Why was she telling him this? She hadn’t told anyone this story—not because she was ashamed of having grown up with no money, but because she’d been so horrible to her mother. More than a decade and a half later, guilt over her behaviour lingered.
‘She gave me a choice. Give up dancing and she would quit her job at the school—because that’s what it was paying for. Otherwise, if I wanted to keep dancing, she had to keep working two jobs.’ She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. ‘So I gave up dancing for a week.’
‘You can’t blame yourself that. How old were you? Ten? You were just a kid.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever hurt her as much as I did then.’ She shook her head, amazed that it felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. ‘I wish I could take it back.’
‘I’m sure she knows how you feel.’
‘I hope so. She gave up so much for me to be able to continue dancing. She hardly ever came to my competitions or exams because she was always working, but she never complained.’ She let out a hollow laugh. ‘Not once.’
‘She never gave up?’
‘Nope.’ She shook her head. ‘Which means I can’t give up.’
‘Sounds like you got a lot of your tenacity from her.’
The tenderness in his voice sparked her insides, lighting up her whole body—as if he had a direct ‘on’ switch to her nervous system. Her hands were fluttering in her lap. The desire to reach out and touch him made her fingers tingle. If she didn’t put some distance between them—and fast—she’d do something stupid.
‘Thanks for the drink.’
She went to hop off her stool but Brodie’s hand came down on her bare thigh. His fingers skimmed over her knee, touching the hem of the T-shirt. The touch was so light she could easily convince herself that she was imagining things. Despite her brain shouting out warnings, she didn’t want this to be a dream.
‘Is it wrong that I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about you?’ he asked.
His bare torso was the only thing she could look at. Broad shoulders, the ripple of muscle at his abdomen, the V that dipped below his cotton pyjama bottoms. He would be naked underneath them. She could tell from the inadequate way the thin fabric concealed the length of him.
Her breath hitched, and the sudden flutter of her heart had nothing to do with panic. ‘You were the one who wanted to go to sleep.’
His hand inched up, the tips of his fingers slipping under her hem of the T-shirt. Each millimetre his hand travelled stoked the fire low in her belly, stirred the tension in her centre. She pressed her thighs together, rocking gently against the stool in the hope that it would ease the need in her.
It didn’t.
Nothing would ease the need except him. He was the only solution to her problem, the only cure for her ailments. In that moment she was raw. Exposing her past had opened up something within her—a cavernous hunger long buried by insecurities and fear. He’d shown her it was safe to be who she was, to open up and allow herself to be vulnerable. She wanted nothing more than to wipe away the old hurt with new pleasures. To erase the parts of herself that clung to bad memories, to be a new person.
‘You were the one who wanted to figure out what loopholes I might use to make a move on you,’ he said, eyes blackened with desire.
‘Have you thought of any yet? Because I could use a loophole right about now.’
CHAPTER NINE
IT WAS ALL the invitation he needed. Willpower was a fragile thing, easily overridden by blazing attraction, pent-up sexual tension, and too many dirty dreams. Could he take her into his bed a second time, knowing that it wasn’t going anywhere? Knowing that he wouldn’t let it go anywhere because his life didn’t have room for her?
‘Brodie?’
A plump lower lip was being dragged through her teeth, and the desperation in her voice urged the increased thumping of his heart.
Even if he’d wanted to pretend he wasn’t interested he didn’t have the opportunity. She jumped down from her stool and stood between his legs, her hands finding the rigid muscles in his thighs, brushing the aching hardness of his erection.
‘We’re friends.’ He pushed off his stool and moved into the kitchen, opening the freezer door and pretending to look for something.
‘Friends who have the hots for each other.’ She echoed his words with a cheeky smile.
The cold of the freezer wasn’t making him any less hard or any less horny. In fact it had only drawn his eyes to a chilled bottle of vodka. He wrapped his hand around the neck, savouring the ice-cold glass against his heated palm. A cold shower would have been better, but getting naked might prove dangerous.
