Page 27 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

Connor

I tuck her torn bra and panties into my pocket before helping her back into her clothes.

Watching her come undone beneath my mouth—feeling her shatter and lose every last thread of control—was a deeper, rawer satisfaction than chasing my own release could ever give me.

We eat on the blanket, surrounded by the clouds and the sight of the city below.

The sun brings out the strands of red in her auburn hair.

Her hazel eyes, dilated earlier, regain their color.

As she relaxes, the golden flecks in her eyes sparkle.

She looks around, taking in our temporary position, far away from everything and everyone.

But her swollen lips and the remnants of red on her cheeks, along with her hair, which is down from her messy bun, declare exactly what we’ve been up to. A surge of pride fills me.

I’m responsible for relaxing her, thanks to the orgasm I gave her. It’s clear, something is bothering her. I hoped she’d confide in me. And I'm disappointed she hasn’t.

But I have faith in myself…and in this connection between us.

It’s only a matter of time before she tells me.

I’ll coax it out of her. I’ll win her trust, so she'll feel comfortable enough to share everything with me.

For now, I want her to take this time for herself.

To enjoy this interval where there are no other demands on her time… Except for mine, that is.

"This wine is amazing." She takes another sip, then beams at me. The openness in her features, the curve of her lips, the softness around her eyes… All of it makes my heart skip a beat.

" You are amazing." I raise a glass in her direction.

She blushes. "You…you don’t need to sweet talk me."

"I’m not." I take her flute and place it on the floor, along with mine. "It’s not every day that I skip my responsibilities and plan a trip in a balloon with a beautiful woman." I take her hand in mine.

"Oh." She lowers her chin. "It’s not every day that I skip my responsibilities and get to ride in a balloon with a handsome man."

“You think I’m handsome?” I smirk.

“I knew that was coming.” She groans. “And you know that you are.”

I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her fingertips. “It’s different hearing it from you.”

She swallows. “You’re turning on the charm, aren’t you?”

“Is it working?”

She laughs a little. This time, when she tugs on her hand, I release it. She locks her fingers together and places them in her lap.

“I know you come from a very wealthy family and you’re James’ friend.

I didn’t hear much about you because—” She hesitates.

“Because James is ten years older than me. He left home when I was eight. He joined the Marines, traveled the world, then became very busy trying to make his career as a chef.”

So, she’s taking me up on asking me questions about myself. Good. I want her to get to know me better. Enough that she begins to trust me.

“When did the two of you meet?” She tilts her head.

“He was in the same platoon as my oldest brother, Nathan. He came home a few times, and we hit it off. When he left the Marines and was trying to launch his restaurant, I invested in his business.”

“James didn’t draw on his inheritance to get started?”

“Like you, he was independent enough to want to make it on his own. He used the money he’d saved from his career and raised the rest.”

“That must have been difficult,” she says slowly.

“It was bloody hard. But he’s a stubborn son-of-a-bitch. He persisted.”

“And look where he is today.” She takes another sip of her wine. “It’s quite inspiring. Gives me hope that if I keep persisting in my chosen career, one day soon… Perhaps… I’ll see the light.”

“And what’s that?”

She shoots me a sideways glance.

“Where do you want to be five, ten years from now?” I prompt.

“I’ve never been one to plan that far out, but if I had a choice—” She looks into the distance.

“I hope I can get more experience with trauma situations and keep helping people. I don’t necessarily count growth as rising through the ranks, but more in the richness of experience I get along the way. ”

“That’s mature of you.” I can’t help but look at her in a new light.

“You expected me to outline a career path, huh?” She laughs. “I’ve never been the kind attracted to linear advancement. It always felt shallow to mark my progress in that way, you know?”

“So, what satisfies you?”

She chews on her lower lip. I watch, fascinated, wishing I could feel her mouth wrapped around my cock, then force my gaze away.

The attraction to her may have started out as physical, but the more I get to know this woman, the more I’m turned on by her intelligence, her quirky personality, her generosity in wanting to help her colleagues, her community. I’ve never met someone so multifaceted.

“This might sound like a cliché but”—she looks up at me from under her eyelashes—“bringing someone back from the verge of death, knowing I’ve helped to give them a new lease on life is the most incredible feeling in this world.

