Her Guilty Secret

by Clare Connelly

  I can barely nod, but I move my head just enough to convey agreement.

  He moves his fingers away then, just so that he can slide my thong down my legs. I sit up higher but he brings his mouth to me and I am lost once more as his tongue decimates what little is left of my control, my brainpower.

  I subjugate myself completely to the power he wields and, in doing so, am aware of my own strength. He is as desperate for me as I am for him. That is a heady knowledge to have.

  I am so close to coming. He must feel that, he must know, which makes his betrayal all the greater when he pulls away and brings his fully clothed body over mine. The weight of him on me is beautiful, but I want more. I need more.

  ‘Was it serious?’

  I am panting for breath. ‘I don’t want to talk about Pietro right now.’

  ‘Ah. But you will.’ His smile is arrogant. ‘Answer my questions and I’ll reward you.’

  My stomach flops. I shake my head. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m curious,’ he says with a shrug. He props himself on his side next to me, his eyes staring at me almost dispassionately. ‘So? Was it?’

  ‘Serious?’ I mutter, annoyed as heck and not bothering to conceal it. ‘Yes. It was.’

  The glittering in his eyes intensifies. ‘And he’s still in love with you.’

  I’m almost certain that’s the case but somehow, admitting that here, to Connor, feels like a betrayal. To Pietro and what we were and, somehow, to what Connor and I share as well.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ I say again, skirting the issue. ‘Our families would love us to get back together. They always thought we’d get married. They were shocked when we split.’

  ‘So they invite him to your family lunches in the hope love blossoms,’ he prompts, the teasing smile annoying me. Because he’s not jealous, after all. He’s just interested in that way that his fierce intellect demands. Connor has to lift every rock and peer under it, just because there might be something crawling around. He wants to know about Pietro because of his fierce curiosity, not because he particularly cares.

  I place my hand on my stomach and run it lower, defiance in my eyes as I touch myself. I have the satisfaction of seeing his surprise and, yes, most definitely his awareness, but then his hand catches mine and lifts it back to my side.

  ‘Allow me.’ The throaty request turns me to jelly. He runs his finger over me and I moan. Heat scorches my blood. ‘He drives you home because he’s still in love with you?’

  ‘Damn it, Connor,’ I snap, reaching for his hand and pushing it away. I stand up and I can tell he didn’t expect that. I stare at him, my hands on my hips, though my anger is possibly slightly diminished by the way my body won’t stop shaking. ‘This isn’t a game. Pietro is probably still in love with me, yes. And he’s a nice guy, and I feel really awful about the fact I don’t love him back, and I’m very careful not to appear that I’m leading him on, and I feel like a complete bitch that I’m the one who doesn’t want it. That I’m the one who’s letting him, my parents and his parents down because I won’t just settle for the very nice, very lukewarm, very safe relationship we had.’

  He’s staring at me in a way that would usually arrest my breath in my throat but I’m too annoyed to properly notice.

  ‘So you’ll forgive me if I don’t want to talk about Pietro while we’re in bed. It’s disrespectful and he deserves better than that.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Connor sits up straight, his jaw squared as he watches me. My tirade hangs in the air as a storm cloud would, threatening to break, and then he reaches for me.

  He stands up then and puts his arms around my waist, holding me to his body. ‘I’m sorry.’ It’s a quietly worded admission. ‘You’re right. That was a bullshit thing to do.’

  ‘Yeah.’ His apology has taken some of the sting out of my anger but I’m still pissed off. ‘I mean, come on, Connor. We’ve both got a past. I don’t want to drag anyone else into this.’ I step out of his arms and reach for the hem of my dress, lifting it up over my head and tossing it onto a chair. He watches my clothes sail through the air then faces me again.

  ‘Nor do I.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  I can’t look away. His eyes are burning into me and I feel his apology like a whisper across my skin and I know he means it, but also I’m not sure I care now. I can hardly remember what I was so annoyed about a moment ago.

