The Season to Sin

by Clare Connelly

  ‘Liar,’ I say, half joking. ‘Did they give you a present?’

  He is stiff at my side and then he lifts a hand and points at the Eiffel Tower. It is midnight and it’s sparkling like the stars from heaven have drifted across it. It’s a subject change I don’t want to allow, but it’s breathtakingly beautiful.

  And, as if he needs extra insurance, a guarantee that the matter is closed, he spins my body in the circle of his arms and kisses me—kisses me to silence me and distract me and remind me of how much we need this, both of us for different reasons.

  ‘Spend Christmas with me.’ I breathe the invitation into his mouth, my tongue whispering it to his.

  He stiffens again, frozen, still, rejecting.

  It only serves to heighten my determination. I pull away from him slightly. It was an impulsive suggestion, but now that it’s out there I realise how right it is.

  ‘I mean it, Noah. Why not come over?’

  ‘Jesus, Holly, you don’t ever give up. I’ve told you, I don’t want to fucking celebrate Christmas, okay?’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I DON’T WANT to hurt Holly but Christ, if she won’t back off, that’s what’s going to happen. Not physically—never, ever physically—the very idea of her being wounded wounds me. But her emotions are far too invested in this, and I don’t want her emotions.

  Emotions are untrustworthy and dangerous.

  But when she frowns, blinks as if she’s misheard me, my gut rolls and I think maybe her emotional wounds wound me as well.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I mutter the apology, shoving my hands into my pockets and turning to stare at the Eiffel Tower. ‘But I think us spending Christmas together would be a bad idea.’

  To her credit, she rallies. Holly’s not like anyone I’ve ever known. She is sensible and confident even in the face of outright rejection. ‘Why? Why is it a bad idea?’

  ‘Because, Holly! I just told you, I hate Christmas, and you’re like a fucking elf. I bet you’ve got a big tree up and decorations and presents all wrapped with matching paper...’

  I don’t look at her, but I know I’m right. I don’t need confirmation.

  ‘You have a daughter! Have you even thought about what it would mean to her to wake up and see the man you’re sleeping with on Christmas morning?’

  Her cheeks flush and her jaw drops; I can tell that she hasn’t. Worse, I can see that she’s anguished by that realisation. I soften my voice, but it is no less intense for that.

  ‘And because I don’t need you to take pity on me. To include me in a family celebration because you feel sad about how I’m spending my day.’

  ‘And how will you spend your day?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s a few weeks away. I guess I’ll shower, eat, work, drink.’

  She makes a noise of disapproval.

  ‘And then, if I’m really good, maybe Santa will send you over at night.’ I turn to face her then, my eyes holding a warning, hers ignoring it.

  ‘To sleep with you.’

  ‘Not to sleep with you.’ I lift a finger to the thick lapel of her coat, pushing it aside so I can touch the soft skin of her décolletage. ‘To fuck you.’

  She blinks up at me and again I feel her hurt rolling over me. ‘You’re trying to push me away,’ she says simply. ‘That’s what you do when you start to feel something for someone, isn’t it?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake. Do we have to do this?’

  ‘You want my help? Then yes.’

  ‘I don’t want your help!’ My voice is raised and I lower it with effort. ‘I never did. I don’t need help.’

  ‘Gabe apparently disagrees.’

  My eyes narrow. ‘Don’t bring him into this like you know him. You don’t know anything about him, or me, or why he wants to force me into bullshit therapy. No offence,’ I tack on—the most useless phrase in history because obviously I’ve offended her.

  ‘If you think therapy’s so bullshit,’ she says, defiance in her eyes, ‘then submit to it and see.’

  My breath burns in my lungs. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s simple. If therapy is bullshit, as you claim, then go and see the guy I’ve found. He’s good. He’ll help you.’

  It incenses me. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s just...not necessary.’

  ‘So? You lose an hour.’

  ‘I’m not going to go and tell some man my inner secrets, okay?’

  ‘Then see me,’ she says, and I see wariness in her expression. ‘Let me help you, Noah. Give me one hour to work on you. If it’s just a load of crap, as you seem to think, you’ve only lost time—and not much. But if you’re wrong, that hour could change your life. For the better.’

  ‘You’re the one who said you can’t be my therapist,’ I point out, knowing I’m clutching at straws.

  ‘And I still think that. I still think you should see someone else.’

  ‘Then what are you saying?’

  ‘That the most important thing to me is helping you.’ She pauses, her eyes skimming my face. ‘I wouldn’t really be your therapist. It would just be you and me, just like we are now, but we’d be in my office.’

  I don’t say anything because I don’t know what to say.

  But she looks at me with her big eyes and a hopeful expression. Inwardly I groan.

  ‘Come on,’ she says softly. ‘Please?’

  It’s stupid, and yet I’ve hurt her and I don’t want to have, and so I find myself nodding. Smiling. A smile that is tight and wrong, angry and resentful.

  ‘Fine.’ I lean down and press a kiss to her nose. ‘I’m not afraid of you.’

