‘I don’t need fucking therapy.’
‘That’s your decision. But if you want me...then you’ll agree to this. You’ll agree to let Dr Chesser help you instead of me.’
His eyes lock on mine. I can see that he’s waging a war, a battle that is ancient and primal and all-important. Finally, he leans closer and his breath glances across my cheek. ‘And then you’ll be mine?’
I nod slowly, a frisson of awareness travelling the length of my body. ‘Yes.’ And I mean it, from deep within my heart.
It’s freezing cold when we emerge onto the street. My office is just around the corner from London Bridge. I’ve been here for the last three years; prior to that, I was in Mayfair. This is a far better commute, though—our home is a twenty-minute walk from the office and on days when Ivy is with her grandmother I prefer to walk. No matter the weather, I find it clears my mind. I walked this morning, though my mind isn’t feeling particularly clear right now.
He is right beside me. Not touching, but I feel everything. His breath, his thoughts—I feel all of him.
‘Here.’ He reaches onto the back of a motorbike and pulls off a helmet. My chest thumps.
‘This is yours?’ I nod towards the bike. It’s big, matte black and like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s like a stallion, all sleek and strong and somehow beautiful despite the fact I hate motorbikes. Their noise, their speed, their inherent danger.
‘Nah. I just thought we’d steal it for the night.’ He grins as he lifts the helmet onto my head.
All arguments are silenced as I am lost to the effect of his proximity. His fingers are surprisingly gentle as they graze my jaw, locking the helmet into place. And his concern for my safety is somehow pleasing, reassuring, like what we’re about to do meets some criteria of a ‘normal’ relationship when there is nothing normal about this.
He turns back to the bike and climbs on, his haunches so powerful in his suit, his expression holding a silent challenge as he looks at me. ‘Well? Aren’t you going to climb on?’
The double entendre is intentional this time. My cheeks flame.
‘On that?’ I point at the rear end of the bike dubiously.
‘Jesus. You’re afraid of this too?’
‘I’m not afraid of...’ I close my lips and look around guiltily. ‘Do you enjoy teasing me?’
‘Yes. Get on the bike, Holly.’
My name on his lips kicks confidence into me. Thanking the heavens I wore pants today, I lift my leg over the side of the bike and settle myself behind him. There are little divots that are the natural resting place for my feet and so I place them there. My hands are another story.
Despite the fact I’ve twice now begged this man to fuck me, I am shy about holding him intimately.
He looks at me in the rear-vision mirror—he can’t see my eyes through the helmet, but he wears none and his look is mocking. So much mocking from this man and it doesn’t occur to me to mind.
‘Hold on, Doc.’
I should ask him to call me something else but, now that I’ve spelled out the boundaries of our relationship, I have to admit that hearing him call me by my professional title is so damned hot.
I nod, figuring touching him is better than falling off the back of the bike and being roadkill.
I wrap my arms around his waist and wriggle forward so our bodies are melded together. His eyes burn into me and, despite the fact he can’t see me, my soul sears at the eye contact; it melts at the physical contact. My body is on fire.
The engine throbs to life, a powerful reverberation beneath me, and I have to bite down on my lower lip to stop from groaning. My body is over-sensitised and every single nerve ending jumps in response to this stimulus.
He pulls out into the traffic and hunches down a little—I stay curved around his back, my head pressed to the side, watching London in a blur as we tear through the city.
Despite what Ebony James might think, London is already wearing her festive finery. Lights twinkle overhead and Christmas trees mark the public spaces. It’s hard not to be caught up in the beauty of it as we pass—but I’m only partially aware of the sights. Same with wherever we’re going.
Noah Moore between my legs feels amazing. I know this is crazy and out of character, but when did I last do anything like that?
I’ve never been into the casual sex thing. Aaron was my first boyfriend, my high school sweetheart. And before I knew what a controlling bastard he was, I’d lost my heart and my virginity to him.
Still, I’ve never been with anyone else. I don’t know if I can make love to someone and then move on, if I can be Noah’s drug of choice.
