The Season to Sin

by Clare Connelly

  It’s not far from my office and he rides quickly—as eager as I am, obviously, to renew our bodies’ acquaintance with one another. And I am so desperate for that, but other things are knotting through me.

  Noah Moore is a mystery and the part of me that likes to find order in chaos needs to understand him. Despite the fact he isn’t my patient, and never can be, the therapist I trained to become and have spent years working as needs to dig through his issues, to understand what brought him to me in the first instance. It’s a compulsion.

  I need more than just to understand him, though; I need him.

  He pulls his bike up in front of the building and I step off before he does, removing my helmet, not giving him a reason to touch me—yet.

  I wait by his front door and he takes only a moment to join me, unlocking it and pushing it inwards, staying on the outside, his arm outstretched to allow me entry. I move past him but, once inside, all the memories of last week slam into me and I am sucked back in time.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ He is maintaining a distance that is interesting.

  ‘Yeah.’ I think I might be, though it’s hard to read beyond the desire that’s swarming me.

  I follow him into the kitchen, where he disappears into the fridge—it’s a huge fridge, two, actually, side by side. I wonder at the kind of entertaining he does to necessitate that.

  He pulls out a couple of cardboard boxes, each the size of a laptop, and places them on the bench, then reaches in for a bottle of wine. He pours me a glass and grabs a beer for himself.

  ‘So, did you rationalise what we did last week?’

  I think about lying to him, but don’t. ‘You want me. I want you. It’s a simple equation. Apparently desire outweighs common sense.’

  He nods. ‘I like that. Mathematical sex.’

  ‘Sure.’ I bite down on my lip. ‘I never thought I’d do anything like this.’

  ‘Why not?’ he asks curiously.

  ‘Isn’t that obvious?’

  ‘Obviously,’ he teases. ‘Not.’

  I force myself to meet his eyes. ‘My whole life is dedicated to helping people.’ I swallow. ‘You came to me for help. And I can’t be that person. But, beyond that, what if I do something that hurts you...?’

  ‘Do you think I’m that fragile?’ he prompts with disbelief.

  I shrug my shoulders. ‘Why did you come to see me? Why do you think you need therapy?’

  He is instantly wary, just like in our first session. He tries to cover it, out of deference to what we’ve shared, but I see it. I see the wall he throws up between us.

  ‘Don’t hide from me,’ I say softly. ‘Tell me.’

  His jaw clenches and a muscle moves at the base of his throat. ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘Why you came to me!’ I shouldn’t be annoyed—in my office I wouldn’t be. With my patients I can control my emotions completely, but Noah isn’t my patient. And here, with him so close and my body flaming with liquid heat, I am just a woman, not a doctor; I’m a woman who is full of desire and little else right now.

  ‘I’ve told you. I’m not sleeping.’

  ‘And have you ruled out any physiological cause for that?’ I push, watching as he steps away from me and grabs his beer, throwing back at least half of it in one long draught.

  ‘Such as?’ He has slipped into a combative mindset. He looks at me as though I am his enemy and I don’t want that—I am pushing him too hard and I know it won’t achieve results. Not with anyone and least of all Noah Moore.

  There’s more than one way to skin a cat, though. I’ve always hated that expression! Perhaps I can circumnavigate Noah’s situation and find his pains all on my own.

  With an effort I smile, but it is fake. A forgery. An imitation of what I think a smile should be. ‘Alcohol in the evening can actually disturb your sleep. Perhaps that’s it?’

  We both know it isn’t. He smiles and, just like mine, it rings with falseness.

  ‘Could be.’ He takes another sip from his beer, though, his eyes holding mine over the rim and there is a challenge in them. Back off. He doesn’t want me to have my therapist hat on. I promised him I wouldn’t, didn’t I? Wasn’t that the trade-off I made, to sleep with him?

  But I can’t not. It’s hard to draw the line between what I do for a living and how I live my life. Particularly with people I care about.

