Well, sitting, technically.
He doesn’t say anything for a really long time and I wonder if I’ve spooked him. There’s a reason I usually keep this stuff to myself.
‘I don’t know why I told you that,’ I say, shaking my head so that my hair fluffs against my cheeks. ‘I don’t generally...’
He lifts a single finger to my lips, holding it there to silence me.
‘I asked.’
I swallow. I don’t know why but the simple explanation is somehow important.
His finger lifts higher, running over my cheek, and I instinctively blink my eyes shut as he moves his finger higher, to the ridge of my brow. To the scar that is roughly six years old.
‘His handiwork?’
I forget about the scar, most of the time. It is just a part of me now. One of the many bumps and indents that have formed on my body over time. Some from ageing, many from Aaron.
I nod slowly and Noah swears harshly under his breath. ‘I want to kill the fucker.’
A frisson of something like danger rolls over my spine because I don’t for a second doubt he means it. That he would—and could. His virile strength is a huge part of his appeal, but I want him to use that strength for pleasure, not pain.
As if sensing the surge of fear and adrenaline that rushes over me, he smiles, a smile that is sexy and charming and draws me back to the moment. I reach for my champagne and sip it, no longer self-conscious or nervous—no longer analysing the faults of my fate. I am simply surrendered to it.
‘Sometimes you sound very Australian.’
He arches a brow, reading my comment for what it is: a distraction.
‘I am Australian,’ he says dismissively and surprises me then by leaning forward and pressing a kiss to my eyebrow, to the scar that marks my flesh.
My heart turns over in my chest and my danger sensors flare.
With a sixth sense that perhaps my emotional health depends on it, I smile thickly and continue, ‘When did you move here?’
‘To London?’ He pulls back, reaching for his beer and sipping it before topping up my champagne. ‘About five years ago.’
‘To England,’ I clarify.
I sense his desire to pull away from me, but he doesn’t. I’m unbelievably pleased. ‘A week after I turned eighteen.’ His smile is a very masculine version of the Mona Lisa’s, every inch as enigmatic and mysterious. I wonder at the secret memories he’s holding on to, and why he keeps them wrapped to his chest.
‘But not straight to London?’
‘No.’
Closed answers. In a therapy session I would let him get away with it, being ever-careful not to spook him, to antagonise and alienate him. Here, in a packed bar, with his beautiful body between my legs and the temptation of a night together on the periphery of my mind, I make free to push him.
‘Where did you go?’
He looks as though I’m the dentist and he’s terrified of needles. Odd, when I think Noah Moore isn’t afraid of much at all. ‘Oxford.’
‘Oxford? As in university?’
‘Would that surprise you?’
I frown. It does, and I can’t say why.
‘My...business partner and I did a coding course there,’ he says. ‘It was just a summer school—not really affiliated with the university, just using the campus.’
‘That’s where you started Bright Spark?’
He nods again. ‘At least, where we started on the path towards it. It was another few years before we launched.’
‘And then it all happened very fast,’ I say, noting the admiration that softens my words.
He dips his head forward in concession and I sip my champagne. Is that my second or third glass? I don’t know, but it’s delicious.
I am buzzing all over. In my abdomen and my soul, my mind and my mouth. I am a lightning storm and he is the ocean, drawing all of my electricity down, causing me to spark and flash.
I look at him and a bolt of awareness lights up, hard and fast. I shiver—a good shiver. One of anticipation and indulgence; one of reward.
* * *
I don’t realise how affected by the champagne she is until she stands, looking for the ladies’ room. She presses a hand against my chest to steady herself and my cock surges forward, thinking his moment is nigh.
Only, she sways and her eyes blink, like she’s confused in some way. Shit. She’s had almost the whole bottle and eaten very little. I’ve been demolishing the platters as we’ve talked, satiating one hunger before turning my attention to another.
Her eyes scan the bar, but her frown gathers, like she barely knows where she is.
‘This way.’ My voice is gruff. I put an arm around her waist, offering more support than guidance, and lead her to the restrooms at the back. I fight the urge to take her in myself—but wince as she walks down the hallway and has to hold the wall for support.
Five minutes pass. Six minutes. I’m on the brink of storming into the restroom myself when she comes out, looking a little more in control, though still resting her hand on the wall as she walks towards me.
Her smile is bright as she approaches. ‘Let’s go home.’
The words are slurred, but her meaning is clear. My heart slams against my ribs as I imagine the doc in my home.
‘Your place?’ I prompt.
‘No.’ She shakes her head emphatically and then winces once more. She presses a finger to my chest. ‘Your place.’ She runs her finger down the centre of my chest, all the way to my abdomen, lingering there as her eyes lock on mine and her teeth pull her full lower lip in.
I fight an urge to push her back against the wall. I fight many urges, in fact, in this moment. I’m as shocked as anyone could be to discover that I have some ancient decency within me that makes the idea of taking advantage of her violently abhorrent.
That makes me more concerned for her than I am aroused—which is really saying something as my body is like a fucking grenade about to go off.
‘This way.’ The words are unintentionally short, as though I’m angry with her, and I see hurt flash in her eyes.
