“Are you sure, though?”
Connor cocks his head. “About loving you or moving to New York?”
“Moving.”
He pinches the tip of my nose and gives it a wiggle, my glasses shifting with the action. “Easy yes.”
Connor’s gaze is molten as I fix the frames back into place.
“And loving me?” I preen.
Without hesitation, he says, “Easy yes.”
The space between us grows hot with want. I stare at his lips for half a second before he swoops in to kiss me first. There’s no easing into it, no gentle touches to test the waters—only open mouths and greedy hands shamelessly seeking and chasing.
His hands are up my shirt, tangled in my hair, then kneading my ass through my shorts. My palms sweep up and down his torso, feeling the hard contours of his muscles underneath. He nips my neck and I grip his biceps for dear life.
“I need more,” I breathe out between hurried kisses, unbuttoning the top three buttons of his shirt so I can touch his bare chest.
His hand back under my shirt, I gasp when his thumb sweeps across my nipple over my bra.
“You want my mouth or my fingers, baby?”
Without pause—because it was always going to be him—I pull back and peel the shirt over my head and toss it to the ground. “I want you.”
His pupils flare, eyes hooded as they roam over me only to halt on the black lace cups holding my modest breasts. His throat bobs before he meets my gaze. “Are you sure?”
Your first time is supposed to be wrought with nerves and self-doubt. Constant worries over if you’re doing it right, if you’re pretty enough, or if your partner will want to do it with you again when it’s over. But I feel none of those things.
“Easy yes.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
EXACTLY THE RIGHT PERSON
Connor
I can’t countthe number of images of Gretchen that live rent-free in my head.
Barefoot and full of joy, running across her backyard at sixteen.
Propped against her headboard, messy bun in place, bundled in an NYU sweatshirt on our first FaceTime call.
That balcony, her silhouette in profile, hair floating on the breeze, smooth skin of her back on full display.
Stunned and stunning, yellow dress and turquoise earrings, sitting across from me at the restaurant two months ago when I realized I would never get over her.
Her sun-kissed face staring back at me through my phone as I snapped our picture on Devil’s Bridge.
Content and peaceful, wrapped in the arms of her birth family.
Two days ago in my kitchen, dressed in my clothes and those sexy-as-sin glasses, making fajitas.
Now, this one: Gretchen in nothing but a black lace bra from the waist up. Portions of her nipples exposed, the patchwork materialleaves nothing to the imagination, transfixing me on the rise and fall of her chest.
Her smooth, tan skin prickles with goosebumps in the wake of my fingers as I glide softly across her collarbone, then down. The pad of my index finger grazes her nipple and she sucks in a breath, hands gripping my shoulders. Lower now, my eyes follow the path of my hands in rapt fascination as her legs tighten over my hips.
“Connor, please,” she pleads, releasing the next button on my shirt.
