Burn Me Once

by Clare Connelly

  ‘On whether you like to live dangerously.’

  ‘Not generally,’ I respond quickly, my lips flicking with a tight smile.

  ‘That surprises me.’

  ‘Why? You don’t know anything about me.’

  He drops his hand away. The absence of touch leaves me feeling bereft.

  ‘Don’t I?’

  ‘How could you? We just met.’

  ‘Mmm...’

  God, just that single throaty sound of acknowledgement sends a riot tumbling through my veins.

  ‘I know you have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen.’

  I’ve heard that line before. Why do men feel the need to compliment hair? Mine is striking more than beautiful, but I’ve long ago given up feeling self-conscious about the thick rust-coloured mane that was the bane of my middle school existence, when my white skin, freckled nose and fire-engine-red hair led to almost daily teasing.

  Yes, I’ve heard the line before, but it’s never made my stomach flip like this. I’ve never believed the line.

  Thanks to the pioneering efforts of Christina Hendricks, right around the time I was hitting college, I made a kind of peace with my peaches and cream complexion, voluptuous figure and rusty hair, but I still never bought the pick-up lines. The guys who told me they loved my curves and dimples.

  How easy it is to ignore flattery! But there’s something in his eyes, his face and his voice that renders me incapable of being dismissive now.

  ‘I know that your eyes show me everything you’re feeling and that your skin is like salt-water pearls.’

  My laugh is a hoarse sound in the swirling atmosphere of need. ‘That’s all very cheesy.’

  It’s not. It’s really not. Maybe it’s the fact he writes and sings some of the most famous love songs of all time, but he can totally pull this off. This guy, and this guy alone, can make those lines sound like they’re being spoken for the first time ever.

  His laugh answers mine, and I’m smiling even as I want to acquiesce to his flirtation and do as he bids—live dangerously.

  ‘Even if it’s true?’

  My breath catches in my throat and I look away—straight into the curious eyes of a woman a few feet away. She’s studying us and her cell phone is in her hand.

  Strange how quickly I have forgotten that Ethan Ash is a celebrity. Heat spreads through my cheeks and he follows my gaze, quickly assessing the reason for it. Now he touches me with more urgency, placing a hand in the small of my back and leading me further down the street.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what?’

  I toss a look over my shoulder. The woman is still there, cell phone still in hand. Busybody! I guess this is par for the course for him, but I can’t imagine that. Being watched and observed all the time. Having people think they have a right to pry into your life, crack the lid off it whenever it suits them. No thanks.

  ‘Want to take a walk on the wild side?’

  ‘I...’ My footing stumbles a little as my eyes skid to his and all sense of gravity and order tips off balance. ‘I’m not sure.’

  I look away.

  ‘How about we start with your name and you can make your mind up over a quiet drink?’

  ‘I...’

  I’m struck dumb. I don’t think that’s ever happened to me in my whole life. Acknowledging that brings a smile to my face.

  ‘I think I’d like that.’

  His smile shines bright light and heat into every microscopic corner of my world.

  ‘Then let’s get going.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  WE’RE SHEPHERDED INTO the obviously incredibly exclusive bar with a degree of fanfare that might make even the Queen of England envious. At the bar around the corner from our flat, with its neon lights and pumping songs, it was easy to miss the degree of Ethan Ash’s celebrity. Not to ignore the fact that he’s unique and different and special, but that these are qualities he has independent of his fame.

  Here the deference is marked and reverent, his celebrity obvious and noteworthy. He is treated like the Second Coming, and some of that glory deflects nicely on to me, as his obvious companion.

  And it is obvious. He kept his hand in the small of my back the whole way here, and he stays close by me as we weave our way through the establishment. I like him being close.

  Close enough that I can smell his fragrance and enjoy his warmth.

  Close enough that I can slip into the fantasy of what it would be like—will be like?—to touch his body all over. To kiss him. To taste him.

  I stifle a groan, dipping my head forward to hide the liquid desire that is taking over my body. Desire is unexpected and yet it is welcome. After Jeremy I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel it again.

  ‘Here?’

  He nods towards a cosy booth seat and every cell in my body ratchets up with awareness. Of him, of me, of the intimacy of that booth.

  I nod slowly, then slide in ahead of him. ‘Do you come here often?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Nah, not really my scene.’

  ‘That’s interesting. It’s very much my scene.’ I wink at him. ‘At least more so than the place we were in before.’

  ‘Yeah, you were a bit of a fish out of water there.’

  ‘Really?’ I wrinkle my nose. ‘Why do you say that?’

  He shrugs. ‘Gin and tonic?’

  It takes me a second to realise he’s asking me a question—what kind of drink I want. A second longer to realise that he knows my regular drink.

  ‘How did you...?’

  ‘You ordered it right in front of me.’

  ‘I also ordered a Prosecco and a vodka gimlet.’

  ‘But you gave those to your friends.’

  The certainty that he’s been watching me oozes pleasure over my skin. I think he knows, because his smile hints at the same kind of pleasure reverberating inside him. Heat is a burst between us.

  ‘So I did.’ I lean forward conspiratorially. ‘You’re not some kind of stalker, are you?’