She reads me like a damned book and I hate that. I smile—it’s tight on my face, but I hope it placates her. At the entrance to the bar, I look outside. I can’t see any photographers and this is hardly the kind of place that anyone of note frequents—one of the reasons I like to come here and unwind. Blow off steam. Be unknown. I prop Holly just inside the door and stride out, retrieving my bike helmet and then returning to her.
Her eyes are shut, but she’s standing.
‘Here.’ It’s a hoarse directive. I fasten the helmet and then scrutinise her. ‘Are you going to be able to hang on?’
‘Yeah.’ She nods. ‘Let’s go.’
I put an arm around her waist, guiding her from the bar, then seat myself on the bike. I keep a hand on her as she gets on behind me, relieved when I feel the press of her legs on my thighs, her arms around my waist, her head heavy against my back.
My place is only a ten-minute drive from the bar, but I practically hold my breath the whole time, needing to get her home, needing to get her off the back of my bike before she falls off.
She didn’t seem at all affected by the champagne. She was talking, asking her fucking questions, eyeing me like she couldn’t wait to get in my pants. And then she was...paralytic.
My face is a grimace as I pull the bike to a stop, the sludgy Thames issuing a steady, throbbing noise from its bowel as it bleeds a retreat to the sea.
‘You okay?’
She’s quiet for a moment before nodding, her eyes so beautifully, distractingly hooded that I have to bite back a curse. ‘Yeah. I’m fine.’
She gets off the bike somewhat unsteadily, so I move fast, kicking the stand down and then covering the distance between us in one motion. She sways again and I swear under
my breath, lifting her up over my shoulder and stalking towards my front door.
‘Hey!’ Her laugh is breathless. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Getting you inside before you fall down.’
‘I’m fine,’ she insists, slapping her hand to my back before sliding it lower, and lower, until her fingertips find the bottom of my suit jacket and pull it up. Jesus. I fumble with the key—this place is a hundred and fifty years old and the keys must be almost as ancient. Big and brass. That should be an advantage, but with all the blood rushing to my dick I’m finding it cumbersome as hell. Finally, I get the door open, right around the time Holly triumphs over my shirt-slash-pants scenario and finds the bare flesh of my back. Her fingers run over me with a curiosity that is sensual and distracting.
I flick the lights to my left and she swears softly. ‘That’s so bright.’
‘You’re still wearing a helmet.’ I laugh roughly, carrying her into my apartment and dropping her onto the sofa. She falls elegantly—how can she do that when she’s drunk as all hell and wearing a helmet?
Her fingers fumble with the straps to no avail and, suppressing a smile, I reach down and unclip it for her.
Shit. I’d forgotten her face. How distracting it is—how fascinating. I’d forgotten the fucking scar too. A surge of protective anger flashes through me so fast and shocks me to my core.
I’m not a protector.
Not even close.
At least, I’ve never felt that kind of instinct for anyone other than Gabe—probably the only person who needs protecting even less than I do.
But I feel it now. I feel an inexplicable fury that anyone could damage Holly. And because I understand the way scars work, I know the formation of the external scars is nothing compared to what she must carry inside. A heart that is scratched all over from repeated lashings and torment, a soul that is part withered from neglect and terror.
I’m lost in this moment of contemplation and so don’t realise that she’s pushing up to stand. Not until her sweet body presses against mine, her eyes hooded by desire and drunkenness. ‘I.’ She lifts unsteady fingers to the buttons on her shirt and undoes the top one. ‘Want.’ She works quickly for someone who’s so clearly affected by alcohol. I see the lace swirls of her bra. Shit. ‘You.’
I swallow hard as she removes the shirt altogether, revealing creamy skin and breasts I could weep for. It’s perfect. ‘To.’
Her hands move to the button of her pants and I know that I need to put an end to this. That I need this woman, who is already scarred and hurting, to be better than I am.
‘Fuck.’ She says the word as she pushes her pants down over her hips, revealing a tiny white thong that matches her bra. My body is tighter than a spring.
She steps out of her pants and then reaches around, unclipping her bra, dropping it at my feet while keeping her eyes locked to mine. ‘Me.’
Holy shit.
I take several steps backwards, not running away from what she said so much as needing to get a better view of her. My throat is drier than the Strzelecki Track; my abdomen tightens with an ancient, primal need to possess.
‘Holly.’ I hear the pleading tone in the way I say her name, my desperation so very obvious. She sways unsteadily as she steps towards me; it would be callous of me not to catch her. But fuck, I wasn’t prepared for how her skin would feel beneath my palm. My hand drops, curving around her arse, feeling her sweet roundness, holding her against the answering hardness of my aching cock.
She moans, her sweet cherry-red lips parting as her eyes find mine. Her throat is exposed and I want to run my mouth over it, to taste every single inch of her—all of her.
‘Please,’ she whispers and pushes up on tiptoe, trying to kiss me, looking for more of me.
