Off Limits

by Clare Connelly

  I see now that this is how he’s getting through.

  A night here and there to stop feeling this weight of responsibility.

  A different woman to bury himself in and forget that he got Lucy pregnant and that because of her pregnancy she refused treatment.

  His words swirl through my head. ‘I wanted to make her life better. I wanted to fix it all. To take away her pain and make her smile and laugh.’

  It’s exactly how I feel about Jack.

  And I know one sure-fire way to bring him back from the haunted brink of the misery he’s inhabiting. I kiss him hard, moving my mouth over his as I press against his cock. My hands tuck into the elastic of his swim shorts, curving around his arse, holding him tight against me.

  He knows. He knows which way salvation lies and he powers through the water, walking easily to the edge and lifting me so that I’m sitting on the coping. He barely breaks our kiss as he climbs out, pressing his body over mine, his weight and wetness making me writhe against the tiles as need explodes in me.

  It’s the need to remove this burden from his mind, sure. But it’s my own need, too. My need to feel him. This is what makes sense right now.

  ‘You are like an angel,’ he mutters, stripping my swimsuit from my body. The fabric is wet and stubborn, but his hands are strong and determined and dispose of it easily, rolling it down my flesh, my legs, until I can kick it off my feet. He brings his mouth back to mine and I kiss him once more, my hands grabbing his cock and guiding him towards me.

  He pauses, though, his eyes seeking mine as though he’s asking me something, needing something else.

  I smile at him—a slow-spreading smile—and I whisper, ‘Please...’

  He moves inside me and something is shifting around us—changing—as tangible as the pleasure that rolls through me.

  We want this to be clear-cut, yet it no longer feels that way. It’s not just sex this time... It’s a slow exploration that curls my toes and, I’m afraid, shakes my heart to life.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘I LOVE THIS CITY.’

  His eyes meet mine, his smile disarming, and my body responds. I swear my breasts grin at him. Happiness settles around my shoulders.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  A pizza box sits between us, the contents half-eaten. He reaches for another piece and I watch his fingers curl over the crust.

  Making love by the pool broke something inside me and I’m glad—because it’s rebuilt me in a different way. I’m different. He’s different. Nothing is the same now.

  ‘It’s clean. New.’ He smiles. ‘Nothing like where I grew up.’

  I have to shake myself into the conversation. I’m genuinely interested in where this is going, but the cobwebs of lust are hard to ignore.

  ‘Dublin?’

  ‘Yeah. Just outside it, anyway. A grimy little town to the east.’ He wrinkles his nose.

  ‘Do you ever get back?’

  ‘Nah.’ He throws the crust back into the box and stands up, holding his hands out to me.

  I stand and put my hands in his. When did I stop questioning him and just become a part of him? And why doesn’t it bother me more?

  ‘My parents moved to Kerry—a little house overlooking the ocean, as far as you can see. It’s beautiful there.’

  ‘But you like cities?’ I say as he pulls me towards him and holds me close.

  He begins to sway, dancing with me on the balcony of his apartment as the moon casts a silver light over the Sydney Opera House.

  ‘I like the pace,’ he agrees. ‘I’m not one for small towns.’

  I tilt my head to the side. ‘I don’t know...’ I say thoughtfully. ‘I think cities can be almost slower than towns. It just depends on how you spend your time. There’s certainly a lot of anonymity in a city. Haven’t you ever just wanted to get lost? You can walk down Oxford Street on Boxing Day and not be seen by anyone.’

  He presses his cheek against mine. There it is again. That clicking inside me as I acknowledge how right this feels. I know it’s a very dangerous thought—one that will certainly lead me to pain.

  ‘I can honestly tell you I have never contemplated walking down Oxford Street—let alone on Boxing Day. Are you fucking mad?’

  I smile against his chest. ‘Yes, well, I suppose you’d send someone to get whatever the hell you need, right?’

  His smile indicates agreement.

  ‘Anyway, you live in Hampstead. That’s basically as small town as it’s possible to get inside London.’

