The Season to Sin

by Clare Connelly

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  It’s an admission I don’t expect and I can’t suppress an outward display of surprise. My lips, painted a bright red, form an ‘o’. I cover it as quickly as I can, but his grimace shows that he saw my response. Understands my surprise.

  ‘Well, I’m glad.’ Glad we are getting somewhere. ‘In my experience, therapy works best when I have a willing participant on my hands.’

  I swear I don’t mean anything by it, but the speculation that grows on his handsome face shows he’s analysing my words for a hidden meaning. For a sensual insinuation that should have stayed buried deep in the recesses of my brain.

  Fortunately for me, he doesn’t capitalise on the error, though he leans forward when he speaks so I catch a hint of his fragrance. Woody and alpine, masculine and strong. ‘Are you saying you’re not able to help me?’

  A glimmer of disappointment pings in my chest cavity. Did I want him to volley back my unintentional double entendre? To tell me he’d be very willing to be in my hands?

  He’s looking at me, waiting for an answer. For almost the first time in my career, I’m struck mute. I run my eyes over his face, so handsome, and wonder at the secrets he’s hiding. At the life he’s lived that caused him to phone me. At the fact he’s making me want to throw caution to the wind and make him mine.

  ‘No,’ I say finally. ‘I think I can help you. If you want to be my patient.’

  ‘I don’t have time to be a patient,’ he says, and it’s so scathing that a shiver runs down my spine.

  ‘Well, unfortunately, it takes time,’ I point out firmly. ‘There’s no quick fix for whatever has led you to me.’

  ‘You’re confident saying that when you don’t have the faintest idea why I organised this meeting?’

  ‘Yes.’ I glare at him. ‘You know why, Noah?’ God help me, the taste of his name on my lips is addictive. ‘Because I do this all day, every day. People like you walk into my life, wearing your issues like a coat that only I can see.’

  He narrows his eyes.

  ‘It’s in the set of your shoulders, the depths of your eyes. I see it.’ I lean back and feel my heart pounding hard against my forearms. ‘Trauma isn’t something that can be drunk away. Nor is it something I can wave my magic wand and cure. The only way to get beyond it is to work through it. It’s not a pleasant process, I won’t lie to you. Sometimes the healing can feel worse than the original pain. But I can promise you that if you don’t work through your problem you’re going to come unstuck one day. I wonder if that hasn’t already happened. Is that why you’re here?’

  * * *

  ‘This is a load of bullshit.’

  I can’t help it. The woman might be hotter than Hades, but she’s spouting psychobabble crap out of that beautiful red mouth of hers and it makes my skin crawl.

  I hate this shit. I’ve heard it all before. If it hadn’t been for Gabe’s ultimatum, I’d never have arranged to meet her. But I’d do just about anything for Gabe, even without the threat to stand me down from the company while I ‘sort myself the hell out’—his words. I don’t want to see a shrink, and I have no intention of seeing Dr Scott-Leigh—hell, I don’t want to see anyone. I’m going through the motions, that’s all. But I didn’t come here expecting her to get under my skin like she is. I didn’t expect to find her utterly fascinating.

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ she murmurs, and I wonder how she’d feel if I were to slip my hands under her dress, finding the softness of her thighs, the heat between her legs.

  I drink the water again, thinking I really should have chosen a bar instead of this busy central London café. I replace the water glass and prop my elbows on the table, enjoying the way her eyes flare a little wider as my body looms closer, before she tamps down on the response and is all businesslike professionalism again.

  Is there a Mr Dr Scott-Leigh?

  No wedding ring, and you’d bet her husband would be smart enough to make sure she wore one. With a body like hers, she’s no doubt got a never-ending queue of men at her door. Hell, if she were mine, I’d chain her to my bed. At least until the novelty wore off.

  My lips twist at the missed opportunity. Yes, I definitely should have suggested a bar after-hours. Somewhere I could actually do something about the fantasies I’ve had about her since she walked in, aching to dispel all professionalism and aloofness.