‘Tell you what,’ she said, reaching past him and grabbing the bottle out of his hand. ‘If you can drink a shot of this off me and still not want to sleep with me, I’ll let you go back to bed.’
He slammed the freezer door shut and turned, resting his back against it. ‘You’ll let me?’
‘Yes.’ She unscrewed the bottle. ‘I’ll let you. And I won’t mention it in the morning—or ever again.’
‘Why are you suddenly trying to seduce me with body shots when before you were more concerned about setting up barriers?’ He raked a hand through his hair and tried not to think about how naked she was under his T-shirt.
‘Why the psychoanalysis?’ She raised a brow. ‘Can’t a girl change her mind?’
‘I have a rule about sleeping with my friends.’
‘What happened to that rule last night?’ She smirked. ‘You didn’t seem to be too worried about rules then. Or are you afraid that you won’t be able to say no after your little drink?’
She knew how to fire up his competitive streak—and she did have a point. He hadn’t been all that worried about his rule last night. But the rule existed for a reason. Sleeping with her would be messy in both the best and worst ways. It would mean dealing with the awkward aftermath and potentially losing their friendship if things went pear-shaped. He’d made an exception for Chantal because he’d wanted to get her out of his system, but now he was caught between taking the safe route and taking what he wanted.
That backfired, didn’t it? Man up—do the shot and then go to bed.
‘Fine.’ He grabbed the bottle from her grip and located a shot glass.
As he turned around Chantal was slowly peeling off his T-shirt. The white lace scrap covering her sex was revealed first, then a flat bronzed plane of stomach, two perfectly formed breasts, collarbones and a long mane of dark hair as she whipped the T-shirt off. He’d need a drink now. His tongue felt dry and heavy in his mouth.
‘Ready?’ She hoisted herself onto the bench.
‘You still have to tell me why the sudden change of heart.’ With a shaking hand he poured vodka into the shot glass.
‘Maybe I realised that I should be grateful for the things I have, no matter how tough it is right now.’ She lay back and stared intently at a spot on the roof, lower lip between her teeth.
He’d got to her with the story about his sister. Though he was hoping she’d apply it more to cutting herself some slack and persisting with her dance career—not to mention leaving that trashy bar—rather than to jumping back into bed with him.
‘And you’re grateful for having sex with me?’
‘I’m grateful for orgasms.’ Her head tilted so she could look at him. ‘It’s been a long time since I let myself have any fun.’
‘It is fun, isn’t it?’ He stepped closer, smoothing a hand over her stomach. ‘Just a bit of fun—nothing more.’
He poured the vodka into her belly button, the excess liquid spilling out onto her stomach. She let out a sharp cry at the coldness but he dropped his head and sucked, lashing his tongue across her belly and catching the liquid before it spilled onto the bench. It burned for a second, and then a smooth warmth spread through him.
The alcohol mingled with the taste of her warm skin. He ran his tongue down to the edge of her underwear, watching the slick trail h
e left behind. Her fingers thrust into his hair as he snapped at the waistband with his teeth, a low groan rumbling from deep inside her. He should have pulled away then, but the vodka felt good. It softened his edges, warmed his limbs. It made it easier to forget that sleeping with her was a bad idea.
A tasty, satisfying, perfect bad idea.
‘Don’t worry—I don’t expect anything.’ Her voice had become rough, husky. ‘A bit of fun is exactly what I need. No strings, no obligation.’
‘So you’re not going to fall for me?’
The scratch of her lace underwear against his tongue sent a shiver through him. He pressed his lips to the peak of her sex and was rewarded with a gasp and the sharp bite of her nails against his scalp.
‘You wish.’
Smooth skin beckoned to him. Hooking a finger beneath the waistband, he peeled her underwear down to mid-thigh, trapping her legs and preventing them from opening. His lips found the bare smooth skin of her centre, pressing down with agonising slowness. A quick swipe of his tongue had her hips bucking against him.