  Yes, I care about Noah Moore, and not just because we’ve slept together. I care about all of him, including his health, his happiness. I want to help him, but not as a therapist. As...what? As the woman he’s sleeping with? That’s normal, isn’t it?

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ I prompt, desperate to return our mood to its previous lightness. He hesitates only a moment before reaching for the cardboard boxes and flipping the lids. One is filled with oysters and scampi, the other with sushi.

  I adore all three and my tummy gives a little groan of appreciation. Now when he smiles, it is genuine.

  ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Um...oysters.’

  He lifts a brow, but neither of us says what we’re thinking—the rumoured effects of oysters as an aphrodisiac. I’ve never found that to be the case anyway; then again, until meeting Noah Moore, I had thought myself to be somewhat disinterested in sex. I reach for my wine. Before he takes a plate from the cupboard, he washes his hands at the sink. It’s a normal gesture, just a small one, but it seems almost incongruous. He dries his fingers slowly and then turns to face me.

  He catches me watching him and smiles. My heart lurches.

  ‘Have you ever been to Rivière?’ I ask the first thing that pops into my head.

  ‘The oyster bar?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘It’s one of my favourite places. I used to go there all the time when I was younger, and get a half-dozen oysters and have a glass of champagne.’

  ‘Before you had your child?’

  ‘Ivy,’ I supply.

  His smile lifts to me. ‘Ivy?’

  I nod.

  ‘Like Holly and Ivy.’

  Used to being teased about my love of Christmas by all and sundry, I’m more sensitive than perhaps I should be. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like the Christmas carol?’

  ‘Like the Christmas carol,’ I confirm with a defiant nod.

  ‘That’s pretty fucking cute.’

  My pulse throbs. ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure.’ He takes a plate down and begins to arrange oysters onto it for me. ‘Lemon?’

  I nod.

  ‘So I take it your asshole of an ex didn’t mind you going to your oyster dates solo?’

  ‘He didn’t know.’

  ‘Really?’ Noah passes me a plate and then begins to arrange his own. I stay sitting on the countertop and he perches his arse opposite, watching me as he swallows his first oyster. It’s strangely erotic to see it go down his throat. I look away.

  ‘I used to leave work early on Friday,’ I say. ‘I’d go there and have a quiet hour all to myself.’

  ‘With the oysters,’ he says, the jocular comment undermined by the ice-cold determination in his eyes.

  ‘Right, with the oysters.’

  ‘You said you met him in high school?’

  Do I want to speak about Aaron? Not really. Yet I find myself nodding. ‘He’s two years older than me. You know what it’s like when you’re a kid—there’s something so...cool...about older guys.’ I roll my eyes. Before he can ask another question, I reach for an oyster. It is ice-cold and so salty that I moan as I eat it.

  ‘Jesus. Maybe that’s why they’re supposed to be sexy.’

  I laugh self-consciously. ‘What about you? Any sexy school girlfriends in your past? Big, romantic love affairs?’

  ‘Nah.’ Another word that makes him sound so Australian.

  ‘Nah?’ I try to imitate it an
d fail. He grins.

  I like his grin.

  ‘Nah. Nope. Nada.’ He takes another oyster and eats it. I look away, sip my wine. My face is warm.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he says with a shrug.

  ‘You mean you’ve literally never been in a relationship?’

  ‘You going to psychoanalyse that?’

  I reach for another oyster, buying time. ‘I can’t switch off my brain just because you don’t want to talk about your past.’

  He arches a brow. ‘So what do you read into it, then?’

  ‘I thought we agreed I wasn’t going to do this.’

  ‘I’m just curious,’ he prompts.

  ‘Well—’ I choose my words with attention ‘—I suppose I’d say that it’s...interesting.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s unusual,’ I continue. ‘To be your age and not have someone in your past.’

  ‘I haven’t been living a monk’s life,’ he points out.

  ‘Things you probably don’t need to discuss with me.’ It’s unexpectedly haughty.

  He laughs, a sound that runs like smooth caramel over my back. ‘Jealous?’

  I don’t answer. I am—it’s no doubt very apparent. My silence seems to sober him.