  I heave out a sigh, returning my attention to her face. It’s a face that is objectively beautiful. Huge blue eyes, a nose that can only be described as cute, with a neck that is elegant. Her hair is as fair as sunlight and it’s plaited in a way that tells me she’s trying to tame herself but, in contradiction to that, she’s wearing little red earrings that I see now are Christmas gifts with glittering green ribbon.

  She’s what my nine-year-old self would have called fancy. All perfectly groomed and sweet-smelling, flawless and poised in a way that a ballerina would envy.

  I know lots of women now, fancy and not. Fancy women tend to throw themselves at me, and it doesn’t matter if their lingerie is high-end or from a supermarket, they’re all just as eager to strip it off their bodies at the smallest encouragement.

  They all scream with pleasure just the same.

  She’s watching me patiently, waiting for me to speak, and I can only guess it’s a tactic taken from Therapy for Beginners. But it has little to no impact on me.

  I watch back, my expression impassive, my lips curled with the derision I am famed for.

  ‘Well.’ She concedes defeat by speaking first. ‘I suppose we can always talk about the weather.’

  ‘Or we could talk about you.’

  ‘Me?’ I’ve surprised her. Again. Her lips open into a circle that is distractingly erotic. ‘I’m not on the agenda. Sorry.’

  Her manner tells me she’s anything but apologetic.

  ‘So I’m supposed to bare my soul and you give me nothing?’

  Her smile is tight. She’s pissed off. It’s the first time I realise that I like riling her up; definitely not the last. ‘Well, if you decide you want to undertake therapy, then I give you peace of mind in due course,’ she murmurs.

  But she’s got no idea what ghosts run through me; what shadows fill my being. I am a wraith of my past’s creation.

  ‘Holly, I highly fucking doubt that.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  HER HAIR IS longer than I realised. And so much softer. Up close as I am, it smells like vanilla and honey.

  I know it’s a dream but, for the first time in a month, a woman has chased her from my mind and I am free from the cursed hauntings of my past. I clutch at the fine threads of this dream, refusing to let it slip from my mind.

  ‘I love it when you kiss me,’ Holly murmurs, her lips a perfect red. I reach for her, pulling her to me, my hands large against her fine frame, my fingers splayed wide on her hips.

  Her body is pliant at my touch. Easy to control.

  Surrendered completely to me, and what I can give her.

  I yank her—hard—against my chest, enjoying the soft exhalation that brushes my jaw. Her breasts feel so much better than I imagined. They’re firm and soft at the same time, so big and round. I lift a hand and palm one, my thumb brushing over her nipple, my fingers possessive and demanding.

  She looks at me on a tidal wave of confusion and uncertainty. This is new and different and she doesn’t know how to respond.

  She doesn’t need to worry.

  I know enough for both of us.

  I lift her easily—she’s light and I’m strong—and wrap her legs around my waist. I don’t know how I want her but, God, I know I need her. Her dress is floaty, it moves easily over her hips, granting me the access I need. Even though it’s my dream and I should be able to control this shit, she’s wearing underwear—a barrier I don’t want.

  Her hands wrap around
my neck, drawing my head closer to hers, and she’s kissing me, her tongue seeking mine, duelling with me, her eyes swept closed against the assault of this passion.

  But I don’t want to kiss her.

  Kissing is romance and reward—fucking is not. Fucking is passion and need—a primal, physical act that is over when it ends.

  I break my mouth free and stride across the room. I don’t know where we are. Dreams are funny like that. I push her back against a wall and, with her weight supported by the wall and my hips, I rip her dress open at the front. She’s not wearing a bra—thank you, dream gods—and I crush my mouth to her breast, rolling my tongue over her nipple until she whimpers, and then I move to the other, this time pressing it with my teeth so her back arches forward and her fingernails dig into my shoulders.

  I’m naked now—in a dream, clothes are capable of simply disappearing—and I slide her panties aside with my fingers, my eyes mocking her, teasing her, as I nudge my cock to her entrance, hitching myself at her seam, feeling her moist heat before sliding deep inside her.

