The Season to Sin

by Clare Connelly

  London is still dark, the sky a velvet black, the moon a pearlescent glimmer hidden behind leaden clouds. I look back towards the bedroom, needing to take stock of my surroundings.

  The bed is a mess, but that doesn’t indicate that Noah was in it with me. I mean, I’m a flippy-floppy sleeper from way back. When Ivy was little, we used to co-sleep, but when she was two she asked to go into her own room because I woke her up so often. With the blanket wrapped firmly around my shoulders and desperately wishing I had some clothes I could put on instead, I take the first step down and then another. My head is throbbing.

  No, it’s cracking apart at the seams—emphatically, angrily.

  I pause halfway down the stairs and study the apartment below.

  It’s less an apartment and more a loft, completely open and barely furnished.

  A sofa—flashes of memory return, cemented by the sight of his motorbike helmet discarded carelessly on the floor beside it. A table. An armchair. There’s no TV. No photographs or paintings on the walls, just one big whiteboard down the end with lots of writing on it, and another table in front of it that has several laptops all cabled together.

  I have no idea where we are, what part of London, only that we’re near the Thames. I can hear its lifeblood humming close by.

  A noise calls my attention and I swivel my head—far too fast, ouch—towards it. Noah is emerging from around the corner, a glass of something that looks like alcohol in his hand. My stomach convulses at the very idea.

  Please, please, don’t throw up.

  As if he hears my presence, his eyes lift to the mezzanine, landing on me almost instantly, and the tug of desire that swirls through me overtakes almost everything else. Almost, but not quite.

  I hold the blanket tighter around me and resume my slow walk of shame, moving downstairs until I’m on the same level as Noah, albeit across the room.

  He doesn’t speak, but his face says everything. His face that is part-mocking, part-amusement and with a dash of concern.

  ‘I...’ What? What can I say to explain the way I wrote myself off? Hardly sophisticated. I wish I could remember what we did when we got back, but alas, my mind is an utter blank. ‘What happened last night?’

  It’s still the same night, but he doesn’t correct me. He throws back a glug of whatever he’s drinking, keeping his eyes pinned to me.

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  Oh, God. Did we sleep together? Did I waste my chance of being with Noah by being too drunk to remember it? Did he sleep with me when I was in that state?

  ‘No.’ I shake my head and then wince—he winces in response, apparently understanding my pain.

  ‘Sit down, Holly, before you throw up.’

  I glare at him, like this is all his fault. ‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘Where are my clothes?’

  He places his drink down on the table and prowls towards me, heat burning me with his proximity.

  ‘I like you naked,’ he says, his eyes dropping to the opening revealed by the blanket.

  I can’t meet his eyes. Instead, I stare at the floor, keeping my hands clasped around the blanket. ‘Did we...? I can’t remember.’

  ‘Did we what?’ He’s enjoying my discomfort. Bastard.

  ‘Did we sleep together?’

  ‘I don’t sleep, remember?’

  And I realise that it’s the middle of the night and he’s wide awake, still wearing his suit, though he’s shed the jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, revealing tanned forearms that are works of art.

  ‘Did we...have sex?’

  ‘No, Holly.’

  That jerks my eyes up to his, and I think it’s relief that’s swirling through me. But only because I have no memory of the night, not because I’m glad we didn’t. I still want him in a way that robs me of air.

  ‘We didn’t?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Oh. Good.’ I nod brusquely. ‘Then why am I hardly wearing anything?’

  He walks towards me, closing the gap completely, his fingers curling around the fabric of my blanket cape. He pulls at it and drops it to the ground easily, his eyes challenging me to say something. I don’t. I don’t know why, but being undressed in front of Noah doesn’t feel as weird as I’d thought.

  When his eyes drop hungrily to my body, as though he is starving and I am his feast, it feels pretty damned good.

