Page 8 of Forbidden Need

The thug glanced at her, and she arched a brow. Okay, maybe she hadn’t expected Connel to be so blunt, but… No, actually, blunt was exactly his style.

The fingers loosened from her arm and the jerk stalked off, leaving fast. Smart. Connel wasn’t always so charitable. He slammed the door behind the guy. The asshole should be thrilled he got out clean.

A mercy she wasn’t granted.

The flutter of her heart lightened. Her breathing slowed, but her heart wouldn’t still. They hadn’t been alone since…

“What do you need?” he asked, his voice little more than a growl.

What did she need? Was that why she’d come? What he thought? That she’d show up and use him for her selfish desire?

Why that word? Why did her stupid mind conjure that word?

The same reason she was reassessing her own motives. Why had she come there? For Tulip? For Steeple?

Not if the stirring low in her belly was an indication. It dipped lower, warming her pussy, exactly what shouldn’t be happening.

“Conn,” she whispered.

She hadn’t meant to. Not like that.

The darkness in his eye glinted the moment the breathy word hit him.

His feet moved while hers were frozen, locked to the red stag head in the middle of the otherwise black rug beneath her.

He stopped, less than a foot in front of her. Them. Together. Alone. Forbidden.

“What do you need?” he asked again.

The bass of his tone rippled through her. The unstable earth lurched beneath her feet. She wobbled, swaying forward until her face rested on his chest. Her eyes sank shut. Taking liberties wasn’t usually her style but it was Connel. Restrictions didn’t exist between them, or they hadn’t not so long ago.

The weight of his hand on the back of her head anchored her. For the first time in weeks, she felt focused, safe, valued. With him, in that minute, her existence made sense. This was it. The reason she walked the world was to be touched by him.

One palm was joined by the other and they arced down to cradle the sides of her head. The pads of his thumbs pressured beneath the slope of her jaw, tipping her head back.

She didn’t fight it or open her eyes; the press of his mouth gave her salvation.

It was a dream. Like every dream she’d had since they’d last been together.

The circle of tension slung low on her hips weighted the arousal tickling her intimate corners.

Using his hold on her head, he directed her body while slanting her mouth, walking her backward until she hit the desk. Their desk. Boosting up onto it, she moaned around the mass of his tongue plundering deeper, harder, demanding her surrender.

His name was in her throat, but she couldn’t free it, not while her need for him throbbed throughout her. Sliding her shins up his legs, she coiled them around his hips, using him to pull their bodies together, forcing the solid evidence of his own need against her as the angle between her spine and the desk narrowed. Had he struggled as bad as her? Missed her? Could she believe it?

Seeking his shirt buttons, she unfastened them, desperate to feel him, to lay her hands on him—

“Ire—”

His hand moved, somehow, she anticipated it and slapped the lid of the cigar box shut before he could draw the weapon within.

Their eyes met.

Connel.

Shit.

He cursed and thrust away from her to spin on the guy who’d come in. “What the fuck do you want?”

---