Burn Me Once

by Clare Connelly

  Desire to be alone with him is fighting a battle—and losing—with my love for this place. I nod and move towards the entrance, the pull of the gallery strengthening with every step.

  Grayson has procured us some kind of special entry. We don’t queue, and a museum staffer greets us. She is a stunning young woman, with caramel skin and chestnut hair, enormous brown eyes and an impressive cleavage barely contained by her museum uniform. Her eyes cleave to Ethan in a way that makes me think she wishes it were her body, not just her gaze.

  An unpleasant tang of adrenalin flavours my mouth. My sense of anticipation is somewhat dimmed by the prospect of being accompanied by anyone other than Ethan but that’s not why I stiffen.

  Ethan Ash is seriously hot.

  Hot in that way that is unusual and distracting. Hypnotic. He is also hugely famous. And he’s here with me. But in the space of a little over a week he won’t be. In a little over a week he’ll be with someone else. Making love to someone else. Charming the pants off them with his husky voice and smile. Someone like this obviously very willing museum staffer.

  My jealousy is misplaced, and yet it’s real.

  When he dismisses the woman with, ‘Miss Douglas is an art expert. I’ll be fine in her capable hands,’ I am childishly relieved.

  ‘Oh, sure, no problem. But you just shout out if you need anything at all, okay?’

  ‘So, is this how it is for you?’ I ask as we walk away. ‘All special entry and people tripping over themselves to serve you?’

  He grins at me and reaches for my hand, squeezing it in a way that speaks once more of intimacy and closeness. I squeeze back.

  He grins. ‘Nah.’

  ‘Nah?’

  ‘Where to?’

  We pause outside the sculpture garden and I nod towards the stairs. ‘Contemporary, of course.’

  ‘Why of course?’ he asks, taking my lead and walking with me.

  ‘I like to start at the end and work my way backwards.’

  I smile up at him and I’m shy suddenly. It’s inexplicable; I don’t like it. I look away, focusing on the wall ahead. This isn’t a first date. It’s an aberration. A distraction.

  ‘It’s easier to make sense of contemporary art in some ways. It speaks to people because it fits within the sphere of our current tastes and wants.’

  ‘Not me,’ he says with a shake of his head. ‘Give me the Impressionists any day.’

  My lips twist in acknowledgement but I try to hide my cynicism.

  He sees it regardless. ‘What? You don’t approve?’

  I select my words with care. ‘The Impressionist movement is probably the most adored of all.’

  ‘So I can’t like it because everyone else does?’

  ‘You can like whatever you like,’ I demur. ‘I’m just saying that its accessibility gives it a head start. Sunflowers. Lily pads. They’re borrowed from so heavily in popular culture. You can see Monet splashed through airport advertising. People don’t necessarily like the Impressionists so much as recognise them.’

  He clutches a hand to his chest in mock pain and stops walking.

  ‘What?’

  I look around. Luckily no one is watching us.

  ‘You wound me,’ he says with exaggerated complaint.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I grin, showing I feel no such thing. ‘I’m always unstintingly honest.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’ He sobers almost instantly and catches my hand. ‘Let me show you.’

  I resist the urge to point out I’m supposed to be giving him the tour, and willingly go with him, up several more flights of stairs, until a sign points us towards the Impressionists wing.

  Despite everything I have just said I pause as we step into the hall, instantly overpowered by the beauty and profound uniqueness of each and every piece before us.

  Ethan looks at me, and then continues to move slowly, skimming his eyes over each piece of art until finally he stops in front of a lesser-known Matisse.

  Woman Reading, the caption proclaims.

  ‘This was the first painting I ever loved.’

  I look from him to the painting in surprise. ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s something about it that speaks to me. Perhaps it’s the way her back is turned. The whole painting is almost disdainful. The composition confusing. And yet the way I’m kind of...excluded makes me want to intrude. To tap her on the shoulder; make her look at me.’

  He is describing a sense that is so perfectly what I think Matisse was aiming for that I want to kiss him.

  Art-speak is not something everyone is comfortable with, and the fact that Ethan über-sexy Ash can do it so well is incredibly desirable.

  ‘That’s good,’ I say, wondering at the catch of feeling in my voice. ‘Art should create that kind of emotion in you. An emotional response is all that matters—no matter what inspires it.’

  ‘So I’m allowed to like the Impressionists again?’ he teases, all cerebral philosophising over and done with.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  And so, amongst the Van Goghs, Mondrians, Monets and Seurats, we begin our tour of the MoMa...

  ‘Okay,’ he says after we’ve finished two full floors. ‘I showed you mine. What’s yours?’

  ‘My what?’ I’m genuinely confused.

  ‘Your favourite piece in here?’

  * * *

  Holy crap, she’s hotter than Hades when she’s talking about art.

  I thought I might have lost her with my waffling on about Woman Reading, but if anything it spurred her on. As though she thought she was speaking to a kindred spirit—someone who understands her love of art.

  And, Jesus, listening to her, I think I might.

