Burn Me Once

by Clare Connelly

  He sobers, taking pity on me. And he leans down. ‘Right back atcha.’

  The kiss he presses against my cheek is chaste. My body doesn’t get the memo, though, and every single cell inside me seems to vibrate and tremble and squeal in anticipation. With his lips beside my ear he whispers, the words husky, ‘You in Lycra is something I’m never gonna forget.’

  Desire pitches through me, rolling my stomach. I stand up on legs that are somewhat wobbly and almost collide with him. Almost? I want to collide with him. It’s only his quick movement that saves us from bumping together, and he puts a hand in the small of my back. It is a touch of possession and it sparks my blood.

  My eyes lift to his; in his face is the same heat as fills my body.

  ‘Shall we?’

  I nod, not sure I can speak in that moment.

  His grin is my further undoing. It spreads across his face and all the while his eyes hold mine and I am sinking, incapable of staying afloat.

  Another couple is waiting for the lift and they obviously recognise Ethan don’t-forget-I’m-a-celebrity Ash. I step away, my smile tight, my body language instantly businesslike.

  His teasing grin is all the indication I need that he has noticed.

  I stare straight ahead, ignoring the obvious looks of appraisal from the other woman. When the elevator doors open they move in ahead of us. I step to the back of the lift and stay there, while Ethan leans nonchalantly against the panel of buttons, a hint of amusement obvious in every single one of his features.

  ‘What?’ I say, as soon as they step out and we are alone.

  ‘You’re embarrassed to be seen with me?’

  ‘No.’ I force a smile. ‘There was a photo of us in the papers this morning.’

  ‘The papers?’ He frowns. ‘I knew it was online.’

  ‘It’s online?’

  My heart thumps. It’s okay. It’s okay. The woman in the picture doesn’t look like me. Only it’s not okay, because I can’t bear putting my mom and dad through yet another scandal.

  They’re definitely not over the whole Jeremy thing. I think they took it harder than I did. Not just that I’d been ‘the other woman’ but that I’d been a homewrecker too. He had kids, for Chrissakes.

  If they find out I’m in a purely sexual fling with a superstar like Ethan Ash they’ll actually disown me.

  ‘Mmm.’

  He closes the space between us and I stay where I am, my back to the wall. My breath feels heavy somehow, weighted in such a way that it’s dragged down instead of pushed out. His body presses against mine, but he doesn’t touch me with his hands. Those he uses to brace himself against the wall of the lift, one on either side of me. He is the cage but my desire is untameable. It fills the cube we are in, surrounding us completely like a dense fog.

  The doors open and he steps back from me, reaching for my hand and pulling me after him, out into the carpeted hallway. It’s deserted, thank God, because I don’t want to pull away from him again. We move quickly, the same silent force motivating our movements, making us step in haste.

  He slips the key into the door and then pushes it wide. ‘After you, Miss Douglas.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ash.’

  I step into the room and the table we first made love on—no, fucked on—is right in front of me. I walk towards it on autopilot, propping my hips against its edge, trailing my fingertips over the glass. Memories spike my blood. He’s watching me, and that knowledge makes me smile.

  He prowls towards me and lifts my baseball cap off my head. I briefly wonder how badly my hair is plastered to my head—particularly when his eyes continue their mapping of my features.

  He lifts both hands and cups my cheeks, then runs his hands back to the elastic band holding my thick mane in a ponytail. He pulls at it determinedly, his eyes focused on the job so that I am able to focus on him. On the thumb-print-sized divot in his chin. The little score between his brows. The colours in his eyes that have mesmerised me from the first moment I saw him.

  My breath escapes as a sigh and his lips twist in acknowledgement of the noise.

  His fingers find the hem at the bottom of my shirt and push it up, just enough for his fingertips to glance my flesh. His touch is strangely reverent, as though he is worshipping at the altar of me. It has to be said that if I were ever granted deity status I would totally spend my time doing this.

