Читать книгу The Dare Collection November 2019 - Anne Marsh - Страница 19

Orla

I LOOK AWAY from the view of the Persian Gulf from my office window in Dubai’s International Financial Centre and try to refocus on the business proposal on the computer screen when all I can see is Cam’s face, his sexy, playful grin and his sparkly eyes, which always seem alight with animation.

Somewhere between leaving Zurich after our thrilling heli-skiing trip and arriving in Dubai, I’ve experienced a seismic shift—I can’t seem to get Cam off my mind, as my current daydream proves. It’s almost as if my mind is sick of numbers and craves the intrusion. As if he’s there because he belongs. Because I want his presence in more than my bed. But that’s crazy…

Is it because he finally opened up to me, telling me about his loss and his childhood, which must have been far removed from my own? Is it because seeing his pain, filling in the gaps, makes me desperate to help him overcome the issues holding him back? I’m certain it was his father who left him the inheritance. The timeline fits, and the fact that he doesn’t seem to care if he loses every cent. That money represents more than a life-changing windfall. For him, it’s tainted, tangled up in rejection and pain and resentment. Even when he seems to be enjoying it, living a lifestyle most people would jump at in a heartbeat, deep down I’m certain Cam would be equally happy to return to his life before.

Cam’s in pain. He’s hurting. The big-spending gambler I first met is far removed from the real Cam North. The real Cam gives a wicked foot massage. The real Cam takes the time to talk and, more importantly, to really listen. The real Cam is a roll-up-your-sleeves kind of man: a man who loves the simple things in life—an ice-cold beer on a sunny day, a view of the sunset, throwing a ball for a delighted dog.

As fascinating and addictive as he is complex.

I push away from my desk in self-disgust, admitting my productivity is done for the day, and head to the hotel for a shower. As I turn on the water, tie up my hair and strip off, I berate myself further. It’s one thing to care about the wonderful, thoughtful and capable man I’m sleeping with—after all, I’m not a robot, despite what my ex-husband thinks—but to allow it to interfere with my work?

I’ve never once struggled with focus before, so why now? And why to this degree? There could be any number of explanations: jet lag, too much of what Cam likes to call playing hard, the pesky burn-out, which seems to be getting stronger, not lessening as I’d hoped.

But I suspect it’s just Cam. Clearly I underestimated how much of a distraction a man like him could be—stupid, stupid Orla.

Thinking about him has an inevitable effect on my body and I turn the water to cool to douse the reaction. Perhaps there’s such a thing as too much sex? If we’re not screwing, which is at least a twice-a-day occurrence, we’re teasing each other, whispering, sharing stolen secret glances, a torturous form of foreplay.

I step under the spray and lather my body with divine-smelling body wash. If only I could wash my confused and intrusive feelings away with the suds. Because they have no place here. This was never for keeps. Thanks to my father, my ex and my own high expectations, I’m just not emotionally built for relationships.

Why is this so hard, when I’ve never before struggled to compartmentalise sex? I can blame physical exhaustion. Between my own punishing schedule, the inability to keep our hands off each other and always exploring somewhere Cam deems essential, it’s no wonder I can’t think straight.

The last few days have been a whirlwind. An ice bar on our last night in Zurich, dinner last night on the one hundred and twentieth floor of the Burj Khalifa, the world’s tallest tower, and, as today is opening day at the Meydan racecourse, we’re due to spend an evening at the races.

Despite my cold-shower distraction technique, waves of anticipation move over my skin—he’ll be here any minute. It’s as if my body has a sixth sense: Cam detection. Perhaps he’ll look for me and join me in the shower. But even as I feel the flutter of excitement low in my belly, I probe my feelings deeper. Yes, the sex is amazing. Yes, he brings out some sort of lust-craved wanton in me—who could resist such virile and enthusiastic attention? But he’s more than that; he puts my life into perspective. When I’m with him I almost forget that I’m Orla Hendricks, CEO. The bitterness I feel towards my father seems irrelevant and trivial. I don’t care about proving myself worthy. I don’t care about being the best. I can simply exist. No need to strive to be anything other than myself.