  * * *

  I’m nervous. Despite the fact I’ve been doing this a really long time, I’ve never felt like a therapy session is as high-stakes as this. Even a weird one-off therapy session with the man I’m sleeping with. I know how important this is, though. If I can’t help him, then we have no future, and I realise that this isn’t a temporary thing for me. I want more. I want all of Noah, and I want him for all time.

  ‘Please have a seat.’ I gesture towards the chair opposite my desk, the seat he occupied the second time we met. Everything feels different now. Off-kilter.

  He’s wearing black jeans and a white long-sleeved tee shirt that makes the tan of his skin pop. He seems relaxed and calm, but I know it’s a veneer, because I know him.

  ‘Sure. Why don’t you come join me?’ He gestures to his lap. To his powerful thighs. Thighs that have straddled me, pinned me to walls, wedged my legs apart. My mouth goes dry.

  His smile shows that he knows it. He stands, slowly, purposefully, moving towards me, coming around to my side of the desk. He stands above me, then bends forward, dropping his hands to the armrests of my chair, imprisoning me.

  ‘Don’t I at least get a kiss?’

  It’s been three days since we got back from Paris and to say I’ve been craving his touch is an understatement. I’ve been busy as all hell—I finally organised Ivy’s nativity costume and the pudding has been made—but, no matter how much I have on in my days, all I want is to see Noah. To hear his voice. To touch him. For him to touch me.

  It takes an intense amount of willpower to shake my head now. ‘You’re my patient today.’

  ‘Not your lover?’ He lifts a hand to my shirt, his fingers finding an erect nipple through the lace of my bra and the silk of my shirt.

  I shiver involuntarily. ‘Not now.’

  But I groan and my legs spread, so he moves forwards into the triangle I’ve created. ‘God, Noah—’ my eyes meet his ‘—I’ve never felt like this.’

  There’s a look of satisfaction on his face. A look of triumph that is primal and masculine and thrilling.

  ‘Like what?’ he prompts, crouching down in front of me and sliding his hands along my thighs. He finds
my underpants and I groan again as he drags them lower.

  I want to talk to him. We have an hour and time is precious. But he pulls my pants down my legs and I bite down on my lip to stop from moaning.

  As if he understands, he lifts a finger to his own lips, urging me to be silent.

  I need to stop this. He’s doing this to waste time—to avoid therapy. But God, I need him.

  ‘Don’t think this gets you out of our session,’ I say.

  His eyes mock me as he takes my hands in his and pulls me to standing. My underpants are discarded on the floor at my feet. He takes my seat, unbuttoning his jeans as he does so, pushing his cock out of his boxers.

  Hell.

  ‘Sit on my lap,’ he demands, the words throaty, his expression dark.

  ‘I...’

  ‘I’ll pretend to be Santa if that helps.’

  It’s so ridiculous I laugh, but my eyes drop to his dick and its throbbing arousal. I lick my lower lip so that now it’s Noah who moans. ‘Now, Holly.’

  I nod, my need as primal and demanding as his. I hike my skirt around my hips and position myself over him, clenching my lips together as I take him inside me, needing not to scream even when a roar bursts through my insides.

  His fingers dig into my hips as I drop over his length. I am on top but he’s in control, lifting me and pulling me down, moving me as I need to be moved. Flames spike in my blood. I am dying and immortal all at once. I dig my nails into his shoulders and bite down on my lip, hard. He thrusts harder and I come apart, silently but with an intensity that terrifies me.

  He watches me and the look of primal possession on his features robs me of breath.

  But I’m not a possession and Noah doesn’t own me.

  Before he has enjoyed his own release, I stand, my legs wobbly but my expression determined.

  ‘Thanks. I needed that.’

  Surprise whips across his features.

  ‘Get back here.’ The growl is demanding and seriously hot.

  I eye him thoughtfully, my hand on my hip, my breath not at all steady.

  ‘Not yet,’ I say softly. ‘Not until we’ve done this.’

  His cock jerks, drawing my eyes downwards for a moment. There’s triumph in Noah’s face. Like he understands that I want more of him, that I’m forcing myself to be strong when I desperately want to just give in and take what he’s offering.

  But I’ll never get him back in my office. Not willingly. This is my one shot to help.

  ‘Answer my questions and you can have me.’

  He shakes his head. ‘All night.’

  I frown. ‘It’s a Wednesday.’

  He nods slowly. ‘I don’t care.’

  And I feel his burning need. Not for me sexually, but for me personally in the aftermath of whatever will happen here.

  I think of Ivy and my heart turns over. I can arrange a sleepover for her with Diane easily enough.

  And I do want to see this through with Noah...

  ‘Let’s see how...compliant...you are first.’ And, unable to suppress the regret from my voice, I say, ‘Zip up, Noah. Let’s get down to business.’

  ‘I thought we were.’

  I shake my head, repressing a smile. ‘You can stay in my chair if that helps.’ I can’t sit down. My blood is zipping; my insides are quivering. I stalk towards the window and look out at the view. The sky is grey today, reminding me a little of the morning we left Paris. Snow had turned to sludge on the ground, stained brown by feet and time.

