Burn My Hart

by Clare Connelly

  ‘She’s planning our monogram,’ I mutter, shaking my head, earning a laugh from Angus. His hand in the small of my back feels weird. His hand is different to Theo’s. Long slim fingers, somehow slighter and less...confident? Less authoritative, certainly.

  ‘I think you’re probably right.’

  ‘So your parents are friends with mine?’

  ‘They play cards.’

  ‘My dad plays cards?’

  ‘I think it’s just an excuse to drink whisky, but yeah.’

  My smile is over-bright. I shouldn’t be surprised. There is an entire catalogue of things I don’t know about my father, and vice versa. I’ve taught myself not to be upset by his disinterest in my life, and I gave up a long time ago on wondering what I could fix within myself to make him love me. Dad’s Dad. He’s set in his ways, and those ways include keeping me at a distance. This is just another example of the chasm that stretches between us.

  The party is taking place in a private room at the Plaza. Waiting staff mill around, distributing canapés, elegant jazz fills the air and the bar is serving only the best alcohol. I accept a new champagne gratefully, finding the anaesthetic properties helpful in getting through this kind of event.

  Despite my place in this life, I’ve never really enjoyed soirees like this. ‘I heard a rumour you’re in line to become CEO at the next board meeting.’

  I slant a glance at Angus. ‘I’m pretty sure you heard wrong.’ My voice betrays the rivalry, given the way we’ve been pitted against one another since birth. But that rivalry is only a small part of me. I feel sympathy for Joshua too, sympathy at the expectations that have almost drowned him. It’s fascinating to see how differently we turned out, given that he grew up with an excess of expectations and I was diminished by a shocking lack of any.

  ‘Your appointment would make you the youngest CEO of a Fortune 500.’

  I arch a brow. ‘You’ve done your research.’

  His smile is quite charming, in a preppy schoolboy kind of way. ‘Always.’

  He’s flirting with me. I frown as that same burst of guilt travels the length of my spine once more. But I’m not doing anything wrong, and neither is Angus. Theo isn’t my boyfriend. He’s not even really my lover. We don’t linger over long nights together, sensually discovering each other. We appoint a time, meet, screw, then leave. He’s a fuck buddy, his purpose in my life as clearly delineated as mine is in his. Besides, talking to Angus gets me out of having to circulate. I catch Caroline’s eye about half an hour later—she’s watching us with a smug smile on her pouting lips.

  I’m tempted to end the conversation just to thwart her expectations, but by now Angus is talking about an archaeological dig he went on in Cairo during his grad degree and, since I’m truly interested in that experience, I stay where I am, ignoring the fact I’m making my stepmother so blissfully happy.

  Eventually, though, I realise the crowd has thinned. ‘I’m going to have to call it a night.’ I look at my watch, surprised to see it’s almost midnight.

  ‘You’re sure? There’s a bar around the corner...’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I have a conference call with Tokyo. It was nice talking to you.’ I’m even more surprised to realise I mean it.

  ‘Same.’ He lifts a hand to mine and a shiver—not the good kind—runs down my spine. Because this definitely feels wrong. It’s not, though, I remind myself. Theo knows the deal. We’re not a couple, we’re not dating. And Angus is just being friendly.

  ‘I’d love to see you again. Any chance you’re free for a drink later this week?’

  ‘A drink?’

  He nods. ‘You know, a beverage in a vessel. A bit like this.’ He nods towards my champagne glass.

  I roll my eyes. ‘Sorry, I just didn’t expect...’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He shakes his head apologetically. ‘I didn’t mean to make you feel awkward.’

  ‘You’re not. I don’t.’ The sense of guilt is an excellent reason to accept his invitation. What I’ve got with Theo is a no-strings affair that’s going nowhere. I can’t pass up a chance at a real relationship because the guy I’m sleeping with might object. It would be weird not to accept. Angus is handsome, nice, he’s made me laugh a couple of times. Definitely worthy of further exploration.

  ‘So I can call you?’