  His eyes roam my face, but he says nothing. He just stares at me for a long, cold second, and then his fingers find me again, and this time they lift my shirt all the way up, over my face, discarding it on the table top.

  I’m wearing a neon green sports bra and it’s glued to my skin. He slides his fingers under the elastic at the back and loosens it, but before he attempts to remove it he kisses me. It is a kiss of such depth and need that my gut twists. It is a kiss of ownership, of punishment, of anger and of conquest. Oh, and passion, too. So much passion.

  I wrap my legs around his waist, holding him tight. His cock is hard. I feel him through my clothes and I moan into his mouth...a moan that must convey everything I want, because he picks me up, holding me to him, carrying me through the suite towards the bedroom.

  He eases me to the ground and removes my bra at the same time, sliding it over my head. I laugh as it catches my hair.

  He doesn’t.

  His mood is serious.

  Focused.

  A stone drops through me.

  Is this about wanting me? Or wanting her? The night we met, he was furious with her. And he wanted me. For me? For myself? Or was it payback? Did he want to hurt her by fucking me?

  So what? I remind myself. This is exactly what I want. Sex. Hot sex. No-strings sex.

  It is a swift coming together. We fuck like two people who have been kept apart for months. There is a furious hunger in our movements that burns brightly and explodes swiftly.

  He holds me tight afterwards, holds me against his chest, kisses the top of my head and strokes my hair.

  * * *

  ‘So, break it down for me. What’s all the fuss about?’

  He slides another piece of peach between my lips. I take it, savouring the juicy sweetness without looking at him.

  ‘We’ve watched two episodes. How can you not get it?’

  ‘Maybe I’ve been a bit distracted.’

  He reaches over and catches a dribble of peach juice that’s running down my chin. My cheeks flush.

  I sigh with mock exasperation. ‘It’s just so angsty. I mean, he’s been away at war, and everyone thought he was dead. His poor fiancé has had to grieve his loss and move on with her life—which she’s done, by deciding to marry, let’s face it, an obviously very poor second choice. Then he comes back to town!’

  He’s staring at me as though I’ve begun to talk in a foreign language.

  ‘It’s essentially a fight between good and evil! It’s a drama, and, yes, there’s romance, but it’s so... Oh, forget it.’

  He shrugs. ‘It’s just kind of boring.’

  ‘How can you not get it?’ I’m outraged. It is so not boring.

  He slices another piece of peach, and though I’m facing forward I can see him in the periphery of my vision, his fingers lean and insistent, the paring knife wielded expertly.

  I turn to him as he lifts the fruit, my lips parted. He slides it in but I wrap my lips around his finger, holding it in my mouth a moment while my eyes meet his.

  ‘Plus,’ I say quietly, pulling away, ‘Aidan Turner is seriously hot.’

  His brows shoot upwards. ‘This guy?’

  ‘Uh, yeah.’

  I turn back to the screen, smiling to myself as I hear the cogs turning.

  ‘I mean, sure...if brooding and honourable is your thing.’

  ‘I think it’s kind of every woman’s thing,’ I say without looking at him.


  ‘Careful, Alicia.’

  My expression is one of innocence. ‘What’s wrong?’

  He straddles me quickly, surprising me, and holds the last piece of peach to my mouth. I bite around it, but he pulls his fingers away this time, disposing of the stone and then reaching for the remote. He silences Poldark as he crushes his lips to mine. I taste peach and imagine he does too.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong.’ He drags my lower lip between his teeth. ‘I just don’t want to share you with Poldark.’

  I grin against his mouth even as a warning bell bleats in my brain. He’s just joking. Being silly. Distracting me from a show he doesn’t like. And I’m more than willing to be distracted.

  * * *

  ‘Stay the night.’

  I’m on the brink of sleep.

  Time has ceased to have meaning. We have been in his bed for hours. Talking. Dozing. Kissing. My body is an odd mix of weightlessness and heaviness. I am satiated and needy.

