His Innocent Seduction

by Clare Connelly

  ‘I don’t know.’ Something between us feels weird. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night?’

  He looks at me for several long, silent seconds and panic stirs in my abdomen. ‘Yes, Millie. I’ll see you tomorrow night.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  WHEN I FINISH my shift around midnight, Michael’s car is parked on the kerb outside O’Leary’s. A smile lifts my lips as I approach it and knock on the window. ‘Could I trouble you for a ride, sir?’ I purr and he laughs, pushing open the door from inside.

  I step in, buckling up and looking at him with renewed hunger. Knowing I’m leaving soon makes me want to take every ounce of pleasure I can from him, makes me want to enjoy every last second before I close the book on this chapter of my life.

  Not every last second, though.

  Space matters too.

  Distance. Separation. It’s important to remember the terms of this, just like I said to him last night. Even when I want to scrap everything else I have on in these last few days and just...what? Be with him?

  There’s very little traffic on the roads. We drive in silence, but for me every mile is stretching my desire, deepening my need, until I am burning with want. He pulls the car into his space and the second he cuts the engine I’ve unclipped my seat belt and opened the door.

  He’s seconds behind me.

  We wait for the lift in silence.

  The doors slide open; we step inside. The moment they ping closed and we are alone, I reach for him. He grabs for me. Our thought and action is the same—possession. His mouth crushes mine, his body presses me back against the mirrored wall of the lift. His knee parts my legs. One of his hands clamps my wrists above my head and the other tangles in my hair, holding my head where it is, prisoner to his possession, his ownership. I whimper into his mouth; heat pools between my legs.

  He lifts me up, or maybe I pull up, wrapping my legs around his waist so that, when the lift reaches his floor he steps out, carrying me, kissing me, promising me what I need without saying a word. He fumbles the key then pushes his door open and, as soon as we’re in his apartment, my hands are ripping at his shirt. A button pops off and I laugh then swear, apologising. I’m sure his shirts cost a small fortune.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He shakes his head, claiming my mouth again, shrugging out of his shirt without placing me down.

  His beautiful torso fascinates me. I drop my mouth to it, kissing his shoulder then his Adam’s apple, tasting him, his masculine woody scent driving me to the point of oblivion. I grind my hips and he finds my mouth again, his hands pushing at my shirt, lifting it over my head and dropping it as he walks me deeper into the apartment. Not to his bedroom.

  ‘I...’ my voice is a croak ‘...want you.’

  His laugh is like velvet. ‘No shit.’

  I laugh back. He reaches down, unlocking a glass sliding door, carrying me out to his balcony. It’s enormous, with a view of Dublin on one side and darkness on the other—a darkness that is the yawning chasm of the ocean.

  Stars glitter overhead, reminding me of Michael’s eyes, of the way a galaxy seems to reside in each one. He puts me down only so he can undo my jeans, pushing them down my legs with haste, desperate need making his actions swift.

  And then, with my legs bare, the late summer’s night wraps around me, balmy and gentle, and Michael kisses my thigh, lifting up to my hip and then my stomach, before standing, unclasping my bra and dropping it so I am naked. There is no light here, only darkness; I feel private and safe.

  I trust Michael completely.

  He undresses and his eyes hold mine as he rolls a condom over his arousal, and I step up on my toes and kiss him, hating that I delighted in robbing him of control when I know how important it is to him, hating that he’s tormented by his momentary lapse in discipline.

  Wanting, at the same time, to rob him of control once more, to make him forget everything but the power this wields over us.

  He pushes me against the glass doors—they’re cold but I don’t mind.

  He lifts me and guides me over him, his cock slides inside me and I can no longer think or regret; I can only feel.

  I feel every single cell in my body—the gushing of my blood, the whooshing of my breath, the ticking of my heart, the squeezing of my muscles.

  He thrusts in me hard, his body filling mine, and I dig my nails into his shoulders as he holds me close.