I have about half a second to make my decision and it is so far from being easy. Because I want to fuck her. I want to fuck her hard, to make her all mine, to make her beg and make her scream, but she’s drunk and, as I said, I have discovered I am a better man than I knew. A fact that is borne out by the way I once more lift her, this time cradling her to my chest, holding her against me and taking her up the exposed stairs that dangle from wires in the ceiling, leading to the mezzanine bedroom. I am gentle when I place her on the bed. She reaches for me and I kiss her gently, tasting the champagne and need on the tip of her tongue. I press my body over hers and I swear I could come. There is something within her that calls to me and I am desperate to answer it.
But not now. Not like this.
CHAPTER SIX
‘WHAT TIME IS IT?’
I lift my eyes to the clock in the kitchen. ‘Three.’
‘You’re still not sleeping.’ Gabe’s disapproval is obvious. I grip my neck, massaging it hard as my eyes lift, without my permission, to the mezzanine. She is almost completely silent, but for the occasional rustling of bed linen as she turns her near-naked body in my bed.
For three hours I have grappled with the fact that I have Holly Scott-Leigh in my bed and that I am down here, staring at a pixelated screen rather than being up there with her. Holding her. Kissing her. Worshipping her body.
‘I take it you didn’t keep your appointment to see the therapist?’
It’s useless. I stand, walking into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of rum down from above the fridge. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’
There’s a pause. ‘Really?’
I can understand Gabe’s surprise. I love him like a brother—hell, we are brothers, courtesy of the foster system that birthed us both—but I nearly flattened him when he gave me the ultimatum. When he told me I’d lost my grip and needed help.
‘So you’re going to see her?’
‘I saw her this afternoon,’ I say, pleased I can be so frankly honest with him. I don’t add that she’s flat-out refused to see me as a patient. That her sense of ethics has made that impossible. She’s now just a woman I’m going to fuck—no, more than that, but I can’t express that to Gabe.
I don’t tell him that I’ve spent tonight with her. That I’ve felt her sweet, soft skin and tasted her delicious lips. That professionally I don’t want a bar of Holly Scott-Leigh, but in my bed I want all of her; all that she’s got to offer I’ll take.
‘Good.’ I feel like a lying bastard when I hear the relief in Gabe’s voice. ‘I know how hard it was to lose Julianne...’
A familiar chasm in the region of my heart opens wide. My fingers shake a little as I half fill the tumbler, staring at the beautiful golden liquid. I lift it to my nose, inhaling its intoxicating aroma gratefully.
‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘What’s happening in New York?’
There’s a longer than normal pause and then Gabe expels a breath. ‘Nothing new.’
A frown tugs at my brows. I know Gabe better than anyone, and I know when he’s lying. He doesn’t lie. He’s the most outrageously honest to a fault person I’ve ever met, even when being honest causes him to come off as an out-and-out bastard. He doesn’t care. The truth is his thing.
‘Gabe?’
‘Sì?’
My lips twist at the way he slips into his native tongue. He had six years in Italy before his mother stole him away, dragging him to her native Australia before abandoning him into the foster system. I didn’t know him until much later, but he’s told me that he spoke not a word of English. That he spent the first year in Australia being bullied for his accent and called ‘dumb’ despite the fact he is, and always has been, incredibly intelligent and focused.
Now he spends much of his time in Italy, and sometimes that language is at the fore of his brain more than English. Particularly when he’s stressed.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ I demand, cutting to the chase.
‘Niente. It does not matter.’
‘But something is wrong? Is it the Calypso?’ Calypso is the code name for the smartphone we
have under development. It’s incredibly confidential—one team of thirty-seven engineers has been working on it for fourteen months—but it’s obsessed Gabe and me much longer than that and we’re close to launch.
‘No. It’s...nothing. You need to go to sleep.’
I grunt. ‘Fat fucking chance.’
‘Noah.’ Gabe says my name quietly. ‘If you don’t think she can help, I will find you someone else. I am...concerned for you.’
I expel a harsh breath. I know he’s worried. I’ve gone off the rails lately—even for me. I can see it from his perspective and I can see it’s not fair to him. I hate that I’m doing anything that might cause him pain but, Jesus, this all just happened a month ago and I’m still dealing with it. That’s normal, right?
‘Don’t be.’ Once again, I lift my eyes towards the mezzanine. ‘I’m coping fine.’
* * *
What the hell is that? Why are there blades slicing across my brain? What is that beating of tiny little drums against my nerve endings, making my temples throb with an unbearable pain? Oh, my God, my throat is stinging and... Oh hell. I’m naked.
In a bed that I would put money on belonging to Noah Moore.
Oh, my God.
Did we...? I stare down at my body, my naked body, except I’m still wearing underpants, which surely means...what? What does it mean? I think back to the way he kissed me and touched me in my office, on my desk, and I have no certainty about what has happened here. How can I?
I turn bleary eyes towards the bedside—there is no clock there and I have no idea where my bag and phone are. The best I can do to estimate the time is look out of the window. I reach for the thin, soft blanket at the foot of the bed and wrap it around my shoulders like a cape, planting my feet over the side of the bed and standing gingerly for a moment while I wait for the tectonic plates of my brain to shift back into alignment.
I’m never drinking again.
I tiptoe across the room—I have no idea why I’m being so stealthy—towards the window that’s behind the bed.
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