The Connor I remember was smooth, polished, arrogant, without a piece of clothing or hair out of place. He would never have sat at a table with men like these—brutish and dressed in denim and canvas and leather, boots and beards and messy hair, scars on their faces, hands and arms, weapons visible rather than carefully concealed. The Connor I knew didn’t gamble or smoke, and he drank socially. This man has a pile of chips in front of him, a cigar in his hand, and a bottle of expensive cognac at his elbow. He oozes power, money, masculinity—and something else, too.
Sex.
The other women are already in the laps of the men around the table, high-pitched giggling filling the air. Though it fades to an echo as I walk towards the table and Connor, feeling as if time has slowed down, each second punctuated by the beat of my pulse. I can feel my mouth going dry, just as it did in the hotel when I looked at his photos. His gaze hasn’t left mine, and he watches me almost hungrily, like I’m prey. A meal.
He smiles lazily as I approach, and I see a droplet of cognac still clinging to his full lower lip.
What would it taste like, if I kissed his mouth and licked it away?
The thought startles me and makes me suck in a breath. The offensive smells of the alleyway are gone, replaced with the heavy scents of vanilla and tobacco, cigar smoke and expensive alcohol, gunpowder, and something else. This smell stirs something warm and heavy deep in my belly as I circle the table towards Connor, his gaze following me as if I’d caught his attention from the moment I walked through the door.
Something masculine, musk and cologne, and I know it’s him.
I feel that ache between my legs again, that gathering dampness of arousal, and I swallow hard. I can feel the eyes of every man in the room on me, even the ones with women in their laps, but all I can see is Connor. And from the way he’s gazing at me, it seems as if all he can look at is me.
Good. You’re doing well. Keep going.
The words whisper in my head, urging me forward until I stop a hand’s length from him, my heartbeat so fast that I can hear the blood pounding in my ears.
“Well, hello there, love,” he says slowly, that same smirk curling his lips as he looks up at me. “And what could a fine-looking girl like yourself be looking for in a place like this?” His eyes rake over me as he speaks, lingering on my breasts, my narrow waist, and lower down, before sliding back up my length in a blatant show of lust that makes my pulse quicken all over again.
If I hadn’t seen the file, the pictures, the evidence, I almost wouldn’t believe it was him. He looks so different, speaks so differently—everything about him is rough, hard, dangerous, all of the polish wiped away and replaced by something else—but it doesn’t make him less attractive. If anything, it makes himmoreso, spiking my arousal in a way that the old Connor never had, and I don’t know what to make of it. I can feel his heat as he looks up at me from his seat, the scent of cigar smoke and warm leather wafting off of him, and something so deeply masculine that it makes my knees feel weak. After all these years, I’m so very close to him again, but the feelings washing over me now are nothing like the ones I remember.
It makes me feel uncertain and off balance. Before I realize what’s happening, his arm snakes around my waist, and Iamquite literally off-balance as he pulls me down into his lap.
His arm is tight around my waist, pulling me against him, and I can’t breathe. Connor reaches out, touching my jaw with rough-tipped fingers. “Pretty girl like you, so much prettier than the others,” he muses. “You must be here looking for something. Orsomeone?” He grins at me, and I feel a shiver ripple through me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, my skin heating everywhere, but especially in all the places he’s touching me. His arm around my waist, his fingers splayed against my hip, his strong, muscular thighs underneath mine. His fingers still resting gently against the line of my jaw.
Say it. Before you lose your chance, say it. You might not feel like yourself, but you’re still Saoirse O’Sullivan, and you’re here for a reason—not to go weak at the knees at the first touch of a man who turns you on. Do what you came for.
I reach up slowly, and for the first time in my life, I touch Connor McGregor. I slide my fingertips over his cheek, feeling the stubble scraping against my soft skin, in a mirror of the way he’s touching me. I take a deep breath, and I meet those bright blue eyes, doing my best to ignore the jolt they send through me as if they could electrify me with a look.
“I’ve heard about you, William Davies,” I say teasingly, and I see his eyes widen at his name on my lips. “So when my friends said they were coming here, I just had to come along.” I lean forward, my voice hushed, as if my next words are a secret just between the two of us.
“I came here looking for you.”