‘This is cruel… and unusual.’ Her hands dug deeper into his hair, wrenching his head up. ‘I can’t move properly.’
‘Anticipation, Chantal. Just go with it.’
He grabbed her wrist and put her hand down by her hip, holding on so she couldn’t move. His other hand teased her, his thumb rubbing against the sensitive bud of her clitoris in slow, circular movements. His tongue followed, parting her so he could claim her most sensitive spot between his lips. Her movement was restricted by the underwear holding her prisoner and she writhed against him in unfulfilled need.
‘Please…’ she panted. Her eyes had rolled back; her mouth was slack with pleasure. Her hair trailed over the side of the bench, brushing against the kitchen cupboards as she moved.
The sight of her laid out like an extravagant dessert was almost enough to send him over. He wanted to taste every inch of her, keep her begging while he feasted. He released her from her lacy bindings and his fingers found her hot and wet. His mouth came up, capturing a bronzed nipple as she squirmed, grinding again his hand until her cries peaked.
She shouted his name over and over, until the syllables jumbled together into an incoherent decree of passion and release. Shock waves ran through her and he withdrew his hand slowly, gently. His mouth found hers, his tongue parting her lips and bringing her back to the moment.
‘Still think I’m cruel?’ he murmured against her mouth, sliding a hand beneath her neck to lift her into a sitting position.
She faced him, wrapping her legs around his waist. Heat enveloped him as her hand slid down the front of his pants and stroked his erection. She caressed him—long, slow movements designed to make him want something out of reach.
‘I think you’ve got magic hands,’ he said.
Hair tickled his chest as she rested her head against him, still touching him. He pressed into her hand, gasping at the sharp flare of pleasure that forced his eyes shut.
‘Brodie?’
Olive eyes met his, the black of her pupils wide. Her tongue swiped along his lower lip, the taste of her tempting him.
‘I want you inside me. Now.’
Her hands tugged down his pants, exposing him to the warmth of her thighs. He lifted her from the bench and carried her to the bedroom. They landed on the bed, her body pinned beneath his, and he reached out to his drawer and withdrew a condom. Sheathing himself, he plunged into her. His mouth slanted over hers, hot, demanding. He savoured her heat and tightness until she couldn’t hold on.
Her muscles clenched around him—thighs around his waist, arms around his neck. He couldn’t hold back, couldn’t stop the desire to drown in her warm skin and open mouth. Burying his face against her hair, he brought her close to the edge again. She shook, holding on as if she were about to fly away.
‘Let go,’ he whispered. ‘Just let go.’
And she did. Crying, shaking, gasping. Her orgasm ripped through her with an intensity that brought on his own release within seconds. He rode her slowly, until the waves of pleasure subsided.
The realisation that she wasn’t in her own bed came swiftly when morning broke. Sunlight filtered into the room—Brodie’s room—and the ache between her thighs confirmed that she hadn’t imagined those naughty images of them in his kitchen. It wasn’t a dream—it was the mind-bending truth.
Brodie was like peanut butter ice cream with extra fudge. Decadent, tasty, hard to say no to. But, like all delicious things, he wasn’t the best choice she could have made. What she needed was a steady diet of apples and focus—not ice cream and orgasms.
‘Morning,’ he murmured against the back of her neck.
One arm was slung over her mid-section, turned slightly to expose the edge of his anchor tattoo. She traced the outline with her fingertip. Something firm dug into her lower back. She moved under the guise of stretching her back, smiling when he groaned and pressed against her.
‘Don’t start what you can’t finish.’
She chuckled. ‘You’re insatiable.’
‘Says you, Miss Body Shot. I was perfectly happy sleeping on my own last night.’
‘Liar.’ She rolled over, catching his stubble-coated jaw with her cupped hand.