  I reach into my clutch and pull out a card. ‘Text me,’ I clarify. ‘I’m in and out of meetings. It’s easier.’

  ‘Got it.’ He leans forward and presses a kiss to my cheek. I bristle and hope he doesn’t notice.

  ‘Thanks for the company. Your stepmother was right—you’re charming.’

  * * *

  He’s Greek. Or Greek-American. But the American part of him is almost completely muted by his Greek heritage, which expresses itself in myriad ways: his complexion, dark like burnt butter, with eyes the colour of ebony, a chest that is broad and muscular and covered in a sprinkle of hair, and features that are symmetrical and strong, as though they’ve been chiselled from granite.

  A week after my stepmother’s birthday and I’m at Theo’s place, pressed against the floor-to-ceiling glass, my body raw with feelings as he holds my hips and takes me from behind, his every shift an intimate possession that sparks fire in my blood, just like that first night. Manhattan twinkles beneath us, bright lights in slender columns, and directly outside on his rooftop terrace is an infinity pool that will be perfect for cooling the day’s heat, and passion’s tempest, from my body.

  But thought isn’t possible. Not when his hands come around my front, cupping my breasts, his fingers strumming my nipples so I cry his name again and again and push my hips back, taking him deeper, moaning as he does just what I’ve wordlessly asked for. One of his hands drops to my clit and he massages me there skilfully so I explode without warning, swearing over the top of his name. He stills, letting me absorb this, letting me feel every single damned sensation before he moves once more, his hands roaming my body, touching every inch of me, each thrust slow at first and building until he’s joining me in a powerful crescendo that robs me utterly of breath.

  He grabs my body, pulling me to stand, holding me almost straight against him and buries his face in the crook of my shoulder so I hear his ragged exhalation as he loses control and comes deep inside of me.

  ‘Wow.’ It’s minutes later before I’m capable of speaking. And even then I’m still not really able to articulate anything meaningful. ‘Wow.’

  He laughs, but I feel his own surrender to this, his own awe at the power of our physical connection. Sex with us is out of this world. ‘Yeah, wow.’

  Slowly, I move away from him, but he keeps hold of me, spinning me in the circle of his arms. His face is perfection. I stare at him for several beats then smile, kissing his nose and moving to the side.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He laughs. ‘You don’t have to thank me every time.’

  I lift a brow, reaching for my camisole. ‘But you’re so good at that.’

  He watches as I slip the silk over my head and reach for my thong. ‘So, Charlotte, huh?’

  It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the afternoon of my stepmother’s party. I’m not surprised he’s brought this up—I am surprised, though, that I haven’t thought of a way to answer it. And yet we don’t really do this, talk about personal stuff. I lift my shoulders. ‘It’s no big deal.’

  ‘No? It’s kind of a strange nickname.’ He pulls his jeans on and moves to the kitchen, grabbing a beer out and lifting the top. He’s so stunning in that moment I give myself a few seconds to drink him in—the caramel of his complexion, the breadth of his muscled chest, a frame that doesn’t have an inch of spare flesh.

  ‘It’s my christened name.’

  He’s still and watchful as those words digest. ‘You were
born Charlotte?’

  ‘I was born a baby,’ I correct, teasing, pulling my skirt over my hips and zipping it up. ‘My dad called me Charlotte after my mom...’ I swallow, the rush of sadness familiar. ‘My mom died a little after I was born. Complications from my delivery. Her name was Charlotte.’

  He frowns, considering that. ‘You didn’t like the name?’

  ‘I didn’t like the ghost.’

  He holds his beer towards me. I take a long sip, then pass it back.

  ‘It’s hard to explain,’ I say after a moment. ‘I just felt like every time my dad looked at me he saw my mom. Or, rather, he saw the myriad ways I was nothing like her. Changing my name didn’t really change that but I guess I thought it might.’ I paste an over-bright smile to my face, not really wanting to drag this shit show into our light and fun relationship. ‘Besides, it was during my rebellious teenage phase. I did a lot of stupid crap back then.’

  ‘So you legally changed your name?’ he pushes, a smile hovering at the edges of his lips.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Why Asha?’