  She groans, a sound that comes from the base of her throat, and I laugh.

  ‘This is just the beginning, baby,’ I promise.

  And because I’m pursued by demons that seek to punish me, I wake up at that moment, sweat beading my brow and a cock that’s harder than stone. I drop my hand to it, rubbing my fingers up and down my length, curving my palm over my thickness.

  It’s no good.

  Having dream-fucked Holly, I need the real thing.

  I reach for my phone and check the time. It’s midnight. I’ve been asleep only forty minutes. For Christ’s sake.

  I scroll through my calendar, going back to Tuesday last week when I met Dr Scott-Leigh in that café.

  Her contact details are in the appointment file. I click on her email address:

  Holly,

  I need to see you again. Tomorrow.

  I consult my calendar once more—these sleepless nights are playing havoc with my short-term memory.

  Four p.m. is my only free time.

  NM

  I drop the phone to my bed and push up. I dress quickly, or as quickly as I can when my dick is like a tent pole, and throw back a tumbler of straight vodka, then call one of my drivers—there are four on rotation.

  Graeme is on the roster.

  He’s probably the least able to hide his disapproval of my lifestyle, and that gives me a perverse sense of amusement.

  ‘Where to, sir?’ he asks without meeting my eyes. Did I wake him? Tough. It’s his job, after all.

  ‘Mon More,’ I say, naming a club in Putney. Julianne has haunted my dreams for a month and now Holly is taking over. The only thing I know is I can escape them both in a loud bar with free-flowing booze.

  * * *

  It’s not like I’ve been thinking of him since our appointment. At least, not only of him. I’ve had a lot else on my mind. Like working out how I’m going to make a Virgin Mary costume for Ivy before her Christmas concert and when I’ll have time to help her with the gingerbread house she’s determined to give her grandmother this year.

  No, I’ve been far too busy to think only of Noah Moore.

  Except at night, when my head hits the pillow and I shut my eyes. Then, all I can see is his face, his beautiful, exquisite, tortured face, his haunted eyes and sexy mouth, his body that I want to throw myself at, to curl up against, to be held and comforted by. He makes me want to surrender to his touch, to be safe within his arms.

  I’m smart enough to know how absurd that is, but if I can’t have the real thing, I should at least be able to satisfy myself with the fantasy. Right?

  I’ve had plenty on my plate this week but, when I arrive at my office this morning, fate seems to have conspired to throw Noah Moore at my feet.

  His email detonates in my consciousness like a charge. It’s barely civil and it’s sure as hell not how appointments are made. I can’t even say for sure how he got my email address—it’s not on my business cards and I don’t routinely welcome patients to communicate with me directly.

  There has to be a divide between my work and my home life. That’s the way this works best.

  Not for Noah Moore, though. I’m surprised to find a wry smile has rubbed across my lips when I scan my calendar for availability and none of the usual clinical detachment chills my emotions.

  My day is full, and yet if I were to swap my one o’clock for twelve o’clock and miss lunch, I could move my four o’clock forward and make time for Noah.

  I swallow past the doubts.

  I can’t say why, but I am compelled to answer, and I am driven by a desperate need to see him again.

  I send a quick reply:

  Noah,

  I can meet with you again, but it will have to be in my office. Four p.m. works. Don’t be late—I have another appointment directly after.

  Dr Scott-Leigh

  I send it, pleased with the fact I’ve kept it so formal, pleased with the way my email doesn’t, in any way, shape or form, convey how utterly devastatingly sexy I think he is.

  I’m proud and pleased as I load up the news browser I always read before starting work and Beatrice strides in with a coffee and bagel.

  ‘Morning, Holly,’ she says with a smile and leaves again without waiting for a response.

  I love this woman so much.

  She knows how desperately I need my sacred ten minutes without interruptions and I so appreciate her giving me that. Only now my brain is full of interruptions. Questions about Noah, his habits, his problems, his intentions, his needs.