  ‘But so close to everything. And might I point out that you live there, too?’

  ‘I moved to Hampstead because you live there,’ I say sensibly, and then stop moving, looking up at him with obvious embarrassment. ‘Because my job is there,’ I correct, but my cheeks are pink and my eyes can’t quite meet his. ‘You know...with the long hours it just made sense.’

  ‘I know what you meant,’ he says, his smile sending fire through my body. ‘Where did you live before that?’

  I let my breath out slowly, glad he’s giving me a pass. ‘Elephant and Castle.’

  He laughs—a gravelled sound. ‘Your parents must have loved that!’

  They hated it. His insight shakes me. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘You had three nannies growing up, and a tree house big enough to sleep in. My guess would be they felt it was a bit of a fall from grace for you.’

  I hide my smile by dipping my head forward. He lifts my hand and twirls me in his arms, as though we are dancing to a song that only he can hear.

  ‘It wasn’t their idea of sensible, no. But it was easy to get into work from there, and I had good friends in the area. Plus, I loved spending my Saturday mornings at Borough Market and it was an easy walk.’

  ‘A closet foodie?’ he prompts.

  ‘No. I’m too busy to cook. But I’m a sucker for fresh flowers.’ I exhale. ‘And cheese. I would go from stall to stall buying whichever cheese took my fancy, savouring it that afternoon with a matched glass of wine.’

  ‘Sounds pretty damned good.’ He grins.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And you gave all that up to work for me, huh?’

  ‘Not all of it,’ I say with a wink. ‘There’s a pretty amazing cheese shop on the high street, you know.’

  ‘And flowers?’

  ‘Always.’ I tilt my head up to his and then immediately look past him, to the glittering view of Sydney by night. There is something in his face that calls to me, and I know it would be foolish to answer it.

  ‘Let me guess. You like white Oriental lilies?’

  I’m surprised that he even knows a variety of flower, let alone is hazarding a guess as to which would be my favourite.

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I love peonies and ranunculus. There’s something so wildly chaotic about them that it makes my heart sing.’

  ‘So poetic!’ he teases, curling me against him and holding me tight.

  I can feel his hard edges and planes, so familiar to me, but my heart is racing as though it’s the first time we’ve touched.

  ‘I think they’re naughty,’ I say with a grin. ‘As though someone has said to them, “We’re going to make you the most beautiful, chubby little flowers in the world, but only if you grow straight up towards the sky.” And then they looked at each other and said, “Nah.” Have you ever really paid attention to their stems? The way they wind round and round as though they’re dancing in a thunderstorm?’

  His smile is mysterious. Enigmatic. He is, at times, impossible to read.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? You don’t agree?’

  ‘No, I’ve never looked at their stems to the degree you have. Nor have I anthropomorphised them.’

  ‘Then you’ve led a very deprived life, sir.’

  I feel his laugh rather than hear it: a rumble from deep in his body. ‘Apparently. Do you want some dessert?’

  ‘I can think of other things I want more.’

  He laughs and
shakes his head, stepping away from me and disappearing.

  Thwarted desire flames at the soles of my feet.

  He returns a moment later, two coffee cups in his hands. Except there’s no coffee in them. They’re filled with a single scoop of vanilla ice cream each.

  It’s sweet, but truly dessert is the last thing on my mind. Before I can tell him that he pulls a hand from behind his back and holds out two perfect fresh cherries.

  I grin as he places one in each cup.

  ‘The cherry on top,’ he explains unnecessarily, and my heart turns over in my chest at this gesture that is at once both sexy and sweet. Sexy, because how can I ever see a cherry as just a cherry again? And sweet because it is our thing.

  We have a thing.

  He digs a spoon into the ice cream and brings it to my lips. I taste it, but as on that first night, with our first kiss, his mouth is on mine immediately, his tongue tasting me even as I taste the ice cream.

  Dessert is forgotten.

  His kiss is unlike anything I’ve felt with him. It’s soft. Tender. Gentle.

