Burn Me Once

by Clare Connelly

I wrap my legs around his waist and he drops his hands to my ass, curving his hands beneath me and kneading my flesh until I groan into his mouth.

  I am incapable of thought. I am incapable of anything but feeling. And I feel him everywhere. Each thrust drives him deeper into my body until I am existing purely for this. All for him.

  And I’m just sensible enough to be afraid of that.

  * * *

  ‘You said two propositions?’

  Our breathing is returning to normal. His body is a weight on me that I crave.

  ‘Right.’

  He grins slowly, sensually. My stomach flops.

  ‘Do I take it that means you accept the first?’

  I pull a face. ‘I’m thinking about it.’

  He nods thoughtfully. ‘Might you need more convincing?’

  My body trembles. ‘I might.’

  I don’t. I want to sleep with him again and again—which should in and of itself warn me off.

  Ethan shifts a little; my body responds instantly.

  ‘I have a designer for the interior. But I want your artistic input. I want you to wave your magic wand over this place. Think you can do that? For me?’

  The way he says that should warn me, but I am not afraid. We have been honest—we have immunised ourselves against emotional fallout. Flirting with him is fine because we both know what we want.

  And what’s at stake if we don’t.

  ‘You’re asking me to work for you?’

  He nods. ‘Yes. What d’you say?’

  I say yes, don’t I?

  ‘Why don’t you show me the place while I make up my mind?’

  * * *

  ‘I guess this will be a kind of entertaining area.’ He gestures around the large open space on the top floor of the townhouse. It’s huge. Cavernous, even. I instantly see it as it could be. Neutral décor. Cream walls, polished floorboards and a single feature wall of a dark, earthy grey colour. Modern lighting, like round floor lamps and curved wall lamps, and perhaps a shag pile rug in the middle.

  And contemporary art. Abstract without being corporate.

  There’s a Hirst I know Christie’s has coming up for auction and mentally I picture it on the wall. I can’t recall the exact dimensions off the top of my head, so I reach into my bag and pull out my iPad mini.

  ‘What about something like this?’ I load up the painting and hold the iPad closer to him. Not too close. Not so close that I can breathe him in or risk touching him.

  What happened downstairs is still playing on the edges of my mind, and I don’t know if I should run and hide or pretend it’s business as usual. I’ve opted for the latter, but every movement he makes reminds me passionately of what we’ve done. What I want.

  I struggle to make sense of it.

  ‘I love it.’

  He smiles as he meets my eyes. He’s so straightforward and simple...it’s hard to believe he feels anything like my inner-turmoil.

  Why am I complicating things? We’re two adults who want to have a no-strings-attached sex-fest. What danger is there in that?

  I quickly spin away from him, not wanting him to see even a hint of my thought processes on my face.

  The business with Jeremy scared me. For life, possibly. Well, Eliza says it fucked me up good, and I’ve always kind of agreed with her.

  I fell in love with him hard and fast. And I thought it was mutual. I believed everything he told me. Six months into our relationship I should have seen the signs. The way he would often not answer my calls. The way he’d have weird explanations for what he’d been doing, and the way he’d change plans at a moment’s notice. The way we once went to a restaurant and a couple came over to speak to him and the woman kept looking at me with obvious confusion.

  And then, yes... The way his wife walked in on us in flagrante.

  God, what an idiot I’d been.

  So? Was I being an idiot now?

  ‘How come you have such a huge place when you don’t even live in the States?’

  His shrug is non-committal, as though we’re talking about a studio apartment rather than two brownstones joined at the seams.

  ‘I like it here. And there are times when I do American tours and it would make sense to have a bit of a home away from home. You know? Plus, it’s a good investment.’

  I nod thoughtfully. ‘Do you get sick of the travelling?’

  ‘I try not to do too much of it.’

  ‘But you tour...?’

  ‘Yeah, I tour.’ His smile is so sexy. ‘But I get my agent to build in weeks of time when I get back home. To sleep in my own bed.’

  To see Sienna?

  I push the other woman aside. She’s engaged. They broke up months ago. This isn’t like Jeremy and Fiona.

  ‘I’d hate it,’ I say thoughtfully.

  Moving carefully, I step over a large gap in the floorboards into the other side of the room and towards the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the garden. Our lunch is still down there. My poor fork stabbed into a slice of yam, indignantly waiting to be wielded.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I’m such a homebody.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have guessed that.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  He comes to stand beside me and I’m aware of all the things I don’t want to be.

  ‘I can’t get involved with you,’ I say, without meeting his eyes.

  ‘Can’t? Or don’t want to?’

  It’s a distinction I hadn’t even realised I’d made. I side-step it deliberately. ‘I think you’re trouble.’ Now I force myself to look his way. ‘And I’m not into that.’

  He studies me without speaking. Then...

  ‘But you used to be?’

  I’m startled, blinking away my surprise. How can he tell?

  I twist my lips to the side and shrug, just a little. ‘Trouble used to be into me.’ It’s a subtle correction. ‘I’ve learned to spot it.’

  He doesn’t say anything. We stare down at the garden—it really is very beautiful. My body is still tingling from the way we came together. We are dynamite and flame. On our own, innocuous enough. But together...?