  His laugh is heaven. ‘Not until the last hour or so.’

  More pleasure. His compliments are doing everything they should, and even though I’d like to think I’m genuinely hard to impress—thank you, Jeremy—I feel myself soften towards him.

  Curiosity is as rampant in my body as desire. ‘So,’ I say, leaning in closer towards him. ‘What’s your name?’

  For a second I have him fooled. Surprise etches across his face and then he bursts out laughing.

  ‘What?’ I continue the charade, my eyes wide, expression droll. ‘Why is that funny?’

  He sobers. ‘It’s not.’ He clears his throat. ‘I’m... Christopher Smith.’

  A smile tickles my lips. ‘Pleased to meet you, Christopher Smith.’

  I wonder how often Ethan Ash gets hit on by girls who are more drawn in by his rock god status than anything else? I wonder if that makes him cynical about women? Or if it makes him think he’s God’s gift? In my case, I’m definitely not doing anything to disabuse him of that notion. In fact I seriously suspect that if God did gift women a man purely for pleasure it would be this guy.

  But, hang on. He’s hot, sure, and he has the voice of a husky alpha-angel—but he could be awful in bed, right?

  The thought brings a frown to my face. Isn’t there some rule of thumb about that? The really gorgeous guys don’t have to work for it so they never learn to be good? Am I going to test that theory with Ethan one-look-will-melt-your-panties-off Ash?

  I shift a little in the seat. Our knees brush beneath the table and I suck in a sharp breath. Apparently I am.

  He catches the involuntary gesture and his smile is sensual. ‘You’re nervous?’

  I don’t know if I’m nervous or surprised. This juggernaut has picked me up and it’s dragging me along with it, an
d I feel a strange disconnect with my own autonomy. ‘Maybe.’

  He lifts a hand in the air without taking his attention from my face. ‘Because of me?’

  I shake my head, biting down on my lip. His eyes roam my face like it’s a continent he must conquer. He sees everything.

  The sense of familiarity is as overwhelming as it is bizarre. I’m sitting in a booth with a bona fide rock star. I should feel strange, but I don’t. It all feels so right.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Ally.’

  ‘Ally.’

  He rolls it around his mouth as if tasting the two symbols. His accent is even hotter when he’s saying my name. He makes the A sound like a sigh...‘Ah’.

  ‘Is that short for something?’

  I nod.

  ‘Gonna make me guess?’

  I grin, and my eyes lift as a waitress approaches, her pale blonde hair pulled into a braid that wraps around her head like a crown.

  ‘Good evening. Here are some menus.’ She places two dark books on the tabletop. ‘Can I get you a drink to start?’

  Ethan turns away to address the waitress. He orders a beer and a gin and tonic, then adds some onion rings for good measure. In profile, he’s fascinating. I hadn’t noticed until then the bump halfway down his nose that speaks, presumably, of it having been broken at some point in his life. In an accident? Or a fight?

  Goosebumps dance down my spine as I imagine the rather sexy image of Ethan Ash in a fist-fight with someone. He’d be a good fighter. Not prone to aggression, I’d bet, but definitely able to take care of himself.

  Wow. I didn’t even know that I found that kind of thing attractive.

  ‘Alexandra?’ he says as he spins back to me.

  I don’t instantly understand what he’s saying, and then I realise. He’s guessing my full name.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hmm...’ A low, gruff growl.

  Help me, Jesus, I am about to sin.

  Beneath the table his fingers find my knee and he strums it like a guitar, gently lashing his fingers over my flesh so that my breath is raspy.

  ‘Do I get a penalty?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  I tilt my head to the side, my eyes dancing with amusement even as desire makes my lids heavy.

  ‘Every time you get it wrong,’ I say, after a long beat of silence has stretched between us, ‘I get to ask you anything I want.’

  He lifts his brows skyward. ‘Sure. Sounds fair. So, what do you want to know?’

  Great question. What do I want to know? ‘How does everything sound?’

  He laughs. ‘“Everything” could take a while. There’s twenty-eight years to cover.’

  ‘Let’s start with what brings you to the Big Old Apple?’

  ‘A gig. And recording.’

  ‘An album?’

  He shakes his head and leans closer, so that his words whisper gently across my cheek.

  ‘That’s a separate question.’

  ‘No fair!’

  I lift a hand to playfully push at his chest, except the moment my fingers connect with his warm strength no pushing occurs. I hold my hand against him, my eyes meet his, and I feel like I’m sinking hard and fast, with no hope of saving myself.

  ‘Alita?’

  I shake my head and dredge up a smile, but it feels heavy on my face because it has to wade through all the desire that’s chewing my insides up.

  ‘You’re recording an album?’

  ‘Sorta.’

  ‘What does “sorta” mean?’

  He shifts his body a little, bringing himself closer to me. ‘I’m tinkering. Sketching.’

  ‘Sketching?’

  ‘You know... Getting a feel for some new stuff. Working on pieces.’

  ‘You do that in a recording studio?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ He shrugs.

  My hand feels the ripple of his muscles and my gut clenches correspondingly.

  ‘And you snuck an extra question in there. Don’t think I didn’t notice.’