  Our eyes hold, our breaths match, the room swirls.

  And then he crushes his mouth to mine. Our first kiss and it damned near kills me. His lips own me and his tongue duels with mine, wiping me of the ability to think, to breathe, to move. My knees weaken and only his arm around my back keeps me upright. He holds me to his body as he kisses me and I remember vividly what he said at his apartment.

  I’ve wanted to own you.

  This kiss owns me. I am his and I am glad.

  * * *

  Olivia is dozing beside me, her naked body a beautiful work of art that I ache to touch but don’t. Despite the fact I have made love to her for hours, I want her again. I force myself to be satisfied with looking and not touching.

  I watch the gentle throb of her ribcage as she breathes. The soft undulations of her naked breasts. The way her lips part in her sleep and her long lashes fan against the creamy tan of her skin. The sheet is draped over her lower half and I resist the urge to push it down, refocusing my attention on the laptop on my knee.

  It’s a funny thing, success. The firm that Michael and I started as two renegades, wanting to take on the world and win, is now a prestigious top-tier firm. We employ hundreds of people and there are thousands more clamouring to join us.

  Being good at what I do has rendered me somewhat obsolete. Despite lending my name to the business, there’s not much for me to do on a daily basis to ensure our ongoing success.

  Six partners report to me and I get myself up to speed on their trial notes, but even they run without requiring much input from me these days.

  I am restless.

  I’ve worked hard all my life and now I’m at a point where I don’t need to. I earn a shitload of money for doing not a lot.

  I thought teaching would fill this hole inside me. That it would draw me back to what I love about practising law, but Olivia is the best thing about the work I do at the London Law School.

  She shifts and I angle my laptop away, not wanting the light from the screen to wake her. She smiles a little in her sleep.

  Her smile is beautiful.

  I reach for my drink—I’ve progressed to Scotch—then get back to work. It’s the Donovan case, that’s all. It’s left me with a sense of unease, but that will pass.

  Once I’ve put a little more time between me and the not guilty verdict, things will go back to normal.

  Olivia, law school, this is all a great diversion, but it’s not my real life.

  And I’m not her real life. This is a diversion for her, too, one she’ll get out of her system before she remembers that she’s a woman who does the right thing and works her arse off to get ahead.

  This is uncharacteristic for both of us.

  What the fuck was I thinking, interrogating her over her ex, turning it into a game? She’s far too sweet for that. Far too nice.

  She stretches a little beneath my gaze and, fuck it, I reach down and curl a bit of blonde hair behind her ear. She makes a sleepy noise, her eyes blinking and lifting to me. Her smile is instinctive. It’s a smile just for me. My gut stretches and rolls in acknowledgement of this pull between us—of how I could get addicted to her smile, and all her sweetness.

  ‘Hi.’ Her voice is croaky. She blinks and yawns, covering it with the back of her hand. ‘Did I fall asleep?’

  ‘Yeah. About an hour ago.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She pushes up to half sit, reaching for the sheet as though she’s self-conscious. I shut my laptop
and drop it to the carpet beside me then reach for her at the same time she scrambles onto my lap, straddling me, facing me.

  ‘Why sorry?’ I ask, my cock ever-ready for action when she’s near. She smiles as she feels me jerk against her.

  She shrugs. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘You were worn out.’ I grin.

  She returns it and nods. ‘Yep. And now I’m starving.’

  ‘Starving,’ I say, lifting her slightly and positioning her on my length. Her eyes widen and she moans at the invasion. But she rolls her hips and I fill her, and it is as though this is just how we have to be. Together. Joined. Coexisting.

  I’m not going to lie to you. I’ve had my fair share of unforgettable sex. When I started to make good money and a name for myself, it was all too easy to hook up with women.

  But I generally lose interest pretty fast.

  Not Olivia.

  I cannot get enough.