  Pleasure builds inside me like a wave and when it crashes against me he pulls his head away and watches, his eyes boring into me as I cry his name out and thrash my head from side to side. He watches me and it makes my release all the more intense.

  My own control, when it comes to Michael Brophy, is non-existent.

  He kisses my throat as pleasure begins to soften and the haze of orgasm fades. He flicks my pulse point with his tongue and I roll my hips, his hard dick teasing me, making nerve endings that are already sensitive quiver and throb.

  ‘I want to fuck you all night,’ he growls softly against my flesh and I lean my head back, surrendering to everything this is.

  Dangerous, seductive desire sparks inside me.

  ‘Stay the night, Millie.’

  His mouth drops to my breast and I jerk when he flicks my nipple with his tongue, pleasure spinning through me. But he clamps his lips around it then and it’s pleasure and pain and my stomach swirls and desire fires anew inside me.

  ‘There’s still so much to teach you.’

  I smile, my heart twisting and my stomach dropping. The promise of what Michael Brophy can teach me pulls me in one direction; the knowledge that sleeping over is dangerously close to more than what we are to one another pulls me the other way.

  ‘I thought we discussed this.’

  ‘The terms of our deal don’t change just because you spend the night.’ His breath is feather-light against my cheek. ‘It’s not a fucking marriage proposal.’

  I laugh at that, a juddering sound. Because he’s right—I’m being overly cautious. And I’m cutting off my nose to spite my face. I’m going to Paris.

  Very, very soon.

  What’s the harm in enjoying everything Michael Brophy has to offer until I leave?

  I roll my hips and he clamps down on my nipple again, so I arch my back in response, a sharp, visceral reaction. His hands drop to my bottom, digging into the flesh there, and I groan, pleasure building inside me. But he eases me to the ground and, with his hands on my hips, spins me around so I’m facing the glass.

  I can make out the faintest reflection as he spreads my hips and cups my breasts with his hands, and then he’s entering me from behind, one swift thrust and, God help me, he reaches new places and this is completely different. His hair-roughened thighs brush against my smooth legs; his powerful body dominates mine in every way. His fingers roll my nipples and his mouth kisses the sensitive flesh at my neck. When I’m almost broken by this euphoria he drops one hand to my clit and massages it, so I am incoherent with all that I am feeling.

  He drives into me and I fall apart, my head pressed against the glass as I see stars and heaven and eternity all at once. Tears fill my eyes with the sheer intensity of what I’ve just experienced, my body quivers all over and I’m not myself in that moment. I am simply his.

  His hands roam down my body, curving around my arse, and I groan as he rubs the flesh there, massaging me, his touch so intimate, so expert.

  He’s hard inside me still, his own release something he’s determined to hold off on. He is a master at this.

  ‘I chose an excellent teacher,’ I say with a smile when my breathing has slowed.

  ‘You’re an eager pupil.’ He kisses my shoulder. His eyes hold mine and something passes between us. Something I don’t understand.

  ‘Stay the night,’ he says again, the challenge, demand, filling me up. My orgasm is exploding within me.

 
I call his name into the night sky and I hear myself saying, ‘Yes,’ over and over again, agreeing to whatever he’s suggesting, agreeing to anything. I am lost, in that moment. I am his.

  * * *

  I can’t sleep. Somewhere around four, I wake up with a start, the way I haven’t since I was a boy and I used to jolt out of bed, my heart racing, my body covered in sweat, my adrenal response off the charts, terrified my father has killed my mother, terrified I’ve missed it, that I haven’t been able to save her.

  I wake with a start, my pulse slamming through me, sweat on my brow, my heart racing, my stomach in knots. It’s a disorientating awakening and it takes me several seconds to recognise the anchor points of my life—my bedroom, my artwork on the walls, my duvet and the woman asleep beside me, her hair pulled over one shoulder, her face so restful, her body still, the opposite to mine, which is pounding as though with a thousand volts of live electricity.

  Even when I reorient myself, the sense of panic doesn’t go anywhere. It’s sticky inside me, coating my veins and thickening my blood. My heart won’t slow down.