  We have no hope.

  ‘And yet the idea of sleeping with you holds definite appeal.’ I run my eyes across his handsome face, over his lips that drive me wild.

  ‘Sleeping isn’t part of the equation.’ He winks and, heaven help me, my body—all of it—groans.

  ‘Right.’ I smile. ‘And, you know, I wonder if we shouldn’t just...have fun together.’

  He expels a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for that.’

  But I’m still not convinced this is a good idea. I’m still terrified of everything that could go wrong.

  ‘How would this work? I mean, I really...it really has to be just sex. No strings.’

  ‘Yeah...’ He grins, scanning my face. ‘We can do that.’

  ‘But what if we can’t? What if one of us wants more?’

  He arches a brow. ‘We won’t.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  He shrugs. ‘If it makes you feel any better, we’ll put some ground rules in place.’

  ‘Ground rules?’ I nod slowly. It’s a good idea, but I can’t resist teasing him. ‘You’re disappointingly conservative for a rock star, aren’t you, Mr Ash?’

  ‘I’m afraid I might be,’ he says, with a wink that makes my tummy roll and my body vibrate.

  Nothing, I repeat, nothing about him is disappointing.

  ‘Would you find the conversation more acceptable if I do this?’

  And he kisses my neck, sending shoots of awareness through me. I nod, but coherent thought is becoming difficult. It’s worse when he drops his hand beneath my skirt and finds my heated core, sliding his fingers deep inside me. I
throb around him, groaning at the sweetness of the invasion.

  ‘You were saying...’ I whimper as pleasure builds, need intensifies.

  ‘Ground rules...’ The words are throaty.

  ‘Right.’

  I tilt my head back until it connects with the glass of the window. I am lost to pleasure once more. How can he do this to me? I read a Cosmo article years ago about the number of calories a woman burns when she comes. Was it sixty? A hundred? I’m going to need to up my carb intake while I’m fucking Ethan, that’s for sure.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ he asks, his lips brushing the words into my mouth.

  I shiver; it’s so sensual.

  ‘Fun,’ I grunt back as pleasure intensifies and thickens around me. ‘Just fun.’

  ‘No flowers? No sleepovers? No expectations beyond satisfaction?’ he teases. ‘Nothing serious?’

  ‘God, no. Fun.’ I dig my fingers into his hips. ‘Fuck, Ethan, I’m...’

  He withdraws and my eyes fly open, finding his. Outrage trembles inside me, but only for a moment—because then he’s crouching on his haunches and his mouth is against me, his tongue demanding that my pleasure continues.

  ‘Oh, God...’ My fingers dig into his shoulders now and all my weight is against the window.

  Please, don’t let it break.

  But would I even care? What a blissful way to go.

  ‘What else?’ he asks my clit, so that I can’t help but laugh.

  It’s quickly subdued by a keening cry of need. He’s so good at this. So good at everything.

  ‘It’s just temporary...’ I can hardly speak now. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to think. Feelings are carrying me away. ‘How long are you...’ I pause, trying to catch my breath ‘...in the States for?’

  ‘Two weeks.’

  ‘Okay.’ I nod, but I am losing my mind with pleasure. ‘That’s our end-date.’

  And that’s it. That’s all she wrote.

  I cannot form more words or thoughts or objections. I vibrate against the window and against him and he holds me tight, kisses me until the wave has calmed. He knows what I need; he expresses that knowledge with every movement of his body and his mouth.

  I am afraid and yet I am fearless. I am a contradiction in his arms, against his wall, in his house.

  And then he stands.

  ‘You’ve got yourself a deal.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘WHO THE FUCK is she?’

  I’m groggy, and it takes me a second even to recognise it’s Sienna’s voice coming from my phone.

  ‘Who is who?’ I rub a hand over my eyes and then flop back on the bed. ‘Sienna, it’s five o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘Who is the woman you’re with?’

  I think of Ally instantly and flip over, reaching for her on autopilot. She’s not there. Of course she isn’t.

  No sleepovers.

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure there’s a billion. I’m talking about the one on all the gossip sites today. With the red hair.’

  The photo. Taken the night we hooked up. It’s online?

  Curiosity has me putting my phone on speaker, so that I can load up a browser without cutting Sienna off.

  ‘Are you kidding me? You’re engaged. Why the hell do you care who I’m fucking?’

  Sienna’s sharp intake of breath is audible. ‘So you are fucking her?’

  Bingo. My gut clenches. You can’t see Ally’s face but it’s obviously her. There’s something so elegant about her, even in the paparazzi shot. Her long hair is tossed over one shoulder and her face is averted. My hand is clutched possessively around her.

  My eyes narrow. ‘Yeah. You’d better believe I am.’

  ‘Jeez, Ash. Classy.’

  ‘You can talk! You didn’t think you owed me a heads-up before you Tweeted the whole goddamned world with your engagement news?’

  She’s quiet. I wonder if she’s feeling guilty and then discount it. Sienna is selfish. Singularly so.

  ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’

  It’s something. But it’s not enough. This typifies our relationship. Her spectacularly bad behaviour followed by an almost-apology. Always insufficient, and yet I always let her get away with that.