He didn’t hesitate to kiss her, his tongue delving and tangling with hers. A hand found her breast, fingers tugging and teasing her nipple until she gave in and let him roll on top of her.
‘Weren’t we supposed to be going for a run this morning?’ she asked, blinking her eyes at him with faux innocence.
‘I know a few other things we can do that will burn calories.’
Apples, not ice cream.
‘Worried you won’t be able to keep up?’
‘Ha!’ He grinned. ‘Like I said before, don’t start what you can’t finish.’
‘Oh, I can finish it.’ She tipped her chin up at him, giving his chest a playful shove. ‘Loser makes breakfast.’
‘You’re on.’
Chantal regretted making the challenge a few ks into the run, when it became clear that Brodie was much better at running than she was. He jogged effortlessly alongside her, breaking into a sprint every so often to prove he could. The Newcastle coast blurred past in a haze of blue skies, bluer waters and pale sand. How was it possible to be in such a beautiful place and not be able to enjoy the scenery?
‘Can we take a break?’ Chantal slowed to a walk and fanned her face.
‘Conceding defeat already?’ He jogged on the spot, a victorious grin on his face. ‘You know that means you’ll be making my scrambled eggs when we get back?’
‘Fine. You win.’ She waved him away as she took a long swig from her water bottle. ‘Looks like dancing fitness doesn’t translate to running fitness.’
‘No need to make excuses,’ he teased, and she elbowed him.
‘No need to be a smug winner.’
He reached for her water bottle, tipping it to his lips and gulping the liquid down. Muscles worked in his neck. It was hard not to stare at how he made the most regular of actions seem inherently male.
‘It’s not often I get one over you, so let me have my moment. Besides, I’ve got a long way to go if I’m going to run a half marathon.’
Her brows furrowed. ‘You’re training for a marathon?’
‘Half marathon,’ he corrected.
‘How far is that?’
‘Just over twenty-one k.’
‘Funny how you didn’t tell me that when you let me challenge you to a run.’ She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Cheater.’
A booming laugh erupted, startling a woman jogging past with her small dog. ‘That’s not cheating.’
‘Why on earth do you want to run that far?’
He shrugged. ‘To see if I can do it. A buddy challenged me, and you know how I am with challenges.’
‘It just seems…’ She took in the gleam of his tanned skin, the T-shirt that hugged his full biceps, the golden hair on his athletic legs. ‘Out of cha
racter.’
‘Why? Because I don’t have the discipline to be a runner?’ A bitter tone tainted the words.
‘No, I meant because you’re more of a water sports kinda guy.’ She cocked her head, studying him. ‘Windsurfing, sailing boats, water-skiing… that kind of thing.’
‘Oh.’ A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
‘I always wondered if you were half dolphin, since you spend so much time in the water.’
‘Wouldn’t that make me a mermaid?’
‘Merman,’ Chantal corrected, gesturing with her water bottle.
‘That’s not manly.’ He crossed his arms. ‘What about half shark?’
‘Whatever floats your boat, Mr Cheese.’
Strong hands grabbed her arms and hauled her to him. His mouth came down near her ear. Hot breath sent goosebumps skittering across her skin.
‘Looks like you finally fell for my cheesy lines after all.’
Uneasy waves rocked her stomach. She’d certainly fallen for something. Her attraction to Brodie had always been physical… at least that was what she’d told herself. She was attracted to him in spite of his joker, take-nothing-seriously personality. At least it had used to be in spite of that…
Now she was the one convincing him to pour vodka on her, challenging him to a competition, teasing him about being a merman. This wasn’t her. She was never this… relaxed.
‘I haven’t fallen for anything, Brodie. You’re just good in bed.’
‘Just sex.’ His eyes avoided hers and he bent to inspect his shoelaces. ‘That’s all I was aiming for.’
An awkward silence settled over them. Could the exchange have felt as hollow to him as it did to her? Could he sense the fear in her voice as she tried her hardest to pull a barrier up between them?
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