  Ally Douglas could explain anything to me and I’d be somewhat spellbound. I stare at her as she discusses the way light and shade have been used to create an apparent three-dimensionality to the simple painting, but all I can think about is the light and shade in her face, and the multi-dimensionality in her eyes as the late-afternoon sun cuts through the glass and settles freely on her face.

  I think about the light and shade in her voice, too—the way it pitches and rolls with emotion as she moves along the exhibit, teaching me effortlessly. Not because she wants me to learn, or because she thinks I should know this stuff, but because she can’t help herself.

  Art is her passion.

  And she feels passionately.

  I listen to her patiently even as I am burning up. We reach the end of the display and there is only a red fire alarm on the wall. I want to tell her how beautiful she is. I want to tell her she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

  It’s not just that. I want to do more of this. I like being out with her. Holding her hand. I like the idea of taking her to dinner. I want her to come to my concert and to be waiting backstage for me.

  The arbitrary boundaries we’ve insisted on are annoying me now, and I know why.

  I don’t like it that Ally is making an art form out of pushing me away, walking away from me when it suits her. I have an insatiable need to unsettle the ease with which she does that. To unsettle her a little bit. Why? To make her forget about our rules? Just for a while?

  Stuff it.

  I lean closer and murmur, ‘You’re beautiful.’

  Her head whips up to mine so fast I briefly worry she might have dislocated something. She stares at me but says nothing. I could get lost in those damned eyes of hers.

  Then, as if reading my mind, she blinks and looks away, withdrawing herself from me.

  ‘That’s it.’ Her voice is gravelled.

  I can’t take my eyes off her face immediately, but she lifts a finger and points and I am drawn to the gesture. I follow the direction until my eyes land on a portrait across the room.

  It is of a woman with pale skin and rust-colou
red hair. It’s painted in profile and there’s an enigmatic twist to her lips that prompts curiosity. I reach for Ally’s hand, still outstretched, and move us towards the picture.

  ‘Your favourite?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The admission is softly spoken.

  I look down at her; she’s blushing. Is she annoyed with me?

  Objectively, Ally is stunning. Always. But when her face flushes with colour she glows with all the warmth in the world and she is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Even in the midst of this art she is...intriguing. A mix of intelligence, maturity and vulnerability.

  An ache spreads through me, pervasive and hungry. There are too many people around for me to do what I want—to wrap her in my arms and kiss her as though my literal survival depends upon it.

  ‘Why?’

  She bites down on her lip and her eyes flick first to me and then away. ‘Oh, I just really like it.’

  She pushes the conversation away with tangible determination.

  ‘They’re going to be closing soon. We should go.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  I FEEL AS THOUGH the lift isn’t moving.

  Ethan is beside me, and we are being pulled upwards by cables and knots, but I need him. I need him to fuck me. Not to tell me I’m beautiful. Not to wander through the MoMA with me, looking at pictures and listening to me explain them.

  That’s breaking the rules!

  What the hell were we thinking?

  We have to fuck, and now, to remind us both of all the things we want from this—and all the things we don’t.

  When the doors finally open I can’t help but groan my relief. He grins at me and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me into his side, leading me down the corridor towards his room. The second we are inside I launch myself at him, holding him tighter, seeking his mouth.

  He seeks mine back. Our need is mutual. Urgent. Inflammatory.

  ‘Fuuuuck.’ He rips himself away and stares at me like he’s trying to make sense of this, of me, of our need. ‘Fuck.’ He shakes his head. ‘What the hell are you doing to me?’

  I don’t want to talk. Even about sex and our insatiable need for it. I push myself against him, kissing him, pushing at his shirt, and he answers in kind, lifting my dress over my ass, higher, breaking the kiss just enough to undress me completely.

  His fingers are demanding as they slide into the waistband of my underpants, pushing down, curving around my ass, and then he lifts me easily, as though I weigh nothing. He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist, and his kiss is warming me up from inside. He lies me on the sofa but stays on top of me, and his kiss, the weight of his body, the roll of his hips—it is everything.

  I arch my back, seeking him, needing him, but there are too many clothes in the way.

  ‘Need...’ I whimper, snapping his belt open and pulling it out of his jeans.

  He reaches down and undoes his button and zip and kicks his legs out of the pants, barely breaking our kiss. His lips move over mine. His tongue is daring me, daring mine, taunting me, making me forget all my reasons for keeping this light. Making me want more, want to beg him to stay in my life in some capacity even when I know that temporary is all we are—all that makes sense.

  Also all I should want.

  I run my fingers up his back and he grunts; I think he swears but the ringing bell of desire is all I can hear. And our own urgent breaths, tangling together, the sound of the impatient passion that defines us.

  He hums in my ear, and I make a sound a bit like a moan. He is so sexy—his voice so beautiful, so raw, so famous. It hits me then, for the first time, that I’m sleeping with a celebrity. Someone so famous that everyone in the world must know who he is.

  And I pull back a little—just enough to see his face, to look into his eyes.

  Fuck. What am I doing?

  My heart trips over a little, thumping hard against my ribs, and my stomach swirls with emotions I don’t even want to think about analysing. Recognition pulses through me. Why has it taken me so long to realise that he’s not just Ethan? To remember that he’s Ethan Ash, superstar?

  ‘What is it?’

