Live Without Regret (A Touch of Fate 3)

Oh my…

We’re kissing.

Connor Jackson’s lips are on mine. It’s not much of a kiss—yet—and it’s already the best kiss I’ve ever had. If that isn’t a scary fucking thought, then I don’t know what is.

My hands slide up his shirt and I splay my fingers across his broad chest. But instead of pushing him away—which I had every intention of doing—I curl my fingers into the soft flannel and hold on for dear life.

The kiss is soft, sweet, and unlike anything I expected from this tatted-up man. A rush of emotions pulse through my veins, and the need to be closer to Connor, to feel his body against mine, is all-consuming. Winding my hands around his neck, I tangle my fingers in his hair. A low groan rumbles from somewhere deep in his chest.

That sound…holy shit that sound. I want to hear it again.

My tongue swipes along the seam of his lips and he opens up. Tilting my head to the side, I give him full control and he doesn’t hesitate to take the reins. The fact that we’re making out on a dance floor in the middle of a crowded bar should bother me. It doesn’t. I don’t care who sees us. In fact, if his tongue keeps doing that swirly thing it’s doing, I’ll likely let him have his way with me right here and now.

Connor pulls back far too soon. I groan in frustration and the bastard has the nerve to chuckle. Fisting my hand in his hair, I try to yank his mouth back to mine but he resists. Instead, his hot mouth finds its way to my neck. Trailing his lips along my jaw, he finds my ear. “I changed my mind,” he whispers.

His words slam into me. There’s no need for Connor to explain or elaborate. I know what he’s referring to, and it’s exactly what I wanted.

Right?

So why does it feel so wrong? Why do I have this strong urge to get to know him, and why in the world do I have this strange feeling that one night with him won’t be enough?

I shouldn’t, but I want to know what makes him tick. I want to know what makes him smile, what makes him angry. I want to know what his favorite color is and what Christmas traditions he treasures most. I want to know every little thing that will cause him to make that sexy rumble I love so much.

Hope sparks deep in my chest, and it’s that hope that should have me running for the hills. It serves as a reminder of why I made my rule to begin with, which in turn leads me to grabbing Connor’s hand. He glances at our joined hands and then back at me.

“My place or yours?” I ask. Without waiting for an answer, I all but drag him toward the door. I need to get this over with in the slowest possible way. Meaning, I need to cherish every second with Connor because I can’t allow myself to have him after tonight. I’m in too deep…and I don’t even know his middle name. That alone spells disaster. But I’m weak and can’t walk away. This thirst I have for him has been growing since we met in his shop three weeks ago, and tonight I’m going to quench it.

As we approach the door, I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see hesitation on Connor’s face. There is none. Squaring his shoulders, he smiles confidently, and when I cock a brow, urging him to answer, he says just one word: “Mine.”

Hell yes, I’m yours…for tonight.

I don’t bother to tell him I only live a couple of miles away, because his place is probably a better choice. At least this way I can make a clean break when it’s over.

Connor leads me to his car, and in a matter of seconds we’re speeding away. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I check the compartment on the back of my case, ensuring my ID and credit card are still firmly in place. Then I shoot Casey a quick text.

Me: Left with Connor. We’re going back to his place. Leave your phone on; you’ll have to come get me later.

Her reply is almost immediate.

Casey: Good for you. It’s about time your vagina gets a workout.

Me: My vagina gets regular workouts, thank you very much.

Casey: BOB doesn’t count.

I shake my head, smiling. How does she know I have a battery-operated boyfriend? I choose not to reply to that comment though, because you get Casey started on something and she won’t stop.

Casey: Where does Connor, the tattoo artist, live?

Good question. I look up at the same time Connor makes a left-hand turn. Squinting, I focus on the street sign to see where exactly we are.

Davenport Way.

Hold up.

Davenport Way?

“You live out here?” I ask as we pass a familiar line of duplexes.