Her breath catches, eyes widening. “I—”

“Tu penses que je suis plate? Let me show you boring.” I reach down and begin unbuckling my belt, maintaining eye contact as I do.

I know this is playing right into whatever game she’s running, but I can’t help myself. The idea that she finds me predictable ignites something untamed within me.

Grabbing her shoulder, I firmly push her down until she’s kneeling before me. Her eyes become round, but she doesn’t resist.

I shove my pants and boxers down just enough to free my cock. I grip her hair with one hand and guide my dick to her mouth with the other. She opens for me as I push inside.

I hit the back of her throat, and she gags, but I don’t let up. The sound shoots straight through me, tightening every muscle. I hold her head still and fuck her mouth.

She relaxes, taking me in, her hands coming up to grip my thighs. Tension builds at the base of my spine as my orgasm approaching fast. Her mouth feels incredible, but I’m too worked up to enjoy it for long.

I come with a groan, holding her head still as I spill down her throat. She swallows every drop even as her eyes water. I pull out of her mouth, my cock still semi-hard.

Reaching down and hauling her to her feet, I spin her around so she’s facing the wall. I press her against it, my body flush with hers. I grab the waistband of her leggings and yank them down to her knees, exposing her bare ass to me.

I run my hand over her smooth skin, then slip it between her legs. She’s wet, her pussy slick and ready. I don’t waste time on foreplay. I guide my cock to her entrance and push inside, filling her with a deep thrust.

She pants, her hands pressing against the wall. I don’t give her time to adjust. I begin to fuck her hard, my hips slapping against her ass.

The sound of our skin meeting fills the room, mixing with our harsh breaths. I grip her hips, my fingers digging into her soft flesh as I pound into her.

“Calisse, tu me rends fou. Damn, you drive me crazy.”

She pushes back against me, meeting each thrust. I can feel her tightening around me, her body coiling. I lean forward until my mouth finds her ear.

? C’était ca que tu voulais, ma belle?” I growl. “You wanted spontaneous? You wanted exciting?”

She moans as I bite down on her earlobe, my strokes becoming more desperate as my own orgasm builds.

Suddenly, her cry of release fills the room. I follow her over the edge, coming inside her.

I pull out of her, helping her to stand. She turns to face me, her leggings still around her knees, her face flushed. I can see the mix of emotions in her eyes.

I tuck myself back into my pants, doing up my belt as I watch her. She pulls up her leggings, and I reach out, cupping her face.

“Was that what you needed, ma belle?” I ask softly, searching her eyes for answers.

Her face crumples suddenly, tears spilling down her cheeks as she throws her arms around me. Her body shakes with silent sobs against my chest.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I’m so sorry, Connor.”

I hold her, bewildered by this emotional whiplash. Just moments ago, she was challenging me, provoking me, and now she’s falling apart in my arms.

In the ten years I’ve known Meesha, she’s always been consistently sunny and warm, with occasional flashes of temper burning hot and fast before dissolving into laughter.

This rapid cycling between aggression and despair feels like trying to navigate a hockey game where someone keeps changing the rules without telling me.

“Meesha, talk to me.” I stroked her back. “What’s really going on?”

“I love you so much,” she says, clinging to me tighter. “You’re perfect. You’ve always been perfect. It’s me who—” She stops herself, burying her face against my shirt.

I pull back just enough to look at her tear-stained face, more confused than ever. “Ma belle, please—”

“I can’t lose you,” she whispers, fresh tears welling in her eyes. “I just can’t.”

“This is about Maman, isn’t it? What did she do this time?”

Meesha stops abruptly.

“This has nothing to do with your mother,” she says, but there’s less conviction in her voice.

“Bullshit. Ever since she showed up with Fréd, you’ve been on edge.” I loosen my grip on her but don’t let go. “What happened? Did she call you again about the menu?”

“It’s not—” she starts, then stops. “Yes. She did. She called the caterer directly and tried to change our selections.”

I sigh, running my free hand through my hair. “I’ll talk to her. Again. I promise.”