  As if realising that he’s crossed a line I don’t like very much, he sighs. ‘I’m a busy man, Holly. Gabe and I have been like hamsters on a wheel since things took off. Ten years later, I look around and I’m thirty-six. I haven’t exactly had time for anyone else in my life.’

  ‘So you’re saying you want a relationship, to get married, grow old with someone, but you just haven’t had time to find the right person?’

  ‘Better than marrying an abusive shit like you did.’

  Silence follows his statement. I’m hurt, of course, and the depth of that emotion is unexpected. But I have slipped back into my therapeutic headspace and I am used to having patients throw insults and cross reprimands at me—usually, it is a sign that I am close to finding a wound they don’t want reopened.

  ‘I’m...sorry.’ Noah frowns. ‘That was fucking rude.’

  I laugh, because only Noah could apologise for rudeness and include a curse with it. ‘Yeah, but you’re right.’ I smile reassuringly, not wanting him to think I’m upset. Not wanting him to shut down. ‘I’d do anything to not...’

  I freeze, surprised at the admission I’d been about to make. It goes against the determination I have to see the positives in my relationship with Aaron.

  ‘Yes?’ he prompts, finishing off his oysters and moving back towards me.

  ‘I mean, I’d do it all again in a heartbeat to get Ivy, but it was...a dark phase of my life.’

  He lifts a brow. ‘Is that therapy-speak for it sucked balls?’

  I laugh. ‘Something like that.’ He watches me as I sip my wine; his eyes on my face make my skin flush. ‘What about family?’

  He doesn’t welcome the question. He visibly bristles and his shoulders tense. ‘What about them?’

  ‘Well—’ I shrug my shoulders ‘—you have one, I presume?’

  ‘Everyone has family, right?’ He moves towards me, placing a hand possessively on my thigh. ‘Did you miss me this week?’

  The question is out of left field. He’s trying to change the subject and I let him, but I make a mental note, determined to return to this later, determined to find out something about him that he doesn’t necessarily want to share.

  ‘Did you think about me?’ I’m wearing a silk blouse and he undoes it slowly, his eyes hooked onto mine. My breath is forced, my pulse frantic.

  ‘I...’

  His smile is just a mocking twist of his lips. ‘No lies, Doc.’

  ‘Of course I thought about you,’ I say, knowing on some level that he needs to hear that. He is tough and appears confident, but I sense his insecurities and this is one of them. There is no sense in obfuscating. I don’t want to be the kind of woman who sleeps with someone like Noah and doesn’t think about him, anyway.

  For this reason I don’t ask the question back. I know he thought about me. I don’t need to surrender to my insecurities and beg him to admit it.

  But, without prompting, he says, ‘I wanted you so fucking bad.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Every day.’ He pushes the shirt down and I lift my arms out, mesmerised by him, distracted by him, owned by him.

  ‘I thought about these.’ He cups my breasts, pushing them out from under the bra before reaching around to unhook it. ‘A lot.’

  ‘Did you?’ A whisper. I don’t need to speak, though, my body is speaking for me. I push myself forward, nudging my breasts closer to him, needing him to touch me, to kiss me.

  His smile shows that he knows. ‘I thought about the way I touched you in your office, and how ready you were for me. How wet and sweet. How quick to come.’

  A gargled whimper dies in my throat. I’m all that again, already. Oysters and wine are forgotten.

  ‘Noah...’

  He runs his mouth along my jaw, not touching me, just close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath. I shiver. He pushes his lips against my throat and kisses me, sucks on me, and a whirl of feeling starts in my gut. His touch is like flame; my body burns in response.

  When he finally drops his mouth to an aching, hard nipple and sucks it deep in his mouth, I am beyond rational thought. I make a bubbling cry and wrap my legs around his waist, just like on that first day in my office, holding him close to me.

  I feel his hard cock through his clothes and mine and I grind myself against him, needing to feel him inside me, but for the moment making do with this. Feeling his firm length against my pulsing heart is heaven.

  ‘Are you wet now?’ he asks, the words breathed against my flesh, reverberating through me.

