Placing one gentle kiss on my shoulder, he whispers against my skin, “That day you cut the grass. You had your hair tied up . . .” his hands glide from my hips, slowly and agonizingly, until they’re just beneath the swells of my breasts, “all I could think about was what it would be like to come up behind you and kiss your neck.” A surge runs through me as I fight the urge to lean back against him. “Seems so little, I know,” he chuckles huskily, “but I’ve fucking fantasized about it over and over. What would it feel like? How soft would your skin feel against my lips? How would you taste? What sounds would you make?” When he kisses my shoulder again, his lips barely brushing my flesh, a moan escapes me. “Damn, Demi,” he groans as he kisses toward my neck, each one growing harder. “It’s better than I could have ever imagined.”

When his hand moves up my back and threads my hair, forcing mine away, I reach back and hold his firm hips to keep myself steady as Connor Stevens somehow turns me on more than I’ve ever experienced in my life by simply kissing my neck. “Don’t ever doubt my want for you,” he says, between kisses. “I don’t think a man has ever wanted a woman as much as I want you, beautiful.” His words are like bolts of pleasure that rack my body. I can’t take it anymore. I need him. I pull away and turn to face him, and he takes my hand, leading me back to the swing, sitting on it. Pulling me toward him, he kisses my belly as he slowly slips my panties down. My body trembles with desire as I hold his firm shoulders and step out of them.

“There are so many things I want to do to you, that I need to do to you, but right now . . . fuck,” he groans, “Demi, I just need you.” I want to tell him I feel the same, that I feel like I’m being eaten alive with desire for him, but my mouth won’t let me speak the words. Instead, I climb on his lap so that I’m straddling him, and with the head of his cock pressed to me, ready to enter me, I kiss him as I bare down, but his firm hands stop me. When he looks up at me, his eyes hooded, filled with lust. “Slow, Demi,” he orders me. “Go so painfully slow. I want to memorize and remember every single millisecond of this.”

Then he pulls my head to his and as our lips crush together, I push down slowly until Connor is seated inside of me as far as he can go. We spend hours on the swing, slow and steady, deep and raw. A few times, lost in the moment, the passion, I speed up, but Connor pulls me back, and I relish in the torture of it. It isn’t just making love, it’s a dance, a conversation, it’s . . . everything.

After Connor and I make love, he carries me inside and up to the master bedroom. We don’t speak. Not a word. We just feel. Words aren’t needed. We let our mouths, and hands, and bodies do all the talking. His touch says everything. His kiss whispers beautiful words of hope and promise. His body against mine as he moves inside of me tells me how he worships me.

No.

Words aren’t needed.

Connor Stevens isn’t a man of many words, yet he somehow speaks volumes. It’s dark out by the time we finish. We’re both exhausted and sweaty when he crawls out of bed, opening the window, letting in some cool air. Then he returns beside me, both of us still naked, and pulls me close. With my head on his chest listening to the beat of his heart, his hand threading my hair over and over, and the sound of the rain falling outside, I fall into a deep sleep.

The mind is a funny thing, the way it can push us or inhibit us. It’s inside of us, yet it can somehow contain information and keep it from us. Then, in the cruelest way, it can unleash truths on you that you’re not prepared for. Truths that you’ve been hiding from. Sometimes all it takes is a trigger; like the sound of a gunshot. Or in my case, the sound of a motorcycle.

I sit up abruptly, waking suddenly from my deep sleep. The sound of a motorcycle roars from outside and silences seconds later. My heart is pounding in my throat, my stomach knotted, hands shaking. I remember what happened. Twisting my neck, I realize Connor isn’t in the bed with me anymore. Whipping the blankets back, I rush to the master bedroom and grab my white silk robe, slipping it on as I rush down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back porch.

“Connor,” I shout as I hurriedly tie the sash to my robe. By the time I hit the bottom step Connor is rushing around the side of the house from the driveway, his expression concerned having heard me cry out for him. “Connor,” I sob. When did I start crying? I practically fly into his arms and squeeze him as hard as I can as I cry. Violent, hard sobs wrack my body as I mentally replay what happened two days before.

He must know why I’m crying because as we fall to the ground, and I crawl in his lap, he holds me tightly and whispers, “You have nothing to worry about. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Or anyone for that matter.”

I cry harder. Why does he think he has to always protect everyone else? When I manage to look up, I see Dusty leaning against the garage, arms crossed, looking away from us. He knows what happened too. Well, he knows most of it. That makes four of us. Four people with one giant secret that Connor feels like he has to carry alone. I hug him tighter.

“Demi Stevens!” A woman shouts, and I jerk my head up. A flash blinds me momentarily, and I blink a few times before realizing it’s a photographer. “Demi, do you know what happened to Mr. Jenson?” the photographer yells. Three more people run up beside her and start snapping pictures. Reporters? Really? Dusty rushes over and begins pushing everyone back as they shout questions to me.

“Are you and Connor Stevens involved?”

“Are you lying to protect Connor?”

“Get the fuck back you assholes,” Dusty shouts. I can’t move. I’m frozen as I watch the debacle.

“We’re going to stand up now, baby,” Connor whispers. “We need to move.” I nod in compliance, and he manages to get both of us on our feet. When he looks down at me, he pulls my robe closed tighter, then noticing it’s basically see-through, he juts his head toward the house. “Let’s get you inside.”

Numbly, my body still shaking, he leads me inside and seats me at the kitchen table. He grabs a blanket from the living room and wraps it around me. Then he goes back to the porch and calls for Dusty. Pulling out the chair beside me, he moves it close to mine and sits, pulling me to him. Connor kisses my temple as Dusty enters and takes a seat on the other side of the table. No one speaks for a moment.

“Reporters?” I mumble.

“They showed up this morning,” Connor answers.

My tear filled gaze meets his. “I killed him,” I finally manage.

He squeezes me, before moving his hand to my head. “I killed him,” Connor argues.

“No, no you didn’t. I killed him.” I reiterate.

He kissed my temple again, long and hard, fisting my hair in his hand. He’s hurting. He’s hurting because he wanted to protect me from this. He hoped I wouldn’t remember, but I did.

“They have no proof of anything,” Dusty adds. “The only thing the prosecution can come up with is Connor’s previous convictions.”

“In a small town, that’s all they need,” I argue.

“Demi,” Connor says, his voice deep and stern. “I’ve got this. Trust me. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

I jerk away from him as tears stream down my cheeks. “Do you really think that’s what I’m worried about?”

He sucks in a deep breath, and his eyes go soft. “You don’t remember anything,” his tone is firm. It’s not a question. He’s telling me I don’t remember anything.

I stand up and pull the blanket around me. “If you think I’m going to sit here and play stupid while you take the rap, you are so wrong,” I warn.