  Pushing the sheets off me, I get out of bed and move silently from the bedroom. Having convinced Millie to stay, it wouldn’t exactly be chivalrous to stomp about and wake her up at this ungodly hour.

  In the kitchen, I flick the coffee machine to life, watching as dark liquid flows into a small cup, a golden crema forming on top, the smell infiltrating the kitchen.

  My heart is still slamming against my ribs. What the fuck?

  I take a breath, in and out, slowly, reminding myself of the ways I used to calm down when I was a kid and this kind of panic attack would ambush me at any time without warning. Palms pressed flat to the cool marble bench top, I stare at the coffee but no longer see it.

  The hammering of my heart is demanding my attention.

  Each beat a ticking of the clock, a pounding of time racing past me, whooshing us towards an inevitable point.

  She’s leaving soon.

  My gut twists. Every fibre of my being, each tiny cell in my body, rejects the idea. Soon Millie’s going to be getting on a flight, going to Paris, walking away from me, and it’s like a stone boulder slamming into my side.

  I can’t let her go. I can’t.

  Not yet. No. Not ever. I have no idea how but in these few weeks something’s happened to me and I want... I don’t know. I just know I want Millie.

  I grab the coffee and lift it to my lips, drinking it gratefully. Okay, she can’t go. That’s obvious. So? What do I do? How do I get her to stay? And then what?

  Clarity recedes.

  Then what?

  What do I offer her? For how long? How long does this last? I can’t get enough of her right now, but in a month? A year? Can I ask her to put her plans on hold until whatever this is has burned out?

  Would she want to?

  I need fresh air. I push the sliding glass doors open, stepping out onto the balcony, trying to see a future for myself and Millie—trying to see a future with myself and anyone. I’ve never imagined I would want this.

  One-night stands are my thing. I like them. I love the lack of commitment. The absolute certainty that there are no expectations of me. So what if I ask Millie to stay, and tell her what? That I like her? That I want more from her than just sex?

  That I fucking love her?

  Just like that, it’s a lightning bolt from overhead, slashing through me.

  I love her? Do I? What does that even mean?

  I remember my dad talking at Mum’s funeral.

  ‘I fell in love with Deirdre the moment I saw her. I saw her across the field, and I said to my best friend, to James Haigh, I’m going to marry her. I knew in an instant. My whole world changed.’

  And I’ve never doubted he was speaking the truth. He loved my mum. He loved her in the only sick way he knew how. He loved her to death.

  He loved her, and she gave up everything she wanted in life; she subjugated not just her dreams but all of herself, everything she was, to be what he needed. I hated him for that. I hated him for the way everything was always about my father, never her. And I hated her sometimes. I wished she would stand up to him, shout and rail against his oppressive control. I wished she’d fight for what she wanted.

  She didn’t. She took everything he threw at her. Did she stay with him because she loved him? Is that love?

  What would it even look like, me loving Millie? Fuck, does she love me?

  Every time she’s talked about her future, it’s been with excitement. She can’t wait to go to Paris, ergo, to leave me. That’s not love. Not once has she even hinted at a sense of hesitation. Not once has she given me a reason to think anything’s changed for her. Hasn’t she done the opposite? Going out of her way to show me she wants to make sure the parameters of our relationship don’t alter.

  So what? I’m going to follow in my dad’s illustrious footsteps after all? Try to get the woman I’ve fallen in love with to put her dreams on hold just because I don’t want her to leave me?

  ‘Hey.’ Her voice is soft behind me. ‘What are you doing up?’

  Her hands curve around my waist, linking in front of me, and her lips press to my shoulder. My heart twists painfully. Fuck. I love her. I absolutely love her. If I could give all my money to some god, some deity, to have her stay just like this, in this moment, her cheek against my back, her arms around my waist, our breathing in sync, I would do it.