By the time he pulls up out the front of a bar—and I have no idea where—my buzz is at risk of disappearing.
Despite that, I’m reluctant to walk away from him. Danger signals are everywhere and yet I loosen the helmet and place it on the handlebars, then step off the bike and put my hand in his, our fingers interlaced as though we are already intimate lovers, used to weaving our bodies together like this.
‘Let’s go, Doc.’
Pushing my doubts aside, I admit to myself that I want this with all of me. For once in my life, I’m going to do something selfish and stupid and to hell with the consequences. I suspect Noah Moore will be worth it.
CHAPTER FIVE
HE SHOULDERS THE door in—my stomach swoops because the small, meaningless gesture seems metaphorical. Like I’ve cracked open a wardrobe and I’m slipping into Narnia. One night, one decision and I already know my life will never be the same again.
The place is pumping. It’s a Friday night, and though I prefer to be at home catching up on period dramas, apparently the rest of the world still does this.
I like it. No, I more than like it. I love it. I feel like an entirely different woman as I walk in beside Noah Moore. People turn to look at him, then me and, unlike my usually reserved self, I don’t care. I like being seen with him. Confidence straightens my back.
It’s probably almost loud enough to drown out my thoughts and doubts. He’s known here. The woman behind the bar—Jesus, I thought I had big breasts—winks at him and now the jealousy is unmistakable. I go to pull my hand free, but his fingers squeeze mine. He looks down at me and, for a millisecond, it’s like no one else exists. There is just the throb of heat between us, a bright, burning, existentialist need that I will have to face or conquer—and soon.
‘Hungry?’ It’s so loud that he has to lean down and whisper into my ear. Just the feel of his breath on my skin spreads goosebumps across me. My tummy drops as though I’ve just crested over the high point of a roller coaster—I’m in freefall.
I nod, just a jerk of my head. It’s all I’m capable of.
‘What do you want?’ His lips twitch, like he knows what I really want. And of course he does. He’s forced me to admit that—to him, and myself.
‘Whatever.’ I shrug. It’s definitely not my usual style. I’m more of an Italian-at-six kind of diner.
He grins and weaves through the people until we reach the bar, where he’s immediately served by she-of-the-big-breasts-and-low-cut-top. He speaks quietly to her too, so I don’t hear what he orders, and I think my tummy is too twisted into knots to manage food anyway.
His eyes pierce me then and he jerks his head to his left. I follow the direction of the gesture and see only more people. But Noah leads me that way, his fingers still tight on mine, guiding me through the throng of revellers and, behind them, to a table in the back. It’s a high table with two stools.
‘Something you reserved?’ I ask as we sit down.
It’s so loud I have to raise my voice and I’m still not sure he hears. That suspicion is confirmed a minute later when he shakes his head and then stands, coming to my side and propping his elbow on the table. Once again, I have the sense that I’m imprisoned by him, by his big body and strong a
rms. And I realise how much I like that feeling.
It is a dangerous impulse—remember? I like bad boys. And the sense of being protected is almost always a lie. Men like Noah break your heart. Men like Aaron nearly kill you. The only protection comes from within. I am my own strength now.
‘You come here often?’ I say instead, wishing I had a drink to swallow the sudden dryness in my throat. As if my thoughts could convert to deed, a waitress—not Big Breasts, someone else—saunters over and places an ice bucket with champagne in the middle of the table. Two glasses are hooked into it, but she also has a pint of beer. She pushes it towards Noah with yet another wink—is that how they communicate here?—then swishes her hips as she walks away.
I’m way happier than I should be when his eyes stay trained on my face instead of following her curvaceous departure.
He’s staring at me, in fact, and the longer his eyes roam my face, the faster my pulse throbs in my body, the hotter my blood becomes. I don’t look away; nor does he. When I swallow, in an attempt to bring moisture to my desert-dry mouth, his eyes drop—briefly—to my throat, and then my lips. My stomach twists.