  He breathes in as though he’s inhaling me and I do the same, smiling against his lips.

  Despite everything we’ve shared, it feels like the most intimate we’ve ever been. As if we’re connected on every level.

  But then our desperate hunger takes over and his hands are pushing at my robe, connecting with my naked flesh with the same intensity that marked our first coming together. It’s as though he’s punishing himself now—punishing himself for wanting me in any way other than animalistic and wild.

  He presses me back, his kiss hard against my face, his body firm against mine, until I connect with the glass balustrade that runs along the edge of the terrace. He drops his kiss lower, to my neck, and lower still, his stubble grazing along my front until he brushes a nipple, taking it into his mouth and sucking it, spinning whirls of pleasure through me.

  He drops lower, and finally falls to his knees. His mouth against my clit is a welcome invasion, his tongue what I have been needing. I grip the railing, my hands tight around its edge, as he glides his tongue down and I moan, pressing deeper against him. He knows exactly what I like now, and it takes him only moments to stir me to a fever pitch of awareness.

  I make a small sound in the night air, tilting my head back and staring up at the stars above Sydney as I fall apart against his mouth, my orgasm spellbinding in its intensity and strength. I sway, and almost fall forward, but his strong hands are gripping my hips, pulling me to him as he stands.

  ‘You are beautiful,’ he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

  My breath is burning hard in my lungs, supercharging my body. Everything about this moment is just that: beautiful.

  I meet his eyes and—ridiculously—feel a stinging in the back of mine. Don’t let me cry! How embarrassing. But there’s something in his look that’s spinning my gut, shifting through me with a sense of unreality. As though he’s thinking something and doesn’t know how to say it.

  I watch him, waiting for my breath to settle and my pulse to slow. He opens his mouth. My heart is still. Then, with one of those rakish smiles I’ve come to love, he says, ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  * * *

  ‘So you’re his other half? Professionally speaking.’

  I smile at Clint Sheridan but my eyes are glued to Jack. Across the room he holds court easily, and a group of men and two women stand hanging on his every word.

  ‘Technically, I’m his in-house counsel,’ I say, with a sideways smile.

  ‘But word has it that you pretty much oversee his entire workload.’

  ‘Really?’ I arch a brow and sip my champagne. ‘His workload is pretty immense.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  I like Clint. Given that he’s going to be running the Australian operation, I’ll have to work closely with him—certainly in the start-up phase. He’s a bit nervous, but I think once he settles down into the role he’ll be funny and fast. He’s definitely relaxed a little, even over the course of the few hours we’ve been at his expansive apartment on Sydney’s North Shore.

  The view is spectacular—different to that from Jack’s penthouse—and by night the city shimmers before us. The famed Harbour Bridge has been lit red, for some reason, and there’s something almost eerie about the way it seems to glide over the water, an angry sentinel or a protective beacon. In the far distance there’s a flash of lightning, and that only adds to the spectacle.

  ‘Night show!’

  Clint grins, as if following my gaze. Or perhaps he’s seen the involuntary shudder—a response to the suggestion of thunder. I don’t give in to temptation and ask if a storm is forecast. I’m not a little girl any more. I can recognise my phobia as just that—an illogical pattern of fear.

  ‘Have you lived here long?’ I ask.

  ‘A few years.’ He rests his hand on the back of a dark timber chair and sips his beer. ‘Bought it off the plan. Thought I’d use it as a renter, but then—divorce.’ He grimaces, as if the single word should communicate his entire backstory.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘Why would you?’

  His smile is disarming. He’s handsome, I realise. Strange that I didn’t notice sooner. Oh, yeah? My brain is rolling its eyes again. It has a point. Finding another man attractive when I’m sleeping with Jack Grant is like taking a shower in the middle of the Niagara Falls. But there’s no denying it. Clint has got eyes that are almost as dark as night, a thick crop of black hair, a swarthy tanned complexion—and he’s built like a tank. Thick neck, muscled arms—like he’d be as at home on a rugby field as he would the boardroom.

  Mmm.

