Sallinger, Elene: Reflection (The Chrysalis Series)

He wanted her.

Wanted her on her knees in front of him, those lips wrapped around him and her green eyes locked with his. He wanted her bent over with that round ass turning pink under his hand as he plunged into her. He bet her nipples would be lovely, clamped in metal, swollen and red.

His cock stirred, and once again he resorted to reciting the great masters to get it to settle down. Thankfully, he got himself under control. Not an easy thing where Bridget was concerned. He wanted her in a way that he hadn’t wanted a woman in a very long time. His own proclivities made deep relationships few and far between. Few women could handle what Connor liked. After the last disaster, he’d stuck to the basics and kept his darker side hidden.

She made him want to swing the closet door open and shine the light on all the dark shadows inside. It wasn’t just her beauty; it was something behind her eyes. It hinted of depths that she kept hidden and it made him want to explore and expose them. Made him want to watch her gasp as he showed her the limits of her body and her pleasure.

She really needed to get a hold on herself. This was not even a date and it was certainly not something to be losing control over. But her traitorous body wasn’t listening to her at the moment. She didn’t even really know how to react to the fact that her nipples had gone hard and she’d grown damp when all he’d done was look in her direction and smile that crooked grin he seemed to always wear. She’d felt like lightning had struck right through her pelvis. She tingled in a way that reminded her she had to be careful and she willed her body into submission.

She’d never experienced reactions like this. After That Day, she’d thought she’d never respond physically to a man again. Certainly, the few relationships she’d had over the years hadn’t sparked this type of reaction in her. They’d been caring relationships that had ultimately ended disastrously for everyone because she’d tried to make lovers out of friends. Never once had she been honest with any of them about why she was so inhibited. The sex had been perfunctory and controlled. She’d made sure of it. She wouldn’t allow them to touch her in any way that might cause her to lose the strict control she maintained.

In the end, they all had the same complaint and she really couldn’t blame them. It probably wasn’t very fun when a woman wouldn’t allow you to do much more than stick it in and pump. They’d all called her frigid. Ice queen. Or, more colloquially, bitch.

She shook her head to clear it. No good came in dwelling on what couldn’t be changed.

Shaking off the shame that wanted to surge from dredging up the past, Bridget took a deep breath, mentally pulled up her big girl panties, and smiled in greeting.

‘Hi there.’ Bridget held out her hand to Connor and had to school her expression when her heart went berserk as his much larger hand engulfed hers. ‘You been waitin’ long?’

‘Nope, just a few minutes. But I was people-watching, which is always fun.’

He bent to gather up his backpack and Bridget took the opportunity to look her fill. He was dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt. The late spring weather was just hot enough that a jacket wasn’t necessary in the midday sun. She’d left her own in the car. His sleekly muscled arms were set off nicely against the deep, midnight blue of his T-shirt. His dark brown hair was slightly wind-blown.

Her hand itched to touch him. Would his hair feel as soft as it looked? The trail of her thoughts caused her a moment’s pause since she didn’t usually spend time thinking about touching men, or wondering what they smell like or if his skin would be warm or cool to touch.

He caught her mid-stare when he straightened and the smile he sent her way was smug with a hint of heat. She flushed but refused to look away. Bridget was no coward … well, at least with most things. Lifting her chin, she met his gaze directly and saw his ice-grey eyes warm to charcoal as his grin widened.

With a nod in the direction of the door, he said, ‘Shall we?’

‘Thank you,’ she replied, tearing her gaze away from his and entering the shop.

Familiar smells of coffee and pastry, along with the sounds of conversation, set her at ease. Her friend Mona’s voice rang out as she made the rounds of the regulars, stopping by their tables and chatting with them about the weather, their families and such. With a deep breath, she put her awkwardness aside. This wasn’t a date. It was an apology. Nothing more.

They took their place at the end of the line and she studied the menu. She’d basically memorised it, given how much time she spent there, but it gave her some time to compose herself. Tasha, one of Mona’s baristas, was running the counter and the line was moving swiftly.

‘What’ll you have?’ she asked Connor when they reached the register.

He was standing a bit too close due to the line behind them and she was doing her best to ignore the heat of his body. Her mind was on board with that game plan. Her body, however, was not listening. Her womb clenched and she felt an uncomfortable rush of moisture between her legs. This was so not happening.

‘Hmmm.’ He rubbed his chin and she followed the movement of his fingers, imagining it was her he was rubbing. Her nipples tightened and she ripped her gaze away, beginning to dig into her handbag for her wallet. ‘I’ll just have the daily brew, black.’

‘That was an awful lot of thinking for “the daily brew, black”.’ She raised an eyebrow at him.

‘ That was an awful lot of letting you get an eyeful, gorgeous.’

Those grey eyes laughed down at her and she felt the heat suffuse her body.

Crap!

She was in trouble. Every moment he spent with her intrigued him more. From her resistance to the obvious attraction between them to the cool way her mind worked, he wanted to know more. They shared a lot of interests. Their passion for running and physical activity, they both were rabid readers, loved movies and good food. Though the latter was something he didn’t get to enjoy very much. Meals for him were usually what he could microwave. It wasn’t that he couldn’t cook, he could hold his own. His grandmother had seen to that. His salary simply didn’t support gourmet meals in trendy restaurants, but he knew all the best diners and hole-in-the-wall joints in town.

‘I’m telling you, absinthe was a big part of the picture – pardon the pun – when it comes to the French impressionists,’ she said as she took a sip of her macchiato.

She drank froufrou coffee, but she looked damn good doing it. Her full lips were tinted a shade of copper that almost matched her hair. Her green eyes were lively and sparkling under thick lashes. She wore make-up sparingly, which he was glad of, since she was beautiful in her own right. She didn’t need help with her looks nor with that killer body. She was tiny, but she was perfectly formed. Large, full breasts, round hips, and a tiny waist. She was the image of fertility. And, as she licked a stray drop of coffee from her lip, the sight of her tongue sweeping along her lips had his cock jumping in his jeans and he was glad the table hid his reaction from her.

‘I agree with you, but I still say, chemically enhanced or not, that period was my favourite in art.’

‘Why?’

‘Because impressionist art makes the viewer part of the piece. The details are fuzzy, and that leaves it to you, the viewer to fill in the gaps. It’s like a piece of fiction that tells you the barest details about a character and you fill in the rest for yourself. In some ways that makes the story, or in the case of art, the painting, even more personal to you, because you’re investing in the piece in your own imagination.’