  ‘Because you...’ He presses a finger to the space between my breasts and I inhale a tortured breath. ‘Wanted...’ His eyes hold mine as he draws a line outwards to my left nipple, running a circle around it that makes me moan softly. ‘Me...’ His hand runs lower, to the soft flesh on the underside of my breast. He cups me and then drops his head forward, taking my nipple in his mouth and torturing me with his beautiful tongue until my knees are so weak I feel like I might fall. I barely hear the ‘to’ as he says it right against me, against my desperate, tortured nerve endings, against my body that is quivering for him.

  He lifts his mouth to mine then and kisses me far harder than I would have thought I could manage, given my pounding head and scratchy brain. He kisses me like we are lovers who have been parted a decade, a kiss that sears my flesh.

  ‘Fuuuuck...’

  He pushes the word into my mouth, rolling it around with his tongue before lifting his head an inch and staring into my eyes. His hand that held my breast has roamed to my butt and is pushing me against him so I feel the thickness of his arousal on my stomach. ‘You.’ The last word is a hoarse, whispered admission.

  I am lost, floating in an ocean of indeterminate swell and destination, simply being pulled whichever way it wants me to go.

  If I wanted him to fuck me, why didn’t he? I know he wants this as much as I do... ‘But...you didn’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘When I fuck you, Doc, you’re going to be screaming my name, not slurring it.’

  ‘I was not slurring,’ I say defensively, though of course I can’t actually remember that for sure.

  ‘You were drunk.’ He lifts a hand to my brow. ‘How do you feel now?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, not intending to tell him my head’s about to blow apart. And you know why? Because I want him—and I don’t want him to have an excuse for not sleeping with me. All this build-up, all the flirtation, all the seduction—I can’t bear it if it doesn’t go anywhere. In fact, I’m not going to let that happen. I’m going to reach out and grab him with both hands.

  Having opened the floodgates to desire when I have sought to ignore its existence for five years, I am unwilling to ignore it a moment longer.

  ‘I still want you to fuck me,’ I say boldly and catch the speculation in his eyes, the look of interest.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So?’ I lift my hands to his chest, tentatively at first, lifting my fingers to his buttons and unbuttoning the top two. He watches me without a word as I move painstakingly down his shirt, separating it finally from the waistband of his trousers and revealing his broad, muscled chest. He has a tattoo on his left pectoral muscle, a muscle that is strong and firm. I lift a quivering fingertip to it and trace the letters: MCMXCIX

  Roman numerals? I wish I could remember how to decode them, but it feels like for ever ago that I learned the symbolism, that I was taught to translate the Ms and Cs and Xs and turn them into relatable digits.

  ‘What is this?’ I murmur, wishing I were brave enough to lean forward and kiss him, to taste his flesh, to kiss him gently, firmly, desperately.

  ‘Numbers.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Yeah, obviously. But what number?’

  ‘Nineteen ninety-nine.’

  He catches my wrist and pulls it away, but I lift my other one, running my hand over his chest and feeling every dip and swoop, every muscle and sinew. His skin is smooth to touch, roughened by
hairs down the middle. I swallow, taking a step to his side, where I see more tattoos at the top of his shoulder and across the blade of his bone. Tattoos that are somehow frightening, yet I don’t know why. One is of a wraithlike creature, eyes that are sunken and knees that look to be made of stone. I shiver when I look at it.

  ‘What’s this?’

  His jaw clenches and I wonder if he’s not going to answer. But then he speaks, slowly, his accent thick and a lingering aroma of alcohol on his breath that should make me queasy but doesn’t.

  ‘Malingee,’ he says, the word inflected with sounds that are foreign and new.

  ‘Malingee?’ I repeat, hoping for the same accent and missing.

  His smile shows that I haven’t pronounced it correctly. ‘It’s an Aboriginal spirit.’

  ‘Really? What’s its significance?’

  He looks at me then and my breath catches in my throat for his nearness and beauty overtake me. ‘I like it.’