  His gravelly voice travels through me, finding every space inside me and warming it up. Superheating me from the inside out.

  I shake my head, but a frown lingers on my lips. I kiss him to chase it away, losing myself once more in the sensual charge that besieges us both.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  I nod, jerkily. ‘Fuck me.’

  His laugh is without humour. ‘Alicia...?’

  Oh, great. Now he goes and brings my real name into it.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, digging my fingers into his hips, dragging him down against me, lifting myself up in a wordless invitation.

  But he breaks away from me and for a second I think he’s not going to give me what I need. I am empty and bereft. But he returns a short moment later, a condom in his hand and a smile on his lips.

  ‘You, Alicia Douglas, are a mystery.’

  My heart twists. ‘A good mystery?’

  ‘A fantastic one.’

  He winks and my throat is dry suddenly.

  Keep it light. Keep it fun.

  I reach up and lace my fingers behind his head, pulling him down, greedily seeking his mouth, taking everything he offers and still demanding more. There is nothing light about this, even while it is the most fun I’ve ever had.

  My need for him—and I’m not blind or stupid enough to pretend I don’t need him—is all-consuming. If I’m not careful it is going to take over, and I will no longer have autonomy.

  I have to fuck him and go.

  I push him angrily, needily, desperately, and together we roll off the couch onto the carpeted floor. He laughs, but I’m ripping the condom out of his hands and tearing it open, sliding it from its packet and pushing it onto him. His eyes are watching me, and it makes my fingers shake. I remove my own underwear quickly, then straddle him, leaning forward to kiss him at the same time I take him deep inside me.

  Passion tears through us and we are fast, we are hungry, we are desperate. I move my hips, but he makes a growl of frustration and rolls us so that he is on top of me, the weight of his body a heavenly pleasure. I wrap my legs around his waist but he catches my calves and lifts them higher. I can’t contain the furious pleasure that is taking over me. I lie back, my eyes squeezed shut as flames lick my nerves, making me tremble and sweat.

  He stills and I groan, twisting my hips.

  ‘Look at me.’

  The command is husky, and he accompanies it with fingers that press under my chin, pulling my face towards him, angling me so that I am facing him.

  ‘Look at me,’ he says again, and I realise my eyes are still squeezed shut.

  I blink them open and regret it immediately. It is as though I have been stabbed. Something unpleasant and sharp thrusts into my chest—something I don’t recognise yet but know I don’t want. I look over his shoulder but he shakes his head.

  ‘I want to see you come.’

  ‘You will,’ I whisper, knowing that the wave is about to crash. Any minute.

  He pushes deeper and I draw in an unsteady breath, digging my fingernails into my palms.

  ‘Let me see you.’

  I don’t know what he means. I look to him for clarification and our eyes lock. He moves inside me, not looking away, and I don’t look away either because suddenly I can’t. There are invisible forces at work and they compel me to be brave even when I’m running from this feeling.

  This perfect, perfect torment.

  Inexplicably, tears threaten to moisten my eyes. I blink, but still I look at him. And I fall. I fall off the edge. There is nothing to hold, nothing to save my fall. I am weightless in the air—just me, my pleasure, no gravity, nothing.

  I’m sure he sees this,
because he’s watching me so closely, and because he kisses me differently as I tremble in his arms. A kiss of warmth rather than heat. Of understanding and acceptance. I kiss him back.

  What else can I do?

  He moves inside me slowly, letting muscles that are squeezing him frantically return to their normal state, and then he thrusts hard, so that I cry out, and we are falling together this time, holding hands, riding the same wave of pleasure at the same time. I cry his name into his mouth over and over again. Not Ethan Ash, because he is just Ethan again. Ethan who makes me feel as I never knew I could.

  Ethan who is mine. Not the world’s.

  Though he is. I know that.

  But like this, right here, he is mine.

  And I am his.

  The thought rattles through me as though I am an empty barn and it is tumbleweed. It rocks me to my core.

  I am no one’s.

  I stiffen beneath him and press my fingers into his chest. I angle my head away.

  ‘You are fucking amazing,’ he says. ‘This is amazing.’

  ‘It’s not me,’ I say seriously.

  ‘I think it must be.’

  He kisses the tip of my nose and my gut twists. I must flee from this tempting perfection before it sucks me under and robs me of breath and sanity altogether.

  ‘I should go.’

  His laugh is husky. ‘I’m still inside you.’

  He throbs and my breath catches in my throat. Heat suffuses my cheeks.

  ‘I know.’ With great effort I make my voice light. Amused.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  He pulls away from me, though, straightening and then standing, striding through the hotel room towards the bathroom. I watch him go, my eyes hungrily devouring this aspect of him—his beautiful, naked body.

  He emerges a minute later, a towel wrapped low around his waist. He strides to the phone and picks it up. ‘Ethan Ash. Give me Room Service.’

  I prop myself on my elbows, knowing I should make an effort to get dressed, but enjoying watching him too much. I’ll move soon, I tell myself.

  He turns to face me; our eyes lock. I am lost once more. I can feel him inside me even though he is across the room. The phantom of his being with me is a powerful, beautiful thing.