  ‘What day is it?’

  I’m only half joking. The week has passed so quickly that I can barely remember where I’m at.

  ‘Saturday. Tomorrow’s Sunday.’

  He traces a finger down my nose, following the curve, lifting it over the small jump at its tip and then pressing it to my lips. I kiss it and he smiles beside me, then runs his finger onwards, over my chin to the cleft between my breasts.

  Goosebumps scatter across my flesh.

  ‘Ally?’

  ‘Mmm?’ I rouse myself to pay better attention.

  ‘Stay tonight.’

  ‘No sleepovers, remember?’

  ‘Mmm... But you feel so good.’

  He roves his hand over my naked breast, finding my nipple and circling it until I suck in a shuddering breath.

  There is danger in spending the night. I know I must go. And I will. Soon.

  I am no longer capable of thought, speech or staving off exhaustion. My eyes sweep shut.

  I fall asleep with his hand on my breast and memories of him in my mind.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Where are you?

  I PUSH MY phone back into my bag without answering, determinedly turning my attention to the flowers before me.

  Stalls line the footpath, but I have my favourite, and I am nothing if not faithful. I select two bunches of tulips—yellow and pink—and hand over some cash from my back pocket. I cradle them against my chest as I weave through the markets, pausing to buy a pretzel and a coffee which I must juggle in one hand.

  It’s worth it. The pretzel is warm and soft, the dough salty on the outside and almost sweet within. The pretzel is a perfect metaphor for New York, this city that I found so impenetrable at first and which I now adore.

  I have been wandering the streets for over an hour, wondering that same thing. I feel my phone buzz, but have no choice but to ignore it. My hands are now full.

  It will wait.

  Just sex.

  No flowers.

  No sleepovers.

  No romance, no commitment.

  No hassles.

  No potential for heartbreak.

  I smile resolutely and weave my way through people and stalls, puppies and children, and turn into my own street. Familiarity makes my heart skip a beat or two. I tell myself I am happy to be here, that I want to be in my own home rather than in his hotel room.

  Yesterday was fun, but staying there again today would be habit-forming, and I’m not prepared to do that. I tell myself it was smart to sneak out while he was asleep, without so much as kissing his cheek for fear that it would wake him, and he would kiss me back, and then all my good intentions would be scarpered.

  I reach the front door at the same time as Kelvin Monteith from the upstairs apartment is leaving; he holds it open and offers to carry the flowers up for me. I shake my head and climb the stairs, jiggling my key into the slot and pushing the door inwards.

  Eliza’s still asleep, but Cassie is in the kitchen, fixing breakfast. I can smell the bacon the second I step inside.

  ‘Morning!’ I call cheerfully, waving the tulips in her face. ‘Aren’t these beautiful?’

  She arches a brow and taps her foot pointedly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Have you been with him again?’

  I shake my head. And then I shrug. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s three times this week?’

  Heat suffuses my cheeks. ‘Who’s counting?’

  She watches me for a long moment and then expels a sigh. ‘Ally...’

  ‘I know.’

  I lay the flowers down on the bench and stretch on my tiptoes to rescue a glass jar from above the fridge. I half-fill it with water, and am about to stuff the flowers in when Cassie retrieves the jar and tips the water out. As she begins to wipe the inside of it I note the visible watermark with a wry smile. Trust Cassie to see such a small detail.

  Cassie and Eliza were with me at my lowest ebb. Their concern is natural. But I am not going to be hurt again.

  ‘This is different.’

  ‘Yeah, well...duh. There can’t be two men in the world as misogynistic and narcissistic as Jeremy.’

  We all read a lot of psychology self-help books after the Jeremy incident. He stood as a cautionary tale for all of us. I have no doubt he will move into urban myth in time. Bastard.

  And yet, despite all the metaphorical wounds he inflicted, I still rail against an instinct to defend him. Such was his power over me, I suppose, that even now I am somewhat in his thrall. How can I hate him but not want others to do so?

