Page 110 of Make Me Mean It

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THEO

Ireach for Connor before I’m even fully awake, my hand sliding across the middle of the bed, fingers spreading through rumpled sheets in search of warm skin, and it takes another sleepy sweep of my palm before the cold registers.

My eyes snap open, and I lie there for a moment with my hand still stretched across his side of the mattress, staring at the empty space beside me while the last of the sleep drains away.

He’s gone.

I knew he would be, but it does nothing to stop my chest from aching as I push myself upright and glance towards the bathroom. Door open. Light off. No sound from downstairs that I can hear, either.

I listen anyway, like there’s still a chance I’ll hear him moving around downstairs and get to pretend he only went looking for coffee or couldn’t fucking sleep. My hand drags back across the empty side of the bed, but the sheets are cold enough to make every excuse die before I can properly form it.

Connor didn’t just leave.

He’s been gone a while.

A humourless breath slips out of me as I scrub both hands over my face and sit there with my elbows braced against my knees.

I told him not to fucking run, and instead he just waited until I was asleep.

The worst part is I can’t even pretend I’m surprised. I watched him fight himself every time he touched me, like wanting it badly enough might somehow make the rest of it easier to swallow.

I knew exactly what morning would look like, saw it coming every time Connor got that panicked look on his face last night, so the empty space beside me shouldn’t feel like the fucking punch to the chest it does. If anything, I should be relieved he saved us both the awkward morning-after bullshit.

Connor left. Fine. He’s straight, confused and Marcus’s fucking brother. Last night was already complicated enough without me expecting him to wake up this morning and suddenly have his shit figured out.

Not exactly a fucking tragedy.

So Connor left.

Fine.

Except I’m still staring at the space where he slept, chest getting tighter the longer I picture him curled into me last night like there was nowhere else he wanted to be.

I shove myself towards the edge of the bed.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Pain drags through my hips, and up my spine so sharply I stop halfway, palm flattening against the mattress while I wait for my body to stop punishing me for moving.

Fuck me.

I breathe through the ache and ease myself upright, slower this time, every pull through my hips reminding me exactly how I ended up like this. I’d happily spend the rest of my life questioning why anyone voluntarily bottoms more than once if my head wasn’t already dragging me straight back to Connor gripping my hips, his mouth against my neck, his voice dropping into that low, certain tone that stripped every fucking argument out of me.

So fucking beautiful, baby.

My fingers tighten against the mattress.

Even now, with his side of the bed cold beside me, I’d let him do it again.

Every ache feels like Connor has left fingerprints somewhere beneath my skin, a constant reminder that I let him closer than I’ve ever let anyone get, fell asleep wrapped around him, and somehow still woke up alone.

I snatch the first shirt off the floor and yank it over my head, only for Connor’s aftershave to fill my nose before I’ve even pulled the fabric straight. My hands slow, recognition hitting with a warmth that has no business being there when I’m already pissed at him for leaving.

I shove myself into a pair of joggers and head for the door, moving too fast and immediately paying for it when pain pulls through my hips. My hand catches the frame, teeth grinding together while I wait for the worst of it to ease.

Connor leaves me sore as fuck and wearing his shirt, and I’m still about to drag myself downstairs looking for him.