  I want to know him and I want to help him.

  And I can’t be at my most effective, therapeutically, if other issues, like my raging desire and the fact I haven’t slept with a guy in over five years, take over my brainpower.

  I employ mindfulness, breathing in deeply, exhaling slowly, counting beats and blanking my mind until I feel more like myself again.

  But it’s a godawful day.

  I feel like I’m operating at half my usual capacity. I drag my brain through appointments, eat a muesli bar between my two and three o’clocks and then, after my three o’clock leaves, make a quick phone call to the hospital to check on a patient of mine.

  When I disconnect the call, Beatrice buzzes through that Noah Moore has arrived.

  My pulse leaps immediately, my heart thumps hard against my chest and my fingers begin to shake. I cast a quick glance at the compact I keep in my top drawer, run fingers over hair I have today left loose and stand to greet him.

  I didn’t know Noah Moore would book an appointment—it’s not for him that I’ve worn this outfit but, the second he enters the room, his green eyes skim over me and I get a kick of satisfaction at the speculation I see in his eyes.

  Holy hell.

  What am I doing?

  I have no business feeling all warm and tingly because he’s staring at the way my leather skirt hugs my hips. It’s high-waisted—it comes up to my belly button—and I’m wearing a gold cashmere sweater tucked into it. It’s an outfit I would describe as perfectly professional but, the way his eyes light on my silhouette, I feel like a centrefold.

  ‘Mr Moore.’ My tone is cool. Good. Cool is good. ‘Please, take a seat.’

  He strides into the room, looking dishevelled in a way that is sexy but that I have every reason to believe is the result of a sleepless night.

  He throws his large frame into one of the chairs, his legs spread wide, his hands resting on his powerful thighs. Today he’s wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved top.

  ‘Holly—’ his lips flicker into a smile, but it’s over in a millisecond ‘—nice to see you again.’

  I compress my lips. Normally, patients would express gratitude at the fact I’d squeezed them in under short notice, but not Noah.

&nbs
p; ‘Let’s get started,’ I clip. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Are you asking out of interest or as a doctor?’

  My pulse ratchets up and I have to dig my fingernails into my palms to stop the guilty blush from creeping over my cheeks. ‘As a doctor.’ The words drip with ice.

  His smile suggests he doesn’t believe me. Crap.

  ‘Then let me remind you; I haven’t agreed to see you professionally.’

  I frown. ‘Haven’t you? I would have thought that’s just what you did when you asked for an appointment.’

  ‘No.’ It’s cryptic. I leave it alone for now and reach for a pen. There will be time to discuss the semantics of how he wants to proceed.

  ‘You were up late last night.’ He arches a brow in silent enquiry, so I rush to explain. ‘You emailed at midnight.’

  He nods, dragging a hand through his hair, but says nothing. It’s like pulling teeth!

  ‘Are you always up so late?’ I ask.

  ‘Late? Midnight?’

  I refuse to be embarrassed by him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he grunts, and his eyes are wary. He’s withdrawing from me, pulling back. Something about my line of questioning is hitting on an issue that is renewing his trauma.

  It’s nothing you would be able to tell, unless you had experience with this. Outwardly, Noah is every bit the charming, sexy bad boy he’s renowned for.

  I smile, lean back in my chair and drop the pen onto the notepad. ‘It’s cold today.’

  A comment that surprises him. It makes him wary; his eyes skip to mine and a frown moves on his face. He doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Do you have plans for Christmas?’

  ‘Christmas?’ It’s practically a sneer. ‘Christmas is weeks away.’

  I nod. ‘It’ll be here before you know it.’ My eyes drift to the picture once more, a smiling Ivy, and I feel somewhat more centred.

  ‘Do you have plans for Christmas?’ he volleys back, his expression tight as he watches me with every fibre of his being.

  I wouldn’t normally answer—the question is too personal—and yet I hear myself say, a smile softening the words, ‘Not really. Just a small family celebration this year.’