It’s also made me aware that I can’t take all the credit for such miracles.

There’s a bigger force out there playing a role.

Which is the only explanation for some people surviving. ”

Our gazes meet and hold. I’m struck by the determination in hers, plus the awe and this absolute captivation. One day, she’s going to look at me in the same way. And it’s going to be for more than an orgasm.

I tug on her hand. She loses her balance, and I pull her into my lap.

“Hey,” she says breathlessly.

“Hey.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“You made me talk about myself again,” she whispers.

“I love hearing your voice. I want to know everything about you.”

“This was supposed to be me getting to know you better.” Her lips part.

I fix my gaze on her plump mouth. “Ask me anything.”

She licks her mouth. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Black.”

“No surprise there.” She snorts. “Favorite movie?”

“Zero Dark Thirty.”

“Good choice.”

“And The Notebook.”

“No,” she gasps.

I chuckle, “You’re right. It’s not. But it was worth saying it to see the look in your eyes.”

“You’re a jerk.” She shoves at my shoulder.

“I’m your jerk,” I correct her.

“Oh.” She draws in a sharp breath.

Once again, the chemistry between us flares. The air thickens. A gentle breeze wafts over us, turning the entire scene into magic. I lean in closer to her as she moves toward me.

When our lips are mere inches apart, she murmurs. “What scares you more—being alone, or being seen?”

“Being seen. Because if someone sees you… Really sees you… They know where to hurt you.”

Like you can.

She nods, her expression serious. “Very deep answer.”

“It was a deep question.” I trace my thumb over the curve of her eyebrow, down the slope of her nose.

She trembles. “Here’s a not-that-deep one.” Her pulse beats at the base of her throat, “What would your ten-year-old self think of you now?”

“That I’m the luckiest man in the world for sitting next to the most beautiful woman in the world.

“Aww.” She sighs. “That’s so cute. And I don’t believe you, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

“I mean it”—I hold her gaze—“and you know it.”

Something flickers in the depths of her eyes. She nods almost imperceptibly.

“Can I ask you a question?” I hold her gaze. Without waiting for her to reply, I ask, “Why do you sometimes tap your chest three times?”

She seems taken aback. “Was it that evident I do that?”

“Only to me. And only because I watch you so closely.”

She lets out a soft chuckle. “My own personal stalker. Of course, you’d notice something like that.”

Her gaze flicks away, as if sorting through her thoughts, then returns to mine. “It’s a self-regulation technique. Something I picked up along the way.”

I tilt my head. “Do you often need help staying regulated?”

“When I became a resident,” she says slowly, “the hours were brutal. Constantly on my feet, juggling impossible demands. I started snapping. Losing my patience. This tapping exercise helped me stay calm under pressure—kept me from unraveling.”

She pauses, then nods, like she’s made a choice to let me in.

“But honestly? I think it goes back to my mum. She wasn’t cruel—just…

Demanding. Precise. I was always on edge around her, terrified of messing up, of disappointing her.

I don’t think she meant to be harsh. But the pressure to be perfect?

That was real. And during med school, it built up.

I found myself more reactive than others, more easily triggered.

This”—she taps her chest again—“keeps me centered.”

I watch her closely. “I want to be that for you. Your anchor. The one who steadies you. Who helps you come back to yourself… If you’ll let me.”

Something shifts in her face. The sharp edges soften. Her eyes shimmer.

“And there you go again,” she says, voice tight with emotion. “Always raising the bar on what a romantic gesture should be.”

She swallows, offering me a shaky smile. “I’ve got another question for you.”

“Ask me.”

“What’s the one thing you’ve always wanted—but never let yourself have?”

“This. You. A place to land.” I close the distance between us, until our eyelashes tangle. “I’ve always been better at walking away, but not this time.”

“Wow,” she breathes, “that’s intense.”

“I’m an intense person.”

“No kidding.” She lowers her gaze to my lips. “Are you going to kiss me again?”

“Do you want me to?”

She leans in until her lips are a millimeter from mine. “Don’t you?”

“Do it,” I speak against her lips.

This time, I want her to take what she wants. I want her to initiate the kiss.