  ‘I liked it.’ I shrug. ‘It means hope. It felt...appropriate at the time.’

  I feel like he wants to ask me something else, like he wants to ask me many things, but he doesn’t. He pulls me towards him instead, takes a drink of his beer and then kisses me, pushing the liquid into my mouth so I laugh and swallow, my hand pressing to his naked chest. I love how light he keeps this.

  ‘You free Friday?’

  My heart thumps. Guilt slices me. I ignore it. ‘Nope. Saturday afternoon?’

  ‘Can’t. I’m in Sydney for a thing.’

  ‘A thing?’

  ‘My brother’s bachelor party.’

  ‘That’s right. He’s getting married.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He grins. ‘More fool him.’

  ‘You don’t approve?’

  ‘Nah. It’s good. Grace is perfect for him and he’s...the happiest I’ve ever seen him. But marriage is just...not for me.’

  I know this about him. He spelled that out in black and white when we agreed to embark on this whole thing.

  ‘It’s really important that you understand what I want, and what I don’t want, because I’d never want to lead you on. I’m always clear about my limits and the whole happily ever after bullshit isn’t for me.’

  ‘So you’ve said.’

  ‘You can’t do Friday?’

  My heart thumps. Because I want to see him again before he goes but I have plans. With Angus. I lower my eyes, making an effort to keep my tone bland. I’m doing nothing wrong. ‘Nope.’ My mouth feels dry and my pulse is thready. ‘I actually have a date.’

  ‘A date?’ He laughs and something shifts inside of me, emotions I can’t comprehend.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You’re dating?’ His smile drops as his eyebrow shoots up.

  ‘I mean, no. I haven’t been. It’s a first date.’

  ‘You’re going on a date with someone?’ He strides to the fridge and pulls out another beer, handing it to me. I take it on autopilot and crack the lid.

  ‘Is that a problem?’ Is he...jealous? This, I hadn’t expected.

  He frowns, rubbing his palm over his jaw. ‘I just didn’t realise.’

  ‘We’re not... I mean, what you and I are doing isn’t a real relationship, right?’

  ‘Hell, no,’ he’s quick to agree, just as I knew he would. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Just a guy I met through my parents.’

  ‘And he asked you out?’

  ‘Yeah. At my stepmother’s birthday thing.’

  He nods again. ‘So you like him?’

  The question is insultingly carefree. He’s not jealous. ‘I don’t really know him. But he seems nice. I’m interested in getting to know him better, for sure.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Angus Fienes.’

  He laughs. ‘Seriously? Him?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘I’ve met him a few times. I must say, I presumed you had better taste.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s very sensible. You’ll be married with two point five kids in a year’s time.’

  A smile twitches on my lips. ‘Apart from the fact that’s biologically impossible, it’s just drinks at the Four Seasons. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’

  ‘But you want to meet someone? Like him?’

  For six months we’ve been sleeping together and not once have we needed to have a conversation like this. I guess it was inevitable that at some point we’d have to pop the naïve bubble we’ve been enjoying and address our situation, but now that we’re doing that I’m startlingly reluctant to alter any of the parameters of what we are.

  ‘I guess so.’ I drink from the beer and lift up onto the bench, sitting on its edge, angling my body to take in the view of Manhattan. My shoulders lift into a small shrug of their own volition. ‘I’m twenty-eight. I feel like, if I’m not careful, I’m going to wake up in a decade and realise I don’t have a life outside of Fleurs Sauvages.’

  I glance at him; he looks terrified, like I’m about to try to wrangle a ring onto his finger. ‘I get why you’re not into the “happily ever after” thing. I respect that. We’re just...different.’

  He nods, his eyes holding mine for so long I feel almost as though he’s lancing me with his gaze. ‘I’m disappointed,’ he says at length. ‘But I was never going to find it easy to let this go.’

  His words have a contradictory impact on me. On the one hand, panic tears me apart at his implication that he’s letting this—me—go; on the other, there’s delight that he’s admitted such a prospect isn’t easy. Neither emotion sits well with me.