‘Do I have something on my face?’ I arch a brow, trying to sound a little sarcastic when I desperately don’t want him to stop looking at me.
But I should have known better than to stir Noah Moore. He reaches for my chin, gripping me lightly between his thumb and forefinger, holding me for examination. Holding me under the beam of his gaze, staring at me in a way that makes my skin goose all over. Staring at me like I am the only person in the room—no, the world. He moves closer, within the triangle of my legs. Our body heat is volcanic.
‘Nah. Your face is pretty perfect.’
Pleasure pumps my heart.
He grins and drops his hand from my face—the absence of contact sears me—turning to lift the champagne flutes and bottle from the ice bucket. He pops the cork with ease, like a man who’s done so often, and fills only one of the glasses before sliding it across the table to me.
In university, I used to drink vodka, lime and soda. And more than I should have. Now I don’t drink often, and almost only drink champagne. Noah’s chosen my favourite bottle. I lift the glass to my lips, savouring the first hint of bubbles as they pop against my flesh and breathing in its crisp, fruit-driven aroma.
He watches me with that intense way he has, as I take a sip and swallow, and heat is simmering through me. He’s so close, just an inch or so from my knees. Doubts are somewhere deep in the back of my mind, but I cannot grasp them now. I don’t want to grasp them. Instead, I smile at him and he smiles back. A slow, considered smile that makes me ache to know everything about him.
He draws a sip of his beer and then places his glass on the table, right beside my champagne flute. His hand drops to my knee. It’s a casual touch, but it’s possessive too, like he’s staking his claim, and I like it. Oh, I like it so much.
‘So, you have a daughter,’ he prompts, his Australian accent sounding thicker here.
I nod, and my lips twist with a smile as I think of Ivy.
‘How old?’
‘She’s four and a half. She’d want me to say the half—it’s very important to her. She’s already planning her fifth birthday extravaganza.’ I’m babbling. His fingers have crept higher, to my hip, which brings his body right back to mine, so close.
‘She looks a lot like you.’
‘I know.’
‘Who’s the father?’
The question is surprising, and not. I mean, it’s a natural thing to wonder about, isn’t it? If I weren’t wildly attracted to him, would it strike me as a strange thing to ask? Would I be hesitating like this?
Or is it just that I haven’t spoken to anyone about Aaron for a really long time? Even within my family, he is a taboo subject. My parents’ shame is a complex emotion—their shame at my divorce, at the situation I was in and at their inability to be there for me when I needed them.
‘My ex,’ I say.
Noah laughs. Just a short sound that mixes derision with amusement. ‘Obviously.’ He drawls the word in his best, most mocking tone. Why do I find even that sexy?
Because I like bad guys. Shouldn’t I have learned my lesson by now?
‘When’d you break up?’
These are normal questions. And yet ice is taking over the flames within me, cooling me, reminding me of the fear that dogged my every step for many years. ‘We...grew apart.’ I reach for my champagne and take several sips, my eyes focused on a point over his shoulder.
‘I call bullshit.’
He’s right. I jerk my head in a small nod. ‘We were together a long time. Right from school... We dated while I was at university and then when I opened my practice.’ My eyes meet his for a moment and I’m comforted by whatever it is I see in their depths. He tops up my champagne and murmurs something I don’t catch, but words I take as encouragement to continue.
To my surprise, I do just that. ‘He’s a musician,’ I say, rolling my eyes at my innocent naivety. ‘A guitarist.’ As though that explains everything. ‘Very, profoundly talented. But a tortured artistic soul.’ I’m making light of the situation. My parents aren’t the only ones with shame coursing through their veins.
He nods, his eyes drilling into me. ‘What aren’t you saying?’
I’m surprised. It must show on my face. I’m the one who reads people and yet he’s summarised me with ease. And though this isn’t a therapy session and he’s not my patient, I add his perceptiveness to what I know about him. It is not uncommon in people who have experienced lengthy trauma—trauma like mine. I became adept at analysing every single flicker of emotion that passed over someone’s face; I suppose that was my flight or fight instincts.
