Page 42 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

Phoenix

"What?" I’ve barely registered what he means when he pins me in place and thrusts up and into my pussy.

It doesn’t matter that I’m in my yoga pants and he’s wearing his clothes.

That rod he wields between his thighs like a weapon is so unyielding, I can feel its inherent strength, and when it connects with the swollen button between my pussy lips, sensations zip up my spine.

It’s as if I’ve been electrified, shockwaves of pleasure-pain pouring through my capillaries.

I open my mouth to cry out, but no words spill out. He looks into my eyes, the winter blaze in his like a clinical cautery tool. Cold on contact but designed to burn.

He begins to pound into me. Dry fucking me through our clothes, he pulls me in and thrusts up and into me. The impact sends more shockwaves through my system. My nerve cells seem to fire all at once. My own personal meteor shower flames across the sky of my chest.

The way my body reacts to him is almost too much to handle. He knows exactly where to touch me, how to hold me, how to maneuver my body so I feel the most pleasure. I have never felt this… Out of control.

I pant and groan, trying to pull away as the pleasure becomes too much. At the same time, I tilt my hips forward at an angle to increase the impact.

My body has a mind of its own, one divorced from my brain, my sense of survival. Flush with the desire of the impending orgasm knocking at the tailgate of my subconscious, I’m drowning in the phantom wave of pleasure that’s approaching, that’s towering over me, coming closer, closer.

"Connor, please, please," I moan.

"What do you want?" he growls against my mouth. His gaze holds mine captive as firmly as he has me captured between his hands.

"Make me come, please, please, make me co—" I cry out, for he rocks against me slowly, agonizingly firmly, circling his pelvis into my swollen cunt, just so.

Rolling, thrusting, bucking into me, against me, igniting a perverse rodeo of pleasure that roars up my spine and crashes behind my eyes. I throw my head back, cry out, and hear his gritted command to, "Come.”

That’s when he releases his hold on my throat. The oxygen rushes into my lungs. My insides seem to catch fire. Flames streak out from my core, searing my stomach, my chest… I climax.

The white-hot sparks of ecstasy streak across my vision, fountains of fire raining in their wake.

Strands of rapture dig their claws into my skin and tug.

I feel suspended on a flywheel of euphoria, spinning out into space at a dizzying pace.

Faster and faster, out over the horizon, until I burn out completely.

Peace. White. Silence. I float down to earth.

Holy hypothalamic meltdown . I think I had an out-of-body experience. If he touches me, I’m putty in his hands. If he demands, I’ll share not just my body, but my mind, my emotions…my soul with him. And your secrets? Do you trust him with them?

When I open my eyes, I’m cradled in his lap. He must have pulled me into that position. I’m aware of the still throbbing cock in his pants stabbing heavily into my side.

"You didn’t come?" I clear my throat and peer up at him.

"You came," he states with satisfaction, voice gravelly, blue eyes a deep indigo, reflecting a smugness that makes me flush.

"What?" I mean it to come out on a snap, but it’s more like a breathy sound, betraying just how relaxed I am.

"That looks good on you, Fever.”

"What does?"

"That languid laziness that comes from being almost fucked." He smirks. "Imagine how it’s going to be when I do.”

"I’ll probably be comatose for a few hours after." Because credit where credit is due. I slide off his lap, straighten my top, then yelp when he slaps my butt sharply.

"Hey!" I scowl over my shoulder. "Stop that."

"This luscious peach of an arse is mine. Did you forget?" To mark his words, he places his palms on my butt and squeezes hard.

I jump, more from the cortical stimulation than shock, which turns my already wet pussy into even more of a puddle.

He must notice my consternation because his eyes light up with interest. "Does that turn you on? You like being slapped and squeezed, eh?"

Yes. Yes. I shake my head. "You surprised me, that’s all."

A knowing smile curves his lips. Before he can call me out on my blatant lie, I round the island and plonk myself back in my seat.

"If you think you’re torturing me with these orgasms, you’re wrong. It’s gratifying, actually."

"But for how long?" He twirls some of the pasta and holds it to his mouth. Then, the showoff slides it between his teeth and sucks the strands off the tines. Oh my God.

Despite just orgasming, I’m instantly horny.

Again. My clit throbs. My heart descends to between my legs.

My own food forgotten, I watch, fascinated at the deeply erotic tableau of Connor Davenport licking the fork with his tongue before going right back in to repeat the action.

This time, when he sucks off the pasta, it’s as if he’s drawn my clit between his lips.

I squeeze my thighs together, trying to stop the emptiness that dawns between my legs.

Is it possible for him to turn me on by the simple act of eating?

He arches an eyebrow at me, all indolence and superior attitude. I blow out a breath and reach for my food.

"Want me to eat your pussy instead?" he asks casually.

My fork clatters onto the plate. "Jesus Christ, cut me a break, will ya?"

He chuckles. "I was only offering to ease your discomfort, Doc. Don’t like to see you unfulfilled."

I tip up my chin. "I’m fine."

"You don’t look fine. In fact, I’d say"—he scans my features with a pointed look—"elevated heartbeat, erratic pulse rate, temperature surge. All the signs of autonomous nervous system activation. You look like you could do with another orgasm."