  ‘Ethan’s nice,’ I say instead, definitely not adding that I’m pretty sure he’s using me to get over Sienna Di Giorgio.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Cassie’s caution is understandable. ‘Just...be careful.’

  I nod, and my eyes meet hers reassuringly. I can’t begrudge her concern. Cassie and Eliza had to scrape me up off the floor after Jeremy—they had to wipe my broken heart from the walls of our lives.

  ‘I really, really am fine, Cass.’

  After all, what could be more cautious than contractually agreeing to the terms of our arrangement prior to undertaking an affair?

  ‘Okay.’

  She reaches forward and bites my pretzel. Such is our friendship that I don’t complain, even though I live for these damned things. I hand it to her and sip my coffee, and when I think she’s distracted by turning the bacon I fish my phone from my pocket and swipe it open.

  Be still my beating heart.

  It’s a photo of him. He’s wearing a simple white singlet and it looks like that favourite pair of jeans. He’s pulling a confused face and the rumpled bed is behind him. In his hand he’s holding a peach. My gut clenches.

  Come back?

  I stare at the photo for several more seconds. The slick of desire is unmistakable. I enjoy its possession of my body because I feel it with the certainty that I will be with him again. Soon.

  When I have proved to myself that I can stay away.

  * * *

  Being cat-called on the streets of New York is frustratingly common. So when I step out of work Tuesday evening and hear a wolf-whistle I straighten my spine and keep going.

  ‘Hey, sexy!’

  The voice is familiar. I stop walking and turn slowly, my eyes catching the limousine and Grayson immediately. The window is down just far enough for me to make out Ethan’s hair and eyes and it’s all I need. My tummy flops.

  I pull on my handbag strap and walk towards the car. ‘Hey.’

  ‘Your chariot awaits, m’lady.’

  I arch a brow. Emotions war inside me. Pleasure at seeing him, sure. But also worry. Worry that this isn’t part of our deal.

  ‘My chariot can go on its way,’ I say. ‘I like to walk.’
/>
  ‘Ah.’ He nods slowly. ‘But I have a surprise.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I don’t like surprises.’

  ‘I think you’ll like this one.’

  He pushes the door open an inch. I’m tempted to walk away, but I’ve stayed away from him for two nights, so I’ve sort of proved myself capable of handling this...haven’t I?

  ‘What’s the surprise?’

  I slide into the limousine and instantly I’m overpowered by his proximity. The smell of him, the possibility that I’ll soon be touching him.

  I buckle up in the seat beside him. ‘Ethan?’

  ‘You’ll see.’ He grins cryptically, then leans closer. ‘You look good enough to eat.’

  Grayson is behind the wheel. He starts the engine and then pulls out into the traffic. I watch the buildings pass in a blur, curiosity as to where we’re going lasting the entire drive.

  Well, almost the entire drive. I recognise the approach to the MoMA a few blocks out. I have spent so much of my time here since arriving in NYC that it is almost like a second home.

  I love it.

  But I do not love the idea of being here now.

  Not when Ethan Ash hasn’t kissed me in days. Not when Ethan Ash hasn’t fucked me in days. Not when we could be back in his hotel, doing all the things I’ve been fantasising about all afternoon.

  ‘Well?’

  I step out of the car, staring up at the building with grudging admiration. From this vantage point it is modern and it is beautiful, but my favourite place to admire it from is two blocks away, from where you can see the higgledy-piggledy arrangement of the various levels, all precariously balanced on top of one another. Like a three-year-old might build a high-rise.

  I could write a thesis on what that incautious, irreverent juxtaposition means. The balancing of lines and order with chaos and random-seeming placement. The way it makes sense even when it shouldn’t.

  ‘You look at this place like I’m looking at you,’ he observes with sensual heat.

  ‘Like I’m a mix of order and disarray?’

  ‘Something like that.’ His wink is a flirtatious whip across my spine. ‘Shall we...?’