He was about to return to his room for his pants when she said, "I can't help it if I sound sad. I miss you. What kind of mother would I be if I didn't miss you? That doesn't mean I'm trying to make you feel bad for going!"
She was on the phone. He felt the tension in his shoulders fade. They were alone after all. Just what he needed. He didn't think he could handle a larger interaction at this point. His nerves were stretched too thin.
Connor crossed the living room and paused on the threshold of the dining room. Stacey was facing away from him, her back tense, her hand rubbing at the back of her neck.
Damn, she had a nice ass. Big, she'd called it. He had to admit it wasn't small, but it was tight and round and more than a handful. He wanted to palm those firm cheeks while he tilted her hips to the perfect angle to take his cock to the root. Hard and deep fucking… He wanted it like he wanted to breathe, wanted the tangible connection to another person. A shudder of longing wracked the length of his frame. Then her voice grew more agitated and he frowned.
"I understand you haven't seen him in years. As if I could forget that… No, that wasn't a dig… Jesus, it's the goddamned truth… he hasn't sent me a dime of support for you! I'm not making it up… Get over it? He's skiing and I'm broke, and I'msupposed to get over it? Justin? Justin? Honey…?" She sighed heavily and slammed the phone back into its cradle. "Shit!"
Connor watched as she ran both of her hands through her riotous curls. Then he noted that her shoulders were shaking with silent sobs. Suddenly, the need to fuck and forget became something else entirely. The need to share misery, to sympathize.
"Hey," he rumbled softly, relating to the frustration and grief he heard in her curse.
She screeched and leaped at least a foot or more into the air.
"Fuckin' A!" she yelled, turning to glare at him with a hand pressed over her heart. Tears hung on thick black lashes and stained her pale cheeks. "You scared me to death!"
"I'm sorry."
Her gaze dropped to his hips and the boner that tented his towel, parting the two halves to reveal his thigh all the way to his waist. "Oh my god."
His lust, her pain, and the Nightmares of just moments ago made false charm impossible. "You have the loveliest ass I've ever seen," he explained.
"I have a lovely…?" She blinked but didn't look away. "You're walking around the house half-naked with a hard-on and all you can say is 'you have a lovely ass?'"
"I can be fully naked, if you prefer."
"Oh, hell no." Her arms crossed over her chest, which only served to accentuate her braless breasts. Desire, building for weeks, flared across his skin and left a light mist of sweat behind. "The house doesn't come with those kind of benefits."
"I don't care what the house comes with," he said honestly. She was soft, warm, emotional woman. That's what he needed. "I want to know what youcome with. A soft touch? Something rougher? Do you like to be loved fast and hard? Or long and slow? What makes you hoarse, sweetheart?"
"Jesus! Don't beat around the bush or anything."
Connor watched her pupils dilate, an unconscious invitation. He stepped closer. Carefully. No quick movements, because he could tell she was in the grip of the fight-or-flight response and he didn't want her to run. Doubted he could let her run.
"I've no patience for lies at the moment," he murmured. "I want you. A night with you would be heaven after what I've gone through recently. I don't like it here. I'm homesick and just plain sick."
"S-sorry-" Stacey swallowed hard, her eyes big in her piquant face, her tongue darting out to wet cherry red lips. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I can't tonight. I have a headache."
He stepped closer.
She backed up and bumped into a barstool. Her chest lifted and fell rapidly, as did his. Her nostrils flared, sensing danger. Inside him, coiled tightly, was the need to snatch her close. To convince her to stay and say yes. To prevent her from denying that she was his, which some primitive voice inside him was whispering she was. Mine, it insisted. She's mine.
Something inside herunderstood.
"We're both having a crappy day," he managed, his voice raspier than he would have liked. "Why should we have a crappy night, too?"
"Sex won't fix my problem."
As she wrapped her hands around the edge of the wooden stool seat, her chin lifted. The pose thrust her breasts forward wantonly, defiantly, stirring the need he felt into raging hunger. A rough growl filled the space between them and she gasped softly. Her nipples beaded up tight, pushing against the loose cotton ribbing of her tank top.
Connor's cock swelled further, a response he was unable to hide as scantily dressed as he was. He wanted her. Now. Wanted to forget that he wasn't at home, that he might never go home. Wanted to forget that he'd been lied to and deceived. Wanted to wrap himself around a warm, willing woman and help her forget her pain, too. It was what he did, what he knew, what he excelled at. What grounded him. And this time it would be for real. Not a dream or a fantasy.
He could sense the vibrating anxiety in her, the tinge of desperation, the need to scream out her frustration and anger and hurt. The need to connect to someone who had absolutely nothing to do with anything. Someone blameless, without baggage or expectation, a guilt-free pleasure. She just needed a little push.
Tugging at his towel, Connor let it drop to the floor.
"Good grief," she muttered. "You're incredible."
With a gentle smile, he deliberately took her statement in a way it wasn't intended. "Ah, but I haven't even started yet."
The low, deep brogue wrapped around Stacey's spine, then slid down in a heated glide.
Infuriated with herself for being aroused, she stared at the tall, golden, gorgeous-impossibly gorgeous- nakedman striding toward her. Unable to look away from the beautifully honed muscles drenched in tawny skin. Or the dark honey hair that hung over a strong brow. Or the Caribbean blue eyes that roamed her body from head to toe, the gaze hot and lustful but tender, too.
His sinfully sensual mouth was framed by lines of tension and stress, a sight that tempted her to kiss his troubles away. Whatever they might be.
As if it that was possible. Connor Bruce seemed to be an island unto himself. There was something inherently dangerous about him, something savage and untamed. He seemed… darksomehow, tormented. A feeling she understood because she presently felt that way herself. Barely leashed. Tense. She wanted to drive up to Big Bear and tell Justin and Tommy both that one fucking ski trip did not make Tommy Father of the Century.
Frustrated with her inability to "get over it," Stacey imprudently ogled Connor's luscious cock instead. After all, he was waving it around…
"It's all yours," he purred, coming at her with a devastating combination of determination and mouth-watering, finely honed abs. She looked up and saw challenge within the depths of his blue eyes. He knew she couldn't help but look and covet what he offered so bluntly. "And you're all mine."
God, how she wished she could laugh that off. Considering how long they'd known each other, that comment should have been funny as hell. But Connor was too primitive a male to dismiss when he became possessive. Just as she, apparently, was primitive enough to enjoy being dragged back to his cave by her hair.