Page 55 of Connor

My body tensed. Noises. I gulped, face heating as I remembered pulling out the vibrator I’d bought just over a year ago.

"Sounded like you were having some troubles," he purred.

My jaw locked.

"Because damn," he continued, biting into a piece of bacon, "just a couple of days ago that little pussy was squeezing me like it didn’t want me to pull out. But last night you were huffing and puffing like you couldn’t hit that special spot. Did you need me, Princess? You know you can just call me, baby girl. Couch was only a few feet away.”

I slammed my laptop shut. “I could make all that tension fade, sunshine. Make your pussy nice and noisy, and relaxed.”

“Fuck you!” I hated him.

I stood, chair scraping against the floor, grabbing my coffee, needing space before I did something stupid. Like grab that towel and see if he was still hard after his shower. My face flushed again, for another reason, one I refused to admit had me turned on ever since I walked in on him.

Connor, still lounging like he hadn’t just said the most fucked-up thing imaginable, leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. "What, you know I'm good for it," hecalled after me, then murmured normally, like he was talking to himself. "It’s all I can fucking think about."

I gritted my teeth. "Shut up."

His grin was all sharp edges and trouble. And then, before I could walk away, before I could shove my way past the bedsheets and pillows in the living room—I learned yesterday that they were Quinn’s when she angrily growled out about having to fucking redecorate her perfect spare bedroom —, he spoke again. “That shower head you got would help a lot, too. But I prefer your shampoo when I can’t replace your slick.”

I froze, unwillingly turning to face him as my pussy clenched. Connor licked syrup from his thumb, watching me, watching my reaction like it fed him.

"You liked that, didn’t you?" he said, voice lower now. "Didn’t say a damn thing when you caught me earlier, did you, sunshine? Just stood there, listening. Suppose you needed it though, Princess. Your pussy’s probably still frustrated from last night."

He leaned back, clapping his thigh the same way you’d call over a dog and I bristled. A smirk darkened that face of his. “Come on, Princess. Let me make you feel better. Use me.”

Please,that haunted look in his eyes said and, I just fucking couldn’t. Stomping off to my room, I slammed my door in response.

And Connor? Connor fucking laughed like he knew what I was about to do even before I pulled out my vibrator and went to town losing all that fucking tension he was talking about. And when I heard him groan from the living room, I reimagined what I’d found when I walked into the bathroom this morning. His rock hard cock and the panties he’d stolen from me, sopping wet from the water and slick from the shampoo as he roughly fucked his fist.

Jokes on him because it sure as hell sounded like he’d been having just as much trouble as me,releasing all that fucking tension.

Chapter 17

Connor

The couch dug into my back, the springs unforgiving, and when I woke up, everything fucking ached. The walls felt smaller every day, pressing in on me, reminding me that this wasn’t my place.

I didn’t belong here.

It had been days of this. Days of waking up in a life that didn’t feel like mine. Days of existing in a space where I wasn’t wanted. Days of being ignored by the one person I couldn’t stop thinking about. It was driving me insane. I just needed one fucking sign from her that we’d get through this. Fuck if I even knew what this was, but I couldn’t go back to how things used to be. I needed Summer. Needed her to look at me the way she used to.

Her anger was fucking killing me.

I should leave. I knew I should.

Instead, I dragged myself into the kitchen.

I needed to do something. I didn’t care what—just something to take up space, to remind her that I was still fucking here.

The eggs sizzled on the stove, the smell of coffee filling the air. My hands moved on autopilot—cracking shells, flipping bacon, buttering toast—muscle memory from years of making breakfast for me,Aiden, and Mom, when she couldn’t.

Then I heard the door to her bedroom open.

I didn’t turn.

Didn’t react.

She walked past me, brushing against my arm, but only because the kitchen was too small. Not because she wanted to. I could smell the faint scent of her shampoo—something floral, something that drove me fucking crazy—but she didn’t look at me. Didn’t acknowledge me.

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