  ‘For food,’ she says on a laugh, but she’s already coming. God, she’s so responsive. Is it always like this for her? Her muscles squeeze me and it takes all my willpower not to come with her. I’m not wearing a condom—another thing that is different for me. I’ve never not practised safe sex. Never.

  I push into her and she cries out, her nails digging into my shoulders as she tilts her head back, her breasts pushed right in my face. I take one of her nipples in my mouth. It’s right there. It’d be criminal not to, right?

  CHAPTER NINE

  I’M LISTENING TO Professor Winterbourne’s Wednesday morning lecture and definitely not concentrating. How can I when my mind is filled with thoughts of Connor?

  I’m also making cannelloni and my hands are covered in ricotta and garlic cream when my doorbell rings. And I know who it is the instant I hear the sound. I smile to myself, wiping my hands on my apron, and go through the kitchen and the lounge.

  A cursory inspection through the safety glass shows Connor. Or Casual Connor, as I have taken to thinking of him in this guise. Wearing jeans and a collared shirt with sleeves pushed up his forearms to reveal tanned, leanly muscled flesh that makes my mouth go dry.

  I slide the chain lock into place and open the door an inch, a mock-stern expression on my face. ‘Yes, sir?’

  His grin undoes me. I bite down on my lower lip.

  ‘More studying?’ he teases, catching the strains of the lecture. I nod, smiling.

  ‘No rest for the wicked.’

  He wiggles his brows. ‘And what are we cooking today, Miss Amorelli?’

  ‘We?’ I prompt, my heart skidding against my ribs.

  ‘Well, you. But I’ll watch. And help you lick the bowl.’ His wink is slow and so full of heat.

  Still, I pretend not to be affected. I tilt my head to the side, eyeing him thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’m having a perfectly nice evening with Professor Winterbourne...’

  ‘He’s no threat to me.’

  I laugh at his arrogance, but push the door shut so I can unchain it and open it fully.

  As soon as I do, he sweeps in and wraps me in his arms, his kiss taking over my senses, his mouth dominating me in a way that steals my breath.

  He lifts away, his bright green eyes held fast to mine for a moment, and then he grins, walking towards the kitchen as though this is his place, not mine.

  ‘Ah. Cannelloni.’ He sits down on one of the stools at the kitchen bench; I love the sight of him there. I pause the lecture, knowing I’ll need to get back to it later. ‘My favourite.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ I arch my brows, my heart still thumping hard and fast from his kiss. I peel myself away from the wall with effort and attempt to look casual as I head back into the kitchen. ‘You don’t know cannelloni till you’ve tried my cannelloni.’

  His nod is sage. ‘You talk a good game, Amorelli, but can you back it up?’

  ‘I intend to.’ I lift my piping bag and reach for another pasta tube, pressing the nozzle into its centre and squeezing. It is an act I have performed a thousand times, first with my nonna and then with my mother. Now, I could do it in my sleep. I fill at least four before he speaks again.

  ‘Your boyfriend—’ he says the words quietly, and I’m jolted out of my cooking meditation by the discordant phrase ‘—what happened?’

  He’s back to Pietro. I don’t know if I’m annoyed or gratified. I suppose the latter, because there’s something about his interest that is significant in some way.

  I can’t really explain it properly, it’s just how I feel. ‘We got together when I came back from travelling,’ I say after a beat. ‘I mean, I’d known him for ages, through my cousin, and I knew he had a thing for me. And I thought he was cute.’ I shrug, a little self-conscious. ‘Then I went away. And he was waiting when I got back.’

  ‘And you felt obliged,’ Connor surmises—correctly.

  I wince. ‘It’s not a particularly good reason to go out with someone.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I did like him. We just weren’t a good fit.’

  He nods thoughtfully and then, ‘Where’d you go?’ He switches topics but I know him now. I know that he is liquid in his approach to all things. That he eases and thrusts, relaxes and aggresses, as part of his strategy to tease information and gain surrender.

  ‘All over.’ I smile at him, my tummy flipping.