  I nod slowly, tracing around his back. It is blanked of ink but ripples with muscles beneath sinew and flesh. I can hear my blood pounding in my ears, heavy and demanding, torrid and fast. I reach his other arm; there is a simple dark scrawl that runs over his round shoulder. My eyes meet his and perhaps he senses my doubt, for he lifts a brow and watches me, his own breath seemingly held.

  I lean forward, emboldened by him, me, us, this. My tongue finds the swirling edge of the tattoo and tastes it and him; his saltiness makes my stomach roll with instant need. Suddenly, having sex with Noah Moore has become the most important thing in my world and I will do whatever I can to make that happen.

  No longer do I hear a single doubt from within my mind; I am conviction and certainty. As if to underscore my commitment to this, I run my hands around his back and slip my fingers into the waistband of his pants, finding the inch of flesh at the top of his butt. I hear his sharp exhalation of breath, feel it rustle the hair at my temple.

  My body no longer aches with the after-effects of overconsumption; I am alive with anticipation for what will be.

  ‘I haven’t slept with anyone since him,’ I say, knowing Noah understands. ‘I haven’t slept with anyone but him. Ever.’ I don’t know why but my smile is apologetic, as though my lack of experience might offend him in some way. And indeed, I see the shift of emotions crossing his face, the charge of wariness that makes him tighten and stiffen.

  ‘I don’t want him to be my only lover,’ I say honestly, shrugging my shoulders, forcing myself to hold his gaze. ‘I don’t want him to be that.’

  ‘You want me to fuck you to erase him?’

  ‘No,’ I say quickly, surprised at the way that sounds, about how it cheapens Noah—who should mean nothing to me and doesn’t. ‘I mean yes, but not just because of that,’ I say honestly. Uncertainty is creeping back inside me. ‘I thought you wanted this too.’

  He looks at me with a hint of the mockery that defined our first and second meetings, a look that makes my doubts surge and makes me feel like maybe he really doesn’t want me at all.

  Did I say something wrong? Do something wrong?

  Heat tingles through me—regret is my bedfellow. I hate drinking to the point I am drunk. I never do it.

  Aaron used to drink. Aaron used to be drunk, often.

  I pull away from Noah, stepping backwards, wishing desperately I were fully clothed. ‘I...’ I lift a hand to my temple, pressing my fingers into it uncertainly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He doesn’t react. ‘What for?’

  Good question. Maybe I’m still a bit drunk, because I don’t seem able to think clearly. Or maybe that’s just the proximity to this guy, his naked chest, his... All of him. ‘I guess just...drinking so much.’

  He laughs, the sound filling the apartment. ‘Doc, I don’t care. You think I’m offended by that?’

  I shake my head slowly, wishing I could regain the confidence of moments earlier.

  ‘I should go.’

  He’s quiet and watchful. ‘Is that what you want?’ he says after several long beats have passed.

  I don’t know what I want. Rather, I do, but I don’t know now if I should and my indecision is driving me crazy.

  ‘Where’s your daughter?’

  ‘Huh?’ I spin around, Ivy the last thing on my mind at that moment.

  ‘I presume she’s not home alone?’ he prompts, skimming his eyes over my face thoughtfully.

  ‘Oh...no.’ I shake my head. ‘She’s...with Aaron’s mother. Ivy stays with her every Friday night and most of Saturday. Sometimes Saturday nights too. They’re close...’ I’m babbling. I don’t realise until he crosses to me and lifts a finger, pressing it to my lips.

  ‘So here’s what’s going to happen,’ he says, speaking quietly. ‘You’re going to go back to my bed and sleep off the rest of your hangover. Naked, like this, so I can watch you if I want to, so I can see the way your breasts move as you breathe and your skin flushes as you dream of me. And then I’m going to wake you by kissing you here...’ He touches my breast lightly and drags his finger down my body, lower and lower. ‘And here.’

  He touches the front of my underpants. ‘And I’m going to kiss you here until you are falling apart and you are begging for me and then, Doc, I’m going to blow every other man from your mind. Sound like a plan?’

