Page 70 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

Her words hit deeper than she realizes. Maybe deeper than I want to admit.

"Ariana..."

She closes the distance, rising onto her toes, her breath a whisper against my lips. "Tell me you haven't thought about this since that night."

I exhale sharply. "Every damn day."

Her fingers slide into my hair, and it's over. Whatever control I thought I had dissolves, and when our lips finally meet, it's like breathing for the first time.

The kiss is slow, deep, a confession in itself. My hands grip her waist, pulling her flush against me as I back her toward the floor-to-ceiling window. The world falls away—Seattle's glittering skyline, the distant hum of the city, even the gravity keeping me tethered to the life I've always known.

I lift her, and her legs wrap around my waist like they belong there. Like she belongs there. The city spreads out behind her, a galaxy of lights that can't compete with the way she looks right now—flushed and wanting and absolutely perfect.

"You're staring," she whispers.

“That’s because my beautiful…wife looks like a goddamn meal.”

Her breath catches. “You’re not playing fair with that word.”

“Never pretended to be.”

She traces the line of my jaw, and I fight the urge to pull back. To maintain distance. To keep that last bit of a boundary that's always kept me safe.

“I can hear your thoughts from here,” she murmurs.

"Force of habit."

Her gaze narrows. “What are you afraid of, Connor Reeves?”

Everything. Nothing. The way you make me want to let go.

Instead of answering, I kiss her again. Because this - this physical connection - it's easier than admitting how terrifying it is to want someone this much. To need someone this much.

To risk being left again.

Breaking the kiss, I stare at her. “You want me to be honest?”

“I wouldn’t have asked, if I didn’t.”

I force down a swallow. “I’m thinking of how royally fucked up I am. How I’ve built more fences around myself than the goddamn Pentagon. And how you’re…”

"Yours?"

The word stops me in my tracks.

She was right about me before. So were the guys. Because I don’t do this.

Connor Reeves doesn’t do relationships.

He’s never wanted to be owned. Never wanted to own anyone.

Until now.

I grip Ariana’s nape, meeting her eye. “Yes, sweetheart. You are.”

She kisses me again, and everything else falls away. The IPO, the investors, every line I’ve drawn in the sand—none of itmatters. Nothing matters except the way she feels in my arms, the soft sounds she makes as I press her against the glass, the way she whispers my name like a prayer.

I set her down, her back still against the glass, and begin to undress her slowly, savoring every inch of skin I reveal. Her blouse falls open, and I push it aside, revealing her lace-covered breasts.

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