  ‘Starting with?’ he prompts, reaching across to my wine and sipping it before standing up and lifting the glass to my lips. I am hopelessly lost, my eyes locked onto his as I take a drink.

  A dribble of liquid runs down my chin. He catches it with his fingertip before sitting down, and I return my focus to the pasta.

  ‘Mmm...’ I pause in my cannelloni stuffing to give him my full attention. ‘The south of France. Spain. Italy—all along the western coastline. Greece. Croatia. Then we sailed to Morocco—which was amazing. We took a flight to South Africa for a few months and then Bali beckoned.’ I wink. ‘We spent another six months island-hopping through Asia. Hospitalised twice...’ I lift two fingers and roll my eyes ‘...for stomach bugs.’

  He grins. ‘Bali belly?’

  ‘And then some.’ I return to the pasta. ‘Then a year and a half in Australia. It was incredible.’

  ‘Who’d you travel with?’

  ‘A friend of mine. Clara. We worked together at a café when we were teenagers.’

  He’s quiet and I don’t want to stop talking—sharing. I can’t say where the urge comes from, only that I find myself opening up to him in a way I never thought I would.

  ‘I think it’s why I was so interested in the Donovan case.’ My eyes meet his for a fraction of a second and then flick away. ‘We were practically the same age. I mean, I was eighteen when I left for my trip, right out of school. I can imagine how she felt. The excitement, the nerves. Her life was taken from her, and that’s awful. But the pleasure and excitement she was on the brink of enjoying...what a crime to rob someone of that.’

  I stare at him, waiting to see his reaction, but it’s expertly concealed from me. There is barely a flicker of response in his face and, though that might seem cold, on some instinctive level I know it’s not. I believe it’s that he feels so deeply he can’t show it. That he doesn’t want to show it.

  ‘Don’t you think?’ I push, needing to hear him admit what I know he’s thinking.

  He’s quiet still.

  ‘I mean, she was so young,’ I say.

  When he eventually looks up there is something in his gaze, as though he’s weighing his words carefully. I wait, breath held for some reason. ‘Where was your favourite part?’

  I narrow my eyes. His ability to clam up on me is utterly infuriating. ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘I loved Sydney,’ I say finally.

  He nods and sips his wine.

  ‘You didn’t c
ome to my office yesterday.’

  I am jerked from our conversation into another river, the current moving in a wholly new direction and at an altered speed. ‘Was I meant to?’

  ‘Yes.’ His nod is slow, thoughtful. ‘To discuss the group assignment.’

  It dawns on me then that he mentioned something about this on Thursday afternoon. ‘I presumed that was just a pretext to get up close and personal so you could slip me the hotel key?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I really did want to talk to you.’

  ‘Oh. What about?’

  His eyes meet mine and there is renewed speculation in them. ‘How many students were in your group?’

  ‘Five. You have the list, right?’

  ‘Yet you, and you alone, wrote the assignment.’

  I blink at him, confused by his insight. He’s right, but he has no way of knowing that. ‘It’s a group assignment,’ I demur. ‘We all played our part.’

  He expels a sigh. ‘You can’t let people take advantage of you like this. You’re starting your career. You’re very smart. If you’re not careful, you’ll crumble under the pressure of what becomes the norm for people to expect of you.’

  ‘No one took advantage of me.’

  ‘But you wrote the whole thing. Fifteen thousand words.’

  I don’t answer at first. I reach for another cannelloni then realise I’ve stuffed them all. I lay the piping bag down without meeting his eyes. ‘It was a team effort.’

  ‘You have a certain style to your phrasing. A logic that is uniquely your own. This paper might as well have been a fifteen-thousand-word autograph, Miss Amorelli.’

  I am flattered.

  I should be more defensive, more outraged, more protective of my groupmates. But his intuitive familiarity with my writing sparks something in my chest. Pride, relief, gladness. They all tumble through me, making me smile.

  ‘It’s not funny. I’m annoyed at you.’

  I laugh. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you can’t let people walk all over you.’