  I curve a hand over hers, as if to hold her there, as if it might be enough. ‘Hey.’ My voice is gravelled. ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘It got cold in bed,’ she says, a smile in her words. ‘Why are you up?’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘Michael?’

  I close my eyes, breathing in this moment, this night air, her. ‘When do you fly?’

  ‘Sunday.’

  That’s two days away.

  Jesus.

  ‘Your flight’s booked?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Don’t go. The words form inside me. I hear them in my brain, rattling around and around, but I can’t speak them. I can’t.

  ‘What are your plans for the next few days?’

  ‘Packing. Trying to squeeze everything back into my suitcase.’ Her voice is light, self-mocking.

  ‘You could store some stuff here,’ I offer, the idea taking hold. If she stored things at my place, she’d have to come back to get them at some point.

  Okay, it’s hardly ideal, but at least it would mean this wouldn’t be the end.

  ‘No.’ A single word, a little firmer than is necessary. Her hands stroke my belly. ‘There’d be no point. Once I leave, I won’t be back.’

  Panic surges inside me. ‘Not even to see old friends?’

  Silence thickens around us. ‘No.’

  Fuck.

  I turn around, wrapping my arms around her. It’s too early for dawn. The moon is still behind us, casting her face in pale silver light, her blonde hair loose around her face, her eyes huge as she looks up at me.

  ‘I won’t be back,’ she says, her eyes holding mine. ‘I’m going that way.’ She points towards the sea. ‘This is a one-way trip.’

  Don’t go.

  ‘Because this is your dream,’ I prompt, smiling when my body feels strangely discombobulated.

  ‘Yeah.’ Her own smile is somewhat watery. ‘I have to do this.’

  And I’d be a fucking A-grade ass not to see that.

  I bend down and kiss her forehead and hold her like that, close to me, my mouth to her, the moon behind us, the future before us—separate futures, separate lives.

  ‘Stay here.’ The words catch me completely by surprise. ‘Until you leave.’

  She jerks back from me, her eyes lifting to mine. ‘What?’

  ‘Two nights.’ I shrug with every appearance of no
nchalance. ‘Why not? I’m doing case prep during the day; you can have the place to yourself. And at night...’

  Her smile lights up her face and I see relief because I’ve brought it back to sex, and that’s what this is about for her. It’s all it can be. ‘And at night?’ she teases, running her hands around to cup my ass.

  At night I’ll make her mine again and again, fucking her, loving her, making a million memories.

  She pulls back in my arms, looking up at me for a moment, and then she drops down, kissing my chest, and lower, until her mouth takes my cock deep inside and I groan because I love her so much, and I fucking love this.

  ‘Millie...’ I have no idea what I want to say.

  ‘Don’t.’ She pulls away from me just long enough to meet my eyes. ‘Don’t stop me. Don’t stop this.’

  Fuck. Her fingers hold my thighs as she moves her mouth up and down my length, and then her hand curves over the base of my dick, squeezing me as her tongue rolls my tip. I am beyond lost.

  She moves faster and I can’t think about love any more, I can’t think about the future, about her leaving. I can’t think about anything. I stand there, just me and the night and this beautiful woman, her mouth possessing me, her tongue encircling me, and then my balls are tingling and I know I’m seconds away from coming.

  ‘Millie, you have to stop,’ I grunt, but she doesn’t. Instead, she pushes her mouth all the way so the tip of my cock hitches against her throat. My hands tangle in her hair. Her mouth is warm and so wet, her tongue rolling around me and I lose it. I lose control, I lose every vestige of willpower. I spill into her mouth with a guttural cry, the intensity of my orgasm ripping me apart, and the knowledge that I love her, that I am in love with this woman, almost dropping me to my knees.

  She’s going in two nights, but I don’t think I can let her out of my sight between now and then.

  ‘Stay with me,’ I murmur, my hands running through her hair. ‘Until your flight.’

  She pulls back but stays where she is, level to my cock. Her eyes travel the length of my body and something inside me jerks, twists, strangles. I’m conscious of every breath.