"I’m aware of what you said. Also"—I knit my brows—"where did you pick up the medical terminology?"

"I read up on it."

"You did?" I’m strangely pleased by the fact that he cared enough to research medical terms, and then used them in his daily parlance in a way that makes sense. But I’m also disconcerted. I already told him I’ll marry him, so there's no need to put himself out like this.

I’d called him a unicorn, but he’s even more rare. Like a sterile surface in a trauma bay, which has never ever happened.

"Why would you do that?"

He shoots me a look from under those very masculine brows.

There’s no mistaking the heat in his eyes.

But there’s also reproach. He slowly places his fork in his plate, then takes my hand in his.

"Because… I love your nerdy references, and how you tend to use doctor speak whenever you want to be more eloquent, and also, when you want to hide your feelings. "

Holy myocardial infarction. He used the L word. In a different context—but still. He. Used. The. L. Word. My heart starts galloping like it’s being chased down a dark alley by a pack of wild adrenaline molecules.

I swear, he did it on purpose. Like a slip that wasn’t a slip at all. Like maybe, his feelings already run deeper than he’s letting on.

And suddenly, I’m breathless. Excited. Lightheaded, like I’ve stood up too fast after a night on call.

I have a feeling; I’m on the verge of something momentous with him—the kind of moment you only recognize after it’s cracked your world wide open.

"I don’t hide my feelings,” I manage to reply to his earlier comment.

When his cerulean gaze slices through me like the beam of a submarine cutting through the murky dark in deep sea, heat flushes my cheeks.

"Okay, maybe I do. Sometimes." I dip my chin.

"Only sometimes?" he asks gently.

My heart squeezes. The soft reproach in his voice somehow affects me more than his de facto dominant nature. Life with this man will never be boring. It’ll be more intense than being paged into a crash call in the middle of a double shift, and I’ll love every moment of it.

"Hey, look at me.” His voice grows even more tender, if that were possible.

I swallow around the ball of emotion in my throat.

"Take it easy. It’s understandable to not want to be vulnerable." He hesitates. "I mean, it’s not like I can talk about being open with my feelings, right?"

That makes me turn in his direction. "I think you’ve been awfully open… For a man."

He chuckles. "I think it’s you."

"Me?"

"I’ve never been so forward with sharing my emotions as I am with you," he admits.

The intent turns his eyes into frost fire.

"I wish you’d be as open with me. You say you trust me, you agreed to marry me, but you’re not committed fully.

There’s something stopping you, and I wish I knew what it was.

You say you trust me, Fever…" He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "I wish you really meant it."

Me too. I wish I really did trust him. If I did, I’d share my secret with him. The fact I haven’t tells me I’m not there yet.

“You’re very perceptive.” I swallow.

He nods. “Comes from spending so much time undercover. Often it was only my instincts preventing me from being killed. I wish I could switch them off, but they’re a part of me.

” The light in his eyes burns so brightly, it feels like he has me trapped in their glacial beam.

“Whatever it is you’re facing, you can tell me. I can help you, Fever.”

A tremor runs through me. His words are so real, his gaze so open, it makes me want to tell him everything. About Drew. About why my ex still shares my home. About why I couldn’t ask him to leave right away, despite our breaking up.

But would he understand?

Connor is a deeply possessive man—territorial down to his marrow. Finding out now could push him too far. He might walk away. Not just from the wedding, but from me. And that would mean, no lifeline for the ER. It would likely mean a life without the man who’s come to mean so much to me already.

I can’t risk that.

Not yet.

Once we’re married—once he’s pulled the strings only a Davenport can, once the ER is safe—then, maybe.

Maybe, we’ll have built something real by then. Maybe he’ll love me enough to understand why I haven’t been upfront with him. Maybe I’ll trust myself enough to tell him.

When I stay silent, his forehead furrows. “I realize, I had a head start on our relationship. And though I've tried my best for you to get to know me, perhaps, it hasn’t been enough. Perhaps, it’s unfair to ask you to share things with me, but…” A small smile curves his lips. “I’m patient, Fever.”

Something hot punches through my chest—sharp and blinding. This man floors me. Completely undoes me.

Every word, every look, every instinct in me screams that I was right to say yes to him. Right to agree to marry him. Right to take a risk on him. Now, I just want more. More time. More closeness. More of him.

I need to accelerate this—get the wedding done, seal the deal—so I can finally breathe beside him without holding anything back.

So, I can tell him everything…before the lie festers between us.

I look into his eyes. “Patience. It’s the waiting for the body to stabilize after trauma.

You can’t rush it. You monitor vitals, you watch for signs of deterioration, but mostly—you hold.

You resist the urge to intervene too soon, because premature action can do more harm than good.

It’s controlled restraint. Knowing when to act, and when to wait. And right now, I can’t wait.”

The lines around his eyes deepen. “I’m not following.”

I allow myself a small smile. “I’m trying to say that I’m not patient, by nature. Hence, I’m a trauma doctor. I thrive on the adrenaline and the pace of the ER, you see.”

“O-k-a-y.” He chuckles. “If there’s a puzzle somewhere in this?—”

“I mean, let’s elope.”