  I nod, though I think his question is rhetorical.

  ‘Let’s see.’ His fingers find the waistband of my pants, loosening them, and I wiggle my bottom so he can slide them down lower. I am naked in his kitchen and it doesn’t even occur to me to be embarrassed or to think it’s weird. It’s not. It’s perfect.

  The only sound is my breath, loud and rasping, as though I’ve run a marathon when, in fact, it is anticipation, not exhaustion, that fires the sound.

  ‘Noah.’ A whimper, a need.

  He knows. ‘Lie back.’

  I don’t, not straight away, so he grabs my knees and pulls on them a little, sliding my butt forward. I drop back onto my elbows; the kitchen counter is marble and ice-cold beneath me.

  I don’t have time to process that discomfort, though, because suddenly his mouth is on me. On my seam, his tongue running across me, his hands holding my legs wide.

  I have never been kissed there.

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  I must have said that aloud—I didn’t mean to. But, seriously, I have never been kissed there and I’ve never even really been interested in it. I mean, it seems almost gross. Or it did. Noah’s mouth on me is the best thing I’ve ever felt—just about. I am breathing harder and faster, louder, arching my back on the marble slab, reaching for him, for something, for sanity, but there is nothing.

  Just me and my abandonment to this beautiful rightness.

  ‘You taste so fucking good,’ he groans, and the words tip me over, spreading through me like a whip of desire.

  I curl my toes around the scalloped edge of the bench and cry out as I come, hard, fast, impossibly inevitable.

  It is like being doused in warm water, so beautiful and perfect and relaxing despite the fevered racing of my heart. I need to take stock, to feel this, to let it permeate my being, but Noah doesn’t allow that. He grabs for me, pulling my hips, and I don’t realise he’s undone his trousers until he’s lifted me around his waist, away from the bench. We don’t go far; he pushes me agai
nst the fridge, my back used to cold surfaces and not minding the shock of that when answering heat is promised.

  And it is.

  He thrusts into me, hard, and his mouth reclaims a nipple, and my body zips with feelings, still processing my first orgasm, as he drives me towards another. I hear something, a voice, keening over and over, and realise it is me. I’m crying out in a fevered state, the words shaking with intensity.

  His hands on my hips are splayed and his possession of me feels so unbelievably natural that I don’t stop to think about the fact that he’s possessing me so completely, that I have fallen under his spell and would do anything he asked of me. Anything. I am addicted to this and him.

  The pain I’ve endured this week, the wondering, the loneliness—these things don’t matter. It is just Noah, and now.

  And, for now, this is enough.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HER BODY IS sheened in perspiration and her cheeks are pink. Her eyes moist—not with tears but with heightened pleasure. I stand above her, watching her, my arms crossed, the thrill of power unmistakable.

  I have done this to her. And I am pretty sure it’s the first time she’s ever known this kind of drugging desire. A thrill spreads through me.

  Her ex was a bastard; I shouldn’t feel any kind of competition with him. I have seen his marks on her body now. Little marks, small scars, but I know without asking how she came to wear them.

  He isn’t worthy of competing with, and yet the knowledge that I have given her so much pleasure, that he certainly didn’t, does something inside me.

  Then again, at what cost?

  Holly Scott-Leigh is dangerous for me—there is risk here, with her. She has entered my bloodstream and I don’t even bother trying to pretend otherwise. She’s not like any other woman I’ve ever known. If I make her feel new different pleasures, she does exactly the same to me.

  Losing myself in her body has become my latest addiction, and not just because it seems to give me a reprieve from my dark thoughts—if only for a while.

  Her chest, and those beautiful breasts, are shifting with each of her breaths, slowing down now, and I wonder if she is tired? If she would like to sleep?

  I swallow past a throat that is constricted by pleasure and reach into my bed, lifting her. I’ve lost count of how many times she’s come. In the kitchen downstairs, on the bench, against my fridge, and then in my bed, when I used my fingers to drive her to the edge... I scoop her against my chest and her eyes lock onto mine.