  ‘Tell me about the tattoo.’

  ‘Tattoo?’ He almost laughs. ‘Which tattoo?’

  ‘Nineteen ninety-nine.’

  His eyes narrow. ‘What about it?’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Why do you think it means anything?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘You just got a random number burned into your skin?’

  ‘Inked, not burned.’

  ‘Whatever. What’s the deal?’

  He presses his lips together and I force myself to stare at him, not his cock, which is still exposed to my view and hard as anything.

  ‘It’s the year I met Gabe,’ he admits finally.

  I feel like I’ve cracked a hard nut. Success fires through my blood. It’s small. Inconsequential.

  ‘He has one too.’

  Any other time, I might have disarmed him with a quip about friendship bracelets, but not this time. Not now. I nod seriously and change tack.

  ‘Let’s talk about your childhood.’

  He stands and I watch him for a moment, but he’s simply zipping his jeans up. He doesn’t sit down again, though. He comes to stand opposite me, his shoulder pressed against the window jamb, his eyes resting on the same view as mine.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  I hear the terror and displeasure in his voice, but he’s here. Answering me.

  ‘Were you ever hit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Abused physically in any way?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sexually?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you happy?’

  A slight pause. ‘No.’

  ‘Were you afraid?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Did you have friends?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you read books?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What were you afraid of?’

  Another pause. ‘The dark.’

  ‘Really? Anything else?’

  A muscle throbs in his jaw. ‘The bogeyman?’

  He’s not being serious. Fine.

  ‘Tell me about the Morrows.’

  Just like that, his eyes whip to mine. Anguish. Anger.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to know about them.’

  ‘They were a nice couple. Full stop.’

  ‘What did they do with you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘On weekends, for example. How did you spend them?’

  His eyes assume a faraway look. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me,’ I say, barely able to keep the frustration from my voice.

  ‘I’m not lying to you.’

  ‘Did you play sports with them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Watch television together?’

  His eyes are haunted. ‘We rode bikes,’ he says thickly, the words dragged from him, hurting him, aching in his mouth. ‘Julianne taught me. She was so patient.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’d never known patience. I didn’t know it was called that then. It was more just an absence of criticism when I didn’t do something wrong.’ He lifts his broad, powerful shoulders.

  ‘How long did it take you to learn?’

  His eyes clash with mine, then look away again. ‘A while. I’d never had a bike before.’

  ‘And she bought you one?’

  He nods. A slight dip of his head in concession. ‘It was red. With a black stripe down one side. And a horn that sounded like a dying frog.’ His laugh is brittle. ‘Once I got the hang of it, I’d ride it all afternoon, around and around in circles until my legs hurt. And even then I wouldn’t want to come in, but eventually Julianne would make me.’

  ‘How long were you with them?’

  He looks at me, anger unmistakable now. ‘Is this really necessary, Holly?’

  ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘No. I don’t. Everyone has a childhood. A past.’

  ‘Yes, but not everyone’s past torments their present. How long did you live with them?’

  ‘Almost a year.’

  ‘And after them you went...’

  ‘Somewhere else,’ he says, like it doesn’t matter.

  ‘Where?’

  He glares at me. It is a
battle of wills and we are both too stubborn to back down. ‘The Adams family. Two parents, three fosters.’

  ‘Were you happy there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They were assholes, Holly.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘If you want me to define the faults of every single foster home I lived in, we’ll be here all night.’

  ‘I’m game if you are.’

  ‘This is bullshit,’ he says wearily, dragging a hand through his hair. ‘You want to help me and I’m telling you there’s nothing fucking wrong.’

  But there is, and I think I know. I’m trying to prod around the edges of his life, but he’s making it difficult. ‘How did Julianne tell you they were leaving?’

  His head whips around to face mine as though I’ve asked him to jump out of the window.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When Paul was transferred, how did she tell you?’

  His throat bobs, like he’s swallowing hard. ‘She just told me. I don’t remember.’

  ‘Did you wonder why he didn’t turn the job down? I mean, once they knew you couldn’t go?’

  ‘It was a much better opportunity. They needed the money.’

  ‘More than they needed you,’ I say softly. ‘They wanted money, not you.’

  His expression is closed off. ‘No. It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Yes, it was. They could have stayed in Sydney with you, but they ran away. They left you. Like everyone leaves you. Because you’re not worth staying for. Right?’

  He opens his mouth to say something—something that I suspect would have been a curse-laden tirade, but then he clams up, eyeing me warily.

  ‘You’re not worth loving,’ I push on, hating saying these words but needing him to admit his wounds, to find them, hold them and weave through them.

  ‘They left—’ he grinds the words out ‘—because they had to. My biological mother, fucking bitch that she was, is the only reason they didn’t keep me.’

  ‘No, that’s not true, Noah. Lots of people get offered jobs interstate and decide not to go.’

  ‘Fine.’ He shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. He’s so good at this—this pain is one he has obviously ignored for a very long time. ‘They didn’t want me. That was nothing new. It wasn’t the first nor the last time I’d been kicked out of a home.’