Now that the floodgates of my emotions are open, there’s no stopping it. “I’m so tired of feeling so . . . alone. I want to be touched, I want to be loved, I want to ache for someone so I can feel that moment when they ease it from me.”

I don’t care how wrong or slutty it is. I know I will tomorrow. I know I’ll regret it tomorrow. But right now, I want to feel. Right now, I want to feel Connor. I stand and face him, shimmying my dress up a bit, before seating myself in his lap again, straddling him. His breath hitches, his hands timidly resting on my hips.

“Demi,” he growls my name.

I press my forehead to his as both of us breathe heavily. The moment is . . . intense. I’m straddling him. He’s just as shocked as I am.

“I don’t know what’s happening here,” I admit. “Between us, but . . . I lied to you.”

“I know,” he says, simply.

“I was there that night. I remember everything.”

“I know you do.”

“How?”

“You asked why Roxy didn’t join us for breakfast the next day. You remembered someone showed up, so I knew you were lying. She never showed up.”

The thought of Roxy reminds me that Connor isn’t a single man. He’s taken. I move to stand, but his hands pull my hips back down. “What’s wrong?”

“We can’t . . . I mean, you’re involved with Roxy.”

“No, I’m not.”

“But she . . .” I pause. Am I really about to admit that I know Roxy stays over at his apartment often.

“She?” he questions.

“She spends the night with you. You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not. We’re friends.”

“With benefits?”

“Just friends, Demi,” he states, adamantly. “I haven’t slept with anyone since the day I got out and the only reason I did that . . .” he pauses and shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“Tell me,” I demand. I know he’s talking about the red head that served us at the restaurant we ate at the night I picked him up.

Meeting my eyes, he says, “There was no fucking way I could ride all the way back to Colorado next to you without . . . fuck,” he groans. “This sounds so shitty.”

“Say it.”

He swallows hard. “I don’t know how to explain what it was like to walk out of that fucking prison and see you standing there. It almost felt like a cruel joke, ya know? I go from being surrounded by stinky-ass men, to find this goddamn bombshell waiting for me to take me home. And no matter what I thought of you or how I wanted you, it wasn’t an option. You were Blake’s wife. And even telling myself all these things, I wanted you. I’d just met you, but I wanted you so fucking bad. And it wasn’t because I’ve been locked up for eight years, and you were the first woman I’d been close to in a long ass time. It was you Demi. You . . . feel like home. I knew it the moment I saw you. You’re a pillar, a rock. And it’s all I’ve ever wanted. So I hooked up with the waitress because I needed to take the edge off, try to clear those thoughts from my mind.” He lets out something between a snort and a laugh. “But it didn’t work.”

I cup his face with my hands and press my mouth to his. What starts off soft erupts into a hard, passionate kiss, with both of us clawing at one another. I rock my hips, rubbing against his erection. His hands move up, lifting my dress, before finding my ass cheeks and squeezing. I reach down and pull at the hem of my dress, intending to pull it off, but he stops me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask breathlessly.

“I need . . . this to happen when we’re both sober. I need to know this is really what you want.”

I stare down at him, still rocking against him, unable to stop myself. “I want you. I’m not drunk . . . well not that drunk. I swear.”

Taking my hand, he kisses it softly. “Then let’s take our time with this. Eight years in prison taught me a thing or two about patience. Sometimes when you wait for something, it only makes it that much sweeter when you get it. Something tells me I’m going to want to see and feel every single minute of you, Demi. And it’s going to be so fucking sweet.”

And my heart flutters.

He pulls me down and kisses me softly. “Can I sleep with you tonight? No sex, I just want to feel you against me.”

“I’d like that,” I whisper. I climb off his lap, and we hold hands as we walk upstairs together. He leads me into the master bedroom, and I want to say no. I don’t want to sleep in this room with him, but oddly enough, a sense of calm washes over me. I can’t explain it, but somehow, it feels right. Maybe it’s morbid, but something deep inside of me tells me Blake would be okay with this; that he would want this for us. Connor strips down to his boxers while I change into a nightshirt in the bathroom. He’s already in bed when I come out, so I crawl in next to him and curl into him. We’re spooning and since having him half-naked in my bed is the purest form of torture, I have to punish him a little too. We’re spooning, and as my body fits his, I wiggle my ass against him.

“Demi,” he growls, low and throaty, his erection pressing against me.

“I was just getting comfortable,” I lie, a smile in my voice.

He inhales deeply and mumbles something under his breath about me being the death of him.

I chuckle, enjoying the thought that even if we are both riddled with want for each other, basking in desire that won’t be sated tonight, at least we’re in it together.

“Goodnight, Connor,” I whisper.

“Goodnight, babe,” he mumbles against my shoulder before giving it a chaste kiss.

And then, for the first time since Blake passed away, I find immense peace and sleep better than I have in years.

In Connor Stevens arms.

I wake up just before dawn, the morning light leaking into the room. Connor is passed out cold. We’re in the same position we were when we fell asleep; big spoon, little spoon, and I know his arm must be asleep. I gently move away from him and climb out of bed, needing to use the bathroom. Stopping, I stare at him for a moment. All of those tattoos. He’s like a walking canvas. I close my eyes and suck in a steady breath. I don’t know what’s happening between us or where it will go, but I do know sleeping in his arms last night was everything. I tiptoe to the bathroom, and when I’m done, I head downstairs to make us a pot of coffee. It’s funny how the idea of drinking a cup of coffee in bed with him excites me so much. I guess sometimes it’s the simple things in life.

The pot is brewing, and I’ve just pulled down two mugs when I hear a knock at my back door. Through the glass pane, Wendy gives me a sheepish smile. I frown, sad that even with our disagreement she felt she had to knock. Opening the door, I give a halfway friendly smile.

“You didn’t have to knock,” I tell her.

She nods once, her eyes dropping to the floor before rising to meet mine again. “I wasn’t sure. I thought you might . . . I don’t know. Hate me.”

“I could never hate you,” I clarify. We’ve never been in this place before; the place where family/best friends have a problem that has affected their relationship negatively.

“Can we talk?” she asks.

“Have a seat,” I motion to the table before walking back to the pot. “Cup of Joe?”

“Please,” she answers.

Once I’m seated across from her, she sips her coffee hesitantly, careful not to burn herself. I say nothing. I just wait and let her take the lead. Finally, her gaze meets mine, her eyes riddled with tears. “I’m sorry, Demi.”

I nod once, reaching across the table and taking her hand in mine. “I’m sorry too. I just . . . wanted to help. I should have been more delicate about it.”

“We had him tested,” she admits. “It was only testing through the school. He hasn’t been medically diagnosed yet. You were right, though. He’s high functioning autistic.” Her last words come out on a sob, and I quickly switched seats so I could sit next to her and hug her.