  ‘Uh-huh. I’m very sneaky.’

  ‘I like sneaky.’

  His head dips closer. My breath is burning through me.

  ‘Alena?’

  When I shake my head this time it brings me closer. Our lips are barely an inch apart and my hand is still on his chest, my fingertips teasing the soft fabric of his shirt. Up close, his scent is intoxicating.

  ‘What’s your question?’

  My brain is thick and woolly. I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him so badly that I can phantom-feel his lips on mine already.

  What if he’s a terrible kisser?

  My eyes drop to his lips, assessing the possibility of that.

  No.

  He won’t be.

  I’m sure of it.

  ‘Don’t have one, huh?’ he teases.

  A noise cracks us apart. I blink, like I’m waking from a dream. The waitress has placed our drinks on the tabletop and then a basket of onion rings. It’s surprisingly sweet that he ordered something so pedestrian. Had I expected he’d ask for caviar-dressed lobster?

  ‘What’s it like? Being famous?’

  His expression shows surprise. He wasn’t expecting that.

  ‘You’re the first person to ask me that,’ he muses, drawing the foam top off his beer in a way that is so absolutely masculine my knees knock with feminine heat.

  ‘Really?’ I sound normal. That’s good. ‘You weren’t born famous. It must be a bit weird.’

  ‘Weird’s a good word for it.’ He shrugs. ‘I don’t notice so much now. But at first...’

  ‘You were...how old? When your first record came out?’

  ‘I didn’t release a record at first. I was big on YouTube before any of the labels came knocking.’

  ‘So you’ve been doing this a really long time?’

  He reaches for an onion ring, crunches it. ‘I was sixteen when I topped the UK charts.’

  I’m impressed—obviously. All the more so because he says it without a hint of arrogance. It’s just a fact, one he’s accepted as a part of the fabric of his story, so that he says it without realising what a huge deal it is.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Music?’

  ‘Fame,’ I correct, sipping my drink.

  ‘Nah. It’s shit.’

  I laugh—it’s not what I was expecting him to say at all. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ He grins. ‘You get used to it, but at first it’s like being on a different planet. I’ll never forget the first time I opened my front door to a throng of paparazzi. It was madness. I was still living at home—we had to move to a gated community with security fences and cameras. I can’t get over how fascinated people are by the minutiae of my life. Of anyone else’s life. I once had a busboy sell the cutlery I’d used for lunch on eBay.’

  I pull a face, barely able to imagine the invasiveness of that.

  ‘But the music...’

  He grins and my heart flops.

  ‘I live for it, you know? Always have.’

  And he begins to hum, something low and deep, and he moves closer to me again, propping an elbow on the table to form a sort of cage around me. He is big and I’m not. I’ve always been little, but in the circle created by his arms I feel something I’ve never felt before. I feel safe.

  Safe?

  From what?

  It’s a stupid, errant thought. After all, whatever’s happening between us is possibly the most danger I’ve been in. Even with the guys I was with before Jeremy it was never like this. I was in control. Always.

  Ethan when-is-he-going-to-kiss-me? Ash is definitely not eating out of the palm of my hands. Yet.

  A need to grasp control out of
his hands spins through me. I reach up and curl my fingers around his shirt, so that I can pull him closer still, and then I brush my lips to his so that I feel the notes rather than just hear them. If possible, his voice tastes even better than it sounds.

  ‘Alison?’ he says against my lips.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Do you have a question for me?’

  I’m at a crossroad. Past, future and present swirl around me. Need, want, right and wrong. These are all voices and forces throbbing in my head. But one voice is loudest of all.

  Desire shouts through me.

  ‘Can we go yet?’

  * * *

  Every time I question the wisdom of this I think of the freaking Tweet. #soinlove

  Sienna’s moved on. Why the hell shouldn’t I have some fun too?

  Something squeezes inside me and my past with Sienna flashes before me. The years we spent together. The way we came through the industry together. I get her and she gets me. It damned near killed me when we broke up. Only her promise that it was temporary eased that pain.

  And now she’s fucking engaged to another guy.

  A new sense of urgency powers my intent.

  ‘Hell, yeah. Let’s get out of here.’

  I drain my beer, noticing she’s hardly touched her drink. I nod towards it but she shakes her head.

  ‘I’m okay.’

  She’s better than okay. Briefly I feel a wave of guilt. To Sienna. To Ally. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’m not thinking one hundred percent clearly, but my instincts are telling me to go with this—or is that my cock?—and I’m not going to ignore them.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  I hold my hand out and she places her palm in mind. Her hand’s small, and yet it fits into mine perfectly. I stand and pull her closer to me as I do. She smells like vanilla and moonlight.

  Someone’s tipped the press off as to my whereabouts, so that when we step out of the club there’s flashes everywhere. Ally’s surprised. She’s not used to fame and its pointed intrusion. I pull her closer to my chest. The desire to protect her is instinctive. I don’t want her being collateral damage in all of this.

  I hail a cab and it stops instantly. I hold the door open for her and she slips inside, a blur of pale skin, bright blue eyes and long red hair. I follow, moving close to her in the back of the cab.