  * * *

  She is a restless sleeper, like me. When I do fucking sleep, which isn’t often these days. She throws an arm over her head and her face scrunches up. I will myself not to wake her, not yet. I am testing myself—my strength and resolve—seeing if I can delay the inevitable. I am a man who enjoys instant gratification rather than delayed. I am a man who values instant pleasure.

  And yet, with the Doc, I am savouring the anticipation of being with her, like I know the real thing won’t live up to what I hope, what I need. Like I know she can’t possibly feel and taste as good as she has so far.

  But what if she does?

  What if her body answers mine in every way? What if I feel a connection with her that is new and inherently dangerous for its impermanence? What if I get addicted to the way she feels and tastes and smells, to the small noises she makes in my arms. What if I become addicted to her smiles and her words, and her soft way of speaking?

  Addiction is dangerous, so too the illusion of permanence, for nothing lasts for ever, and nor will this.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I DON’T KNOW what time it is when I wake. It is brighter; the sun has chased away the darkness, though the day is grey and gloomy. For a moment I forget where I am, stretching my arms over my head and expecting to connect with the familiar smooth wood of my bedhead and finding instead padded fabric.

  A small frown as I consider this difference and then a noise, just a slight shift in body weight, and I look to the wall and see Noah. Noah Moore.

  I’m in his apartment.

  Memories of last night and earlier this morning shoot through me like flashes of lightning, spiking my blood.

  He is reclining against the wall with a natural-born indolence, watching me. Staring at me. Devouring me with his eyes.

  I sit up, the sheet tucked under my chin, my eyes doing their own hungry inspection of him. At some point since I last saw him, he has changed. Showered? His hair is damp. He’s wearing a pair of jeans with the button undone, and nothing else.

  My throat thickens with lust and hunger. ‘Have you slept?’

  He pushes off the wall but doesn’t smile. He has two smiles—mocking and charming. I think I prefer the former for its honesty. The latter I suspect is simply a shield. A defensive mechanism developed to beguile and charm out of necessity rather than pleasure.

  It is an insight that comes from nowhere and that cannot be explained nor substantiated.

  ‘No.’ For a second I forget what I’ve asked him, and what he’s answering.

  But then I s
ee the hint of grey smudged across the skin beneath his eyes and something inside me flips over. ‘You haven’t slept at all?’

  He shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. ‘I shut my eyes a few times.’

  I trained as a psychologist but, beyond that, it’s who I am. All thoughts of my own nakedness are forgotten. I drop the sheet and lean forward, concern etched on my face. ‘You have to sleep,’ I say urgently. ‘It’s important.’

  He shrugs again. ‘I will.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I do.’ There’s a hint of impatience zipping through the answer, but I refuse to be cowed.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, bringing my knees up under my chin and looking at him seriously.

  ‘Maybe it was the fact you were lying in my bed like this.’ His smile is a ghost of a smile. ‘Hard to sleep with a raging hard-on.’

  I snatch a breath, holding it inside me, unable to exhale, unable to swallow. But I take the threads of our conversation and chase after them. ‘When did you last sleep? For more than ten minutes,’ I add before he can fob me off once more.

  ‘Does it matter?’ He strides towards the bed.

  ‘Yes. There are loads of things that can happen if you’re not sleeping properly. It’s dangerous and...’ He climbs in front of me and, as with last night—no, this morning, earlier—he presses a finger to my lips. I have no choice but to cease speaking.

  ‘How do you feel?’ His voice is gruff as he asks the question and my heart thumps.

  ‘I’m serious, Noah. We need to talk about this.’

  ‘Doc?’

  I blink.

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t want to treat me.’

  ‘I don’t. I mean, not officially. But this is serious.’

  ‘I really don’t want you to be a therapist right now.’

  I sink my teeth into my lower lip. ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  And he kisses me, hard, hard enough to press me back onto the bed, hard enough to make my head swim and my eyes close. His weight on top of me is the answer to a craving I didn’t realise I felt. The feeling of him, pressing me against the mattress, makes all my nerves tingle.