Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 162

Timeless.

fresting, Blur former Nuts

A single light burrund

: laxity and inle against the

The night’s long past still. The kind of quiet that settles deep, heavy enough to prest on the rib low, branches moving with the breeze. And further still, beyond the stretch of the gravel path.

there for hours tonight. It’s gone now. But I can still see the faint outline of smoke from the chin stars. He thinks he’s careful. He is careful. But not careful enough to hide from me. I always see him I stand at the window, nine hand resting against the cool glass, the other loosely around a hall empty glass of whiskey that’s long since gone warm. My reflection stares back, soft and pale in the moonlight, a woman who’s survived a thousand lives and somehow still doesn’t sleep. Behind me, the clock in the hallway ticks once, twice, then falls silent again. The door opens.

“Didn’t think I’d find you still awake,” Connor’s voice rumbles low, warm with exhaustion. I hear the sound of his belt unfastening, his

shirt brushing against his skin as he pulls it off. He moves quietly for a man his size, but I’d know his steps anywhere.

His arms slide around me from behind, slow and familiar, his chest pressing against my back. “What’re you doing up so late, little ghost?”

I lean into him, eyes still on the horizon. “Watching the dark.”

He hums against my neck, amused but cautious. “Watching for what?”

“Not what,” I say softly. “Who.”

He stiffens slightly. “Diego.”

“Mhm.”

He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face before resting it on my hip. “Wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with that girl of Ricci’s,

would it?”

I can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “You know him too well.”

“Christ,” he mutters, voice half a groan. “That boy’s got your curiosity and my ego. We’re doomed.”

“Probably,” I agree, sipping the last of the whiskey. “But he’s smart and careful. Mostly.”

“Should we be worried?” he asks, and there’s real concern beneath the joke.

I shake my head. “Not yet. He’s watching, not acting. He wants to understand her first. That’s his way.”

Connor grunts, forehead pressing lightly to the side of my head. “Sounds familiar.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. “It does.”

We stay like that for a moment, two people built of old violence and older love, staring out into the dark where their son stalks ghosts of his own making. The quiet stretches. His fingers trace idle patterns along my arm, rough and gentle all at once. I’ve always thought of

1/3

9:17 Fri, Nov 14

Timeless.

Connor as gravity heavy, grounding, impossible to resist.

He presses a kiss just below my ear. “Come on,” he whispers. “You can’t stand here worrying all night. Let me fake some of those worries

away,”

I turn to face him, the lines at the corners of his eyes deeper now, but his gaze still sharp and

He smiles that slow, dangerous smile that once made kingdoms fall. “Sweetheart, when have I ever failed to?

“Hmmm, let me think,” I tease, and he laughs, low and rough, the sound vibrating through me.

nk you can?”

He pulls me closer, his hands sliding to my waist, thumbs brushing the curve of my hips through the thin fabric of my nightshirt. Time has etched its marks on us both–silver threads in his hair, a faint scar along my collarbone from a long–forgotten skirmish–but in moments like this, we’re timeless. His body against mine is a familiar map, one I’ve traced a thousand times, yet each rediscovery feels like the first. I tilt my head up, capturing his mouth in a kiss that’s slow at first, savouring the taste of him–whiskey and woodsmoke, the remnants of our evening by the fire. His lips part mine with gentle insistence, tongue sweeping in to claim what’s always been his. A soft moan escapes me as his fingers dig in just enough to remind me of his strength, that unyielding power wrapped in tenderness.

“Bed,” he murmurs against my skin, voice husky with promise. He doesn’t wait for an answer, scooping me up effortlessly despite the years. wrap my legs around his waist, laughing breathlessly as he carries me through our room, the one we’ve shared through storms and silences. He lowers me onto the bed, the mattress dipping under our weight. His eyes rake over me, dark with hunger. Scars crisscross his skin like stories etched in flesh, reminders of battles won and lost. I reach for him, pulling him down, my hands exploring the ridges and valleys that time has deepened.

“God, Sage,” he groans as I arch into him, our bodies aligning like puzzle pieces forged in fire. His mouth trails fire down my neck, nipping at the pulse point that quickens under his touch. I tug at his boxers, impatient now, and he chuckles, that deep rumble that sends shivers through me. “Always so eager, even after all this time.”

“And you’re always so damn good at making me wait,” I retort, but my words dissolve into a gasp as his hand slips under my shirt, callused palm cupping my breast. He teases the peak with his thumb, rolling it until I’m writhing beneath him. Age hasn’t dimmed this spark; if anything, it’s honed it sharper. We know each other’s rhythms now, the subtle cues that build the heat higher and faster.

He sheds the rest of his clothes, then mine, with a reverence that borders on worship. Naked, we press together, skin to skin, the warmth of him chasing away the chill of worry. His fingers dance lower, tracing the line of my thigh before delving between my legs. I buck against his hand, slick and ready, as he circles that sensitive spot with expert precision. “Connor,” I breathe, clutching his shoulders, nails digging in. He positions himself at my entrance, pausing to meet my eyes. “I love you,” he says simply, the words are a vow renewed. Then he slides into me, slow and deep, filling me completely. We both still for a heartbeat, savouring the connection, the way we fit, the way it feels like coming home. Our movements start gently, a rocking rhythm born of years together. But passion builds, inevitable as a tide, and soon he’s thrusting harder, my legs locked around him, urging him on. I meet him stroke for stroke, our breaths mingling in ragged harmony. His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining as he drives us toward the edge. It’s better every time, this alchemy of bodies and souls. Age has stripped away the urgency of youth, replacing it with a profound intimacy, a knowing that amplifies every sensation. I cry out as pleasure crests, shattering through me in waves, and he follows soon after, burying his face in my neck with a guttural moan. We collapse together, tangled and spent, his weight a comforting anchor. He kisses my forehead, murmuring sweet nothings as our heartbeats slow. In the quiet afterglow, worries fade, replaced by the certainty of us—older, wiser, but forever ignited.