  ‘True. It’s not really our concern if you’re married or not.’

  ‘Are you?’

  My eyes lift to his, my smile hinting at a laugh. ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘That’s funny?’

  His eyes scan my face and there’s curiosity there. I suppose I am of an age where women are generally on that path somewhere. Either dating, engaged, planning the wedding, married, just married, sick of marriage... I’m none of those things. In fact, marriage really hasn’t entered my head as a desirable state into which to enter.

  Out of nowhere, the wedding anniversary party fizzes into my mind. I could definitely attribute my lack of faith in the whole institution of marriage to my parents. The silence of my childhood sits like a dull weight on my periphery.

  ‘Only in that I barely have time to plan a holiday, let alone something as monumental as—’ I wave my hand in the air and the gold bangles I’m wearing jangle ‘—that.’

  ‘Smart move. The whole thing’s overrated.’

  I arch a brow, sipping my champagne. My eyes travel across the room distractedly. They’re just skimming faces and people, travelling out of habit rather than on any specific quest. But they glance across at Jack and meet his eyes and everything inside me lurches almost painfully. A primal ache of possession unfurls in my gut.

  With effort, I turn my attention back to Clint. ‘I suppose it’s easy to feel that when you’ve just come out of a divorce.’

  ‘Should never have got married,’ he says with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘Taught me a valuable lesson, though.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Gemma?’

  I tilt my head, my eyes locking with Jack’s once more. He’s right beside me, his face unreadable.

  ‘Am I interrupting?’

  ‘I’ve never understood why people ask that. You obviously are interrupting.’ I soften the words with a smile, but Clint tenses beside me.

  ‘Then by all means continue,’ Jack invites, his eyes challenging me silently.

  ‘Clint was just telling me why marriage is a huge mistake.’

  I turn my body away from Jack, giving Clint my full attention. Only I’ve made a crucial error. Jack’s right behind me, and my back is completely hidden from the room. His hand curls around my arse and I have to bite my
tongue to stop myself drawing in a sharp breath.

  His fingers stroke my flesh, and even I can feel his warmth through the dress.

  My knees are shaking suddenly.

  ‘For me it was,’ Clint backpedals, his smile dismissive.

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ Jack says, pressing his fingers in a little deeper, shooting arrows of desire through my flesh. ‘I need Gemma for a conference call I’m expecting. Is there somewhere private we can go?’

  My heart is racing, beating so hard I’m surprised it can stay lodged in my chest.

  ‘Yeah, of course—my office.’ Clint nods, turning on his heel and moving through the lounge area.

  Jack runs his hand higher up my back and then drops it to his side as he moves to follow Clint through the luxurious apartment. Three doors down a long, well-lit corridor, Clint pauses, his smile professional. It’s clear he has no clue how Jack’s been touching me, nor what Jack and I want.

  ‘Make yourselves at home,’ he invites. ‘Need water? Coffee? Anything?’

  Jack shakes his head and Clint leaves, pulling the door shut behind him. The office is large, and offers another view of the harbour. There’s a desk in the middle, a sofa pushed hard to the wall and a bookshelf that holds a coffee machine and a bar fridge.

  My inspection is cut short by Jack.

  His lips find mine and his arms curl around my back, lifting me up and bringing me closer to him.

  ‘What are you doing to me?’ he groans into my mouth, the words both a plea and a hope.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I manage to say. But his tongue is fighting mine and no further conversation is possible.

  His hands find the hem of my dress, lifting it just enough for Jack to be able to cup my bare arse. He groans as his fingers connect with naked skin and he pushes his arousal towards me, his cock hard and firm. My body is desperate to feel more of him. But he grinds against me and I grip his shoulders, my body weakening at this contact that is so good I can barely think straight.

  He lifts one hand to my hair. It’s loose around my face and he tangles his fingers in its ends then pulls up from my scalp, his fingers holding me against his mouth. His other hand slips between my legs and finds my warm heat. He runs a finger along my seam and I whimper into his mouth, so wet and hot for him.