‘Why do you think there’s anything I’m not saying?’
He shrugs. ‘Because it’s the truth.’
‘You think you know me so well?’
‘Well? Am I wrong?’
Our eyes are locked; it is a battle of wills that is making my knees tremble. I reach for my champagne and realise he’s hardly touched his beer.
‘No,’ I say, once I’ve had a sip. ‘It’s just not a subject I like to talk about.’
‘There’s an irony in that.’ He grins.
‘I’m a therapist,’ I tack on. ‘It’s my job to ask the questions, not answer them.’
‘Whereas you just want to fuck me?’
My cheeks burn at the directness of his question. ‘I...’
‘How long were you together?’ He lobs the question back, his directness reminding me that he is a very successful businessman. That beneath the bad boy stubble and the loud, growling motorbike and the fact he swears and drinks like a sailor, he is smart and incisive, ruthless and intelligent.
‘Six years.’
‘And were you happy together?’
‘What do you think?’ I deflect. ‘We split up.’
‘That might mean he cheated or you did...’
‘I didn’t cheat,’ I say firmly. ‘And I don’t think he did either.’
‘So?’ He shrugs. ‘What happened?’
It’s highly likely the glass and a half of champagne I’ve consumed on a near-empty stomach have loosened my tongue, or maybe it’s the five years of not speaking to anyone except my lawyer and the judge, but I hear myself say, ‘When I was four months pregnant with Ivy, he strangled me until I passed out.’ I can’t look at him. The shame that runs through me is hard to ignore. I trace invisible circles around the base of my champagne flute. ‘I kept thinking he’d change, you know? It wasn’t like he was abusive—that’s what I used to tell myself. He was just stressed. His recording contract was dissolved, or he felt inferior to me because I earned five times what he did.’ I shrug. The excuses sound so ridiculous to me now. ‘And it was nothing—in the beginning. You know? Like he’d grab my arm too tig
ht, but he was always so apologetic. And I’d known him and loved him for so long.’ Tears clog the back of my throat. I thought I was done crying for him!
‘Anyway. I kept waiting for things to calm down, for him to go back to “normal”, but that became the new normal.’
‘He beat you?’ The question is asked softly, but I hear it loud and clear, despite the background noise of the busy bar.
Another waitress appears, placing a platter down on the edge of the table. Neither of us look at her or it; I’m simply aware of it in the periphery of my vision.
‘Beat me? Yeah, I guess you could call it that. He controlled me. Manipulated me. Pulled my hair. Broke my wrist. Locked me in our bedroom for two days straight and refused to let me eat or drink anything.’ I lift my eyes to Noah’s face now, finding the whip of strength that compelled me—finally—to leave Aaron. The look on his face robs me of breath.
There is such understanding there. Such a look of empathy that I feel I am speaking to someone who understands. ‘I never thought that could happen to me. I’m strong and smart and I come from a close-knit family. They all adored Aaron. From the outside, we had the perfect life.’ I grimace. ‘Such a cliché.’
‘Fucking bastard,’ he says after a moment.
‘Yeah. Anyway, once I was pregnant, I knew I couldn’t take the risk any more. I’d let him treat me like a punchbag for years, but what if he did that to our baby? I’d tried to help him. I’m a therapist, for Christ’s sake, surely I should have known what to say or do...’
‘You can’t help some people,’ Noah says with authority, and I wonder if he’s speaking about himself or someone he knows.
‘I learned that lesson,’ I admit.
‘Do you ever see him?’
I shake my head. ‘I have a restraining order. Not that I need it. He’s in prison. A week after leaving me, he strangled a prostitute. Put her in a coma for six months.’ I swallow. ‘Attempted murder—fifteen years.’
‘Jesus.’ Noah doesn’t touch me and he doesn’t offer me platitudes, both of which I appreciate. I need to absorb the fact that I’ve just told someone my deepest secret. And that I’m still standing.
The Season to Sin Page 5