  Not any more.

  ‘Damn straight. What were you thinking?’

  ‘We’d had a few bottles of Bolly,’ she murmurs. ‘I don’t think I really was thinking. Anyway, you’re no better.’

  ‘Because I’m sleeping with someone else? In the privacy of my hotel?’

  ‘Oh, don’t expect me to believe it’s just one girl. I’ve seen the way they chase after you. I imagine you’re engaged in nightly orgies by now.’

  I laugh. ‘If that’s what you want to imagine me doing, go right ahead.’

  An orgy would have nothing on what Ally offers.

  I lie back against the pillows and close my eyes. I remember the way she went down on me, her huge eyes looking up at me. My dick clenches.

  ‘You’re such a bastard...’ Sienna sniffs.

  ‘Yeah, well, just as well you don’t have to put up with me any more.’

  I disconnect the call and toss my phone aside. It’s far more fun to imagine Ally’s lips around my cock than it is to argue with Sienna.

  But the conversation has unsettled me. Our break-up was bad. No—it was so much worse than that.

  I have vague recollections of Sienna pitching a crystal vase at me as she shouted, and I remember saying awful things to her. Things I regret.

  We were both so angry.

  We were both aware that we’d been holding on to something that had at one time been good, but that had soured slowly. As if poison had been dripping into our relationship for years and we didn’t want to acknowledge it.

  Our final fight was proof of that.

  There had been no love left.

  I regret the way we ended it. Most of the time we were together it was okay, even good, and we knew each other in a unique way, both having gone from normality to immense fame almost overnight.

  Which means we should have known better than to take our fight into the street. Well, that was Sienna, actually, storming out in the middle of the afternoon, mascara running down her cheeks, bare feet, shouting at me as though the world needed to know our issues.

  Yeah, the break-up had been shit.

  I get up and pull on some boxers, moving to my guitar on autopilot and staring out at Manhattan.

  Things with Sienna are messed up, but that’s okay. Because what I’ve got going with Ally is just perfect for where I’m at. Fucking someone normal and undemanding. Someone who seems even less interested in the whole romantic dating bullshit than I am.

  No flowers.

  No dating.

  Just sex.

  With a reassuring end-date that takes all the Where are we going? crap out of the equation.

  Suddenly I’m as impatient as all hell to see her.

  So, I’ve been thinking...

  I send the text to Ally with a smile on my face, not expecting to hear back. It’s so early she’s probably still fast asleep.

  The idea fills my imagination very pleasantly.

  I place my phone down on the coffee table, beside my bare feet, and reach for my guitar. It’s never far from me when I’m working on new songs, and I’ve been doing that for a month in earnest.

  I begin to strum, and all I can think of is her smile.

  Ally.

  Her name whooshes out of me. I lean forward and scrawl lyrics in my own particular brand of can’t-be-fucked shorthand that will only ever be decipherable to me, note the chords, then lean back and stare out of the window, singing the lines over and again.

  My phone buzzes.

  Just in general? Or ab
out something specific. Because I think you should be worried if you’re ever *not* thinking.

  She puts a little kiss emoji at the end and it reminds me so much of her that my grin threatens to split my face.

  Oh, my thoughts are very, very specific.

  Three little dots appear, to show that she’s typing back, but then they disappear again. I grin, put the phone down and return to my guitar, continue playing. But after ten minutes, when she hasn’t replied, I’m impatient to hear from her.

  I pick the phone up and am about to start typing when a message swishes onto the screen.

  Specifically...?

  I laugh.

  Ten minutes for one word? Seriously?

  Her dots move frantically.

  Are you literally standing by your phone waiting for me to reply?

  Everything inside me tightens. This is fun. The kind of fun I haven’t had in...years?

  I think of Sienna with guilt. When did I stop finding her fun? Or is that normal after you’ve known someone a really long time?

  Yep. Aren’t you?

  I stare out of the window, waiting for her to reply. It doesn’t take long.

  My prayers are answered. She’s sent a photo of herself, a smiling photo taken as she...runs? Is she running? I pinch the picture. It looks to be a park somewhere. She has earphones in and a cap pulled low.

  Even like this, with no make-up, her face pink from exertion, she is so beautiful. I ache for her.

  Nice. How about you run my way next?

  I briefly question the wisdom of such an obvious bootie call but her response is immediate.

  I’ll be there in ten.

  Thank fuck.

  * * *

  Ethan Ash doesn’t walk. He saunters. He saunters like the rock ’n’ roll sex god he truly is.

  I watch him from my vantage point on the other side of the foyer of the Gramercy Park Hotel, and every sauntering sexy step he takes makes my temperature heat and my blood boil, so that by the time he stops in front of me I am a hot puddle of lava on the expensive leather seat.

  ‘Hey, you.’

  ‘Jesus. It should be illegal to be that sexy.’

  He bursts out laughing and I fear I’m crab-pink all over, colour heating my cheeks all the way to my hairline as I realise I’ve said the words out loud. I briefly question the sense in coming to him like this—straight from a run. Should I have gone home and showered first? Done my hair and make-up?