“It’s not just that.” Meesha’s shoulders slump. “It’s everything. The dress, the caterer, the flowers... I’m drowning in all of this, Connor.”

I pull her into my arms, feeling her resist for just a moment before melting against me. “I’m sorry, ma belle. I’ve been trying to catch up with work from the past month, but I’ll step my game up.”

“Thank you,” she mumbles against my chest, her words muffled. “We have the cake tasting next week.”

“I’ll be there, ma belle.”

“This is too sweet,” Maman says, making a face as she samples the lemon cake with raspberry filling. “Connor has never liked overly sweet desserts.”

I close my eyes briefly, counting to five in my head. We’re thirty minutes into our cake tasting at Delectable Desserts, and Maman has criticized every sample Meesha has shown interest in.

“Actually, I love this one, ma belle,” I say, placing my hand over Meesha’s on the table. Her smile looks brittle.

Meesha leans in close to me. “Babe, how did your mother know we were here? I thought this was just going to be us.”

I grimace. “My secretary told her when she dropped by the office looking for me. I’m sorry, ma belle.”

“I see.”

“In Québec, our wedding cakes are much moister. These are a bit... dry, non?” Maman adds.

Elise’s smile tightens. “We can adjust the moisture level to your preference.”

“Perhaps we should try the chocolate with hazelnut next,” Meesha suggests, reaching for the sample.

“Oh, but Connor has always preferred vanilla to chocolate,” Maman interjects before I can even taste it. “Ever since he was a little boy.”

“Franchement, Maman. That was twenty years ago,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “My tastes have changed.”

Meesha slides the chocolate sample toward me, her eyes challenging me to contradict my mother. I take a bite, the rich flavor melting on my tongue.

“This is excellent,” I say truthfully.

“Are you sure?” Maman raises an eyebrow. “What about the orange and vanilla? That would be much more sophisticated.”

Meesha gripped her fork. The past week has been tense between us. Since that day in my office, she’s been alternating between clinging to me and pushing me away. Something is definitely wrong, but every time I try to bring it up, she changes the subject.

“Maman,” I say firmly, “this is Meesha and my wedding cake. We’ll choose what we like.”

“I’m only trying to help,” she says with a wounded look. “After all, most of the guests will be from her side. If we don’t weave in our preferences, we’ll have contributed nothing.”

“Maman, I am contributing. Meesha has insisted that the wedding be bilingual. We’ll be serving poutine as an appetizer and Shepard’s pie as a main.”

“And our first dance will be a French song,” Meesha interjects, then turns to Elise. “And we’re incorporating a traditional Caribbean black cake for one tier. My mother is sending her recipe. It’s soaked in rum and has dried fruits.”

My mother’s expression sours. “Rum cake? At a formal wedding? That seems rather... basic, doesn’t it?”

The room goes silent. Elise suddenly becomes very interested in her notebook.

“Basic?” Meesha repeats, her voice dangerously quiet.

I place my hand on Meesha’s knee under the table, while simultaneously turning to my mother.

“That’s enough, Maman,” I say in rapid French. “You’re being disrespectful.”

“I’m thinking of your guests,” she replies in English, ensuring Meesha understands. “Will they appreciate such strong flavors?”

“I requested the Caribbean cake,” I state firmly, switching back to English. “It’s honoring Meesha’s family traditions, and I love her mother’s recipe.”

Meesha’s hand finds mine under the table and squeezes.

“Perhaps we could do a compromise,” Elise suggests diplomatically. “A three-tier cake: one vanilla with strawberry for the groom’s guests, one chocolate hazelnut that you both enjoy, and the Caribbean black cake tier to honor the bride’s family traditions?”

Before Maman can object, I nod. “That sounds perfect.”

“But—” Maman begins.

“Parfait,” I repeat more firmly in French, looking directly at her. “Thank you for your input, Maman, but Meesha and I have made our decision.”

Maman’s lips press into a thin line, but she says nothing more. Meesha’s shoulders relax beside me.