  ‘You’re not proposing we end this?’

  His expression shows bemusement. ‘I don’t see an alternative.’

  ‘Because I’m catching up with a guy for a drink?’

  ‘Because I’m not going to sleep with a woman who’s sleeping with someone else.’

  That’s right. We discussed monogamy ages ago. I didn’t remember until now because Theo is more than enough for my appetites. It never occurred to me that either of us would be sleeping with someone else on the side.

  ‘It’s just a drink,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m not about to go home with him.’

  He lifts a brow. ‘Given how we met...’

  ‘Come on, Theo, I’m giving you my word. I’m not going to disrespect you like that. We’ve been sleeping together for six months and, while this isn’t exactly a conventional situation, it still means something to me. I have no intention of being with the two of you at once.’

  Silence falls as he mulls this over. ‘So what do you suggest?’ he asks after several beats have passed, my nerves stretching.

  ‘Things between us stay the same until I say otherwise. Or you do,’ I hasten to add. ‘If it gets serious with Angus, or any other guy, I’ll tell you.’

  I don’t realise I’m holding my breath until he nods and pulls me towards him. ‘I know we’re just fucking, but I don’t share well, Asha.’ His kiss robs me of the ability to think and a minute later I’m naked again, welcoming his body back to mine, knowing in that moment I’m just precisely where I want to be most in the world.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SHE HAS EVERY right to date another guy. Not to sleep with him while we’re sleeping together but to date, sure. I know this and in fact I completely support that decision. After all, she’s a great woman, a serious catch. Any guy would be lucky to have her. She deserves every good thing in life and I have no interest in giving it to her.

  But Angus Fienes is just...not Asha. He’s so pretty, always with his hair styled and his collar popped, his dimples showing in an artfully shaved face. The idea of Asha ending up with a guy like
him feels completely wrong.

  I tell myself that it’s simple friendly concern that leads to this: me, sitting at the bar of the Four Seasons on Friday night cradling a glass of eighteen-year-old Macallan, my eyes lifting to the door every few minutes.

  Plus, I kind of like the idea of screwing up their date. There, I admitted it. I’m a bastard. But, knowing he’s not right for her, I don’t even feel a hint of remorse for this. If she wants to date, she should at least choose guys who are in the ballpark of being worthy of her.

  They arrive just after eight. She’s come straight from the office—I recognise the navy blue suit she’s wearing. I know it well. The lining is pale grey, like silver. She’s teamed it with a camisole that drapes to reveal her cleavage. She takes the jacket off and places it over the back of the chair, which he holds out for her. She’s not wearing a bra. Fuck. My body tightens with desire, a need to hold her close and be with her. Angus’s eyes linger on her breasts and I want to punch him. As if he has any right to even occupy the same airspace as Asha.

  Her hair is styled into a bun at the nape of her neck. I love it when she wears it loose, long red curls falling down her back like a waterfall made of flame. Angus lifts his hand imperiously and a waiter appears at their table. Angus presumably cracks a joke because Asha laughs and my eyes narrow. She can’t seriously be into this guy? He’s wearing skinny jeans that finish about an inch higher than his ankle with brogues and no socks. Hipster alert.

  Something primal tips inside of me. I want to stalk to the table and lift Asha up, throw her over my shoulder and drag her back to my place, tie her to the bed and drive her wild in all the ways I know she loves best. I don’t. I throw the Scotch back then tap the glass, silently requesting a refill.

  I didn’t come here tonight with a firm plan in mind. I thought it would be fun, a bit of a joke, but watching some other guy do his best to charm the pants off Asha is, it turns out, far from entertaining. What the hell is she thinking, dating someone like this? Don’t get me wrong, she’s a free agent. I’ve never had any interest in pushing commitment on her. The very idea makes my skin crawl. But if I’m going to give up the best sex I’ve ever had, it’s not going to be so she can go out with some kind of painfully trendy heir to a tyre factory fortune. I bet this guy has never even had to make his own bed. Asha will be ridiculously bored by him.