Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

And the bliss starts building all over again.

There’s a distinct possibility I won’t make it out of this alive. Death by orgasm . . . what a way to go.

Connor lifts my top leg, bringing my knee to my chest—and he nudges my opening with the head of his cock, before pushing back in.

His groan is gorgeous gravel in my ear. And I’m clenching him again, loving the feel of him inside, wanting him to stay right there forever.

The heat of his chest leaves my back as he leans away behind me—gaining the leverage to thrust deeper, harder—faster—his big hands holding me still as his hips snap up against me.

My awareness fades—all of my focus settling on where Connor moves in and out of me. Frantic words seep from my throat—yes, and God, and please, please, please.

Then he’s back against me again, his arms a tight band around me, his thrusts losing their rhythm—turning uneven and wild. He takes my hand and presses it between my legs, rubbing myself with my fingers.

“Fuck, fuck . . . ” he grinds out behind me. “Violet . . . ”

I cross the orgasm point of no return and push back against him, coming and moaning and reaching back to dig my nails into the hard bulge of his thigh.

The grip of his fingers bite into my hips and the hiss of his breath heats my shoulder as a low growl rumbles through his chest. I feel Connor’s cock twitch inside me, jerking in time with his groans.

I’ve never really been into semen. Swallowing it or rubbing it in various places—it’s always just been one of the messy parts of sex.

But I want to taste him on my tongue. Swallow him. I want to feel his come on me, in me, trickling out of me—anything he wants. Everything he wants.

I go boneless on the bed, my nose pressing into the sheet, breathing in the scent of sex and cotton. Connor kisses my shoulder softly and withdraws. The bed jostles as he climbs out of it and I force my eyes open to watch as he walks across the room to the bathroom. His ass is a firm, perfect work of art in the silver light shining from the window.

He’s wonderfully still semi-hard when he walks back in, wearing a grin on his lips that’s both savage and satiated. I roll to my back and he glides on top of me, cradling my head in his hands, kissing and nibbling my mouth languidly.

And we stay just like that, for I don’t know how long. There are no words or conversation—only kisses and touches, deep gazes and twining together.

Eventually, things heat up again—what with him naked between my spread legs and all. Connor has a second condom in his wallet that we put to excellent use.

It’s slower the second time, gentler and longer—and somehow even more intense.

After Connor takes care of condom number two, we lie in bed facing each other, exhausted, spent, and satisfied—my leg hitched over his hip and his hands holding my ass like a security blanket.

If I was thinking clearly, if my mind wasn’t clouded by all the orgasms, I might be concerned by how deeply I feel for him. How ruined I am already.

But I’m too resplendently content. Too happy. Joy takes up all the air in the room; there’s nothing left for worry.

So instead, I sleep.

We both do.

* * *

It’s sunny when my eyes creak open. Still early, probably before 7 a.m., but late enough that there’s a robin on my bedroom windowsill pecking at his reflection in the glass.

I breathe deep and stretch—a little stiff—sore in all the good places.

I fully intend to make a sneaky dash for the bathroom to brush my teeth and untangle my hair, but first . . . I want to know what Connor Daniels looks like when he’s asleep.

Is he a boyish, peaceful slumberer? Is he a devilish sleep-smirker in the midst of a stupendously dirty dream? I hope so.

I want to memorize Connor’s sleep face. Sketch it in my mind so I can transform it into poetry later.

So I roll over in his direction. And blink.

Because the bed is empty beside me.

Connor is gone.

CHAPTER NINE

Connor

“And then I left.”

I’m smiling as I give the D.U.H. group an update on the latest developments between me and Violet the next day. Well, the G-rated version of the updates—because only scumbags kiss and tell.

I haven’t stopped smiling since I left her house. Literally. It might be an undiscovered medical condition—some kind of Joker syndrome, an overdose of endorphins—and if it is, I don’t care. I’m just that fucking happy.

The other members of D.U.H. look at me like I’m an alien.

An asshole alien.

“What do you mean, you left?” Stewart asks.

“Like . . . you left to get her bagels?” Lou guesses.