A woman to his man.

My sigh is shaky, tinged with fear.

Oh, no… No, I can’t do this. I can’t feel the things I’m feeling. Not for him, not for anyone. I swallow, forcing myself to be brutally honest. Despite the age gap and my determination to avoid relationships, Cam is exactly the sort of man I could fall for, and that’s bad.

B.A.D.

I freeze, the realisation of how dangerous Cam is to my resolve a shock, as if the water had turned instantly icy. Then I laugh aloud, although the sound is hollow and unconvincing. We’re too different. Cam would no more think of me as a relationship candidate than I would think of him, in our normal, everyday lives. He’s twenty-eight years old. I’ll be thirty-seven in a few months.

It’s ridiculous.

Even if I wanted a relationship, we’d never work. Deep down he’s a solid, steady, dependable man who says it like it is. I’m a hustler. I always need to be moving, striving, ticking off the next goal.

I try to visualise introducing Cam to my Sydney girlfriends over brunch, or picture him being content to see his woman once in a blue moon, if the stars align. My washing movements become slow, automatic, as I’m lost to the pictures my imaginings paint, as if they’re tantalising in their reality. I’ve never asked him, but surely Cam wants a wife and a family one day. I’ve long since sworn off such trappings, finding contentment in the one thing I’m good at: my career, making money for my clients and for myself along the way.

But is that enough any more? Can I go back to my sad, workaholic existence after Cam?

I slam off the shower spray, my irritation directed at my flights of fancy.

Of course I can. I’m set in my ways. This is my life, a great life I’ve built—self-sufficient, independent, successful. I’ll move on from my fling with Cam, just as I moved on from my marriage to Mark.

With my equilibrium restored by my harsh mental pep talk, I dry off and put on the modest green silk dress with buttons down the front that I’ve chosen for the races. I apply light make-up and slip on nude strappy sandals with a low heel.

When I emerge from the en suite bathroom, Cam is sprawled over the leather sofa near the window. I come to an abrupt halt, my eyes sucking in the sight of him, as if they know time is running out and one day he’ll only be visible in my memory.

He too is dressed in smart-casual attire for the races—chinos, a shirt and tie, and a blazer. His hair is tamed, slicked back from his handsome face with product, and he’s focused on the screen of his phone, his brows dipped in an act of concentration that should make him look adorable, if he wasn’t too much man for that particular adjective.

My stomach clenches at the sight of him, sexy, suave and in his prime, the epitome of masculinity. I tug my bottom lip under my teeth and close my eyes for a decadent second, remembering the way he woke me this morning before my alarm. Sleepy, warm and demanding, he’d dragged me close with one strong arm, spooning me from behind. As I nodded and smiled in agreement, his hot mouth had found my nipple and I’d arched against him until he’d seated himself inside me from behind—a perfect position for Cam to toy with my clit until I climaxed and he’d achieved the unforgettable wake-up call he’d wanted.

For some reason I kept my eyes closed throughout, and we didn’t speak, because it somehow felt different—slow, sensual, reverent—almost as if we were making love.

I shake the alarming thought from my head and clear my throat to alert Cam to my presence.

He looks up. A grin stretches over his face, but his eyes are hot, just like every other time he looks at me: full of promise, provocative, and deeply piercing, as if he sees me to my soul.

I approach, my legs shakier than they should be, given the stern lecture I’d only moments ago administered to myself. Cam stands, the perfect gentleman. I accept his hungry kiss, returning it with my own. It’s as if we’ve been separated for years, not hours, but with his mouth on mine it’s hard to overthink, so I simply surrender to the moment.

When we part, the exposed, unfocused feeling I’ve experienced for the past few days intensifies, so I reach for his phone to distract myself.

‘What has you so absorbed that you didn’t hear me come in?’ I expect to find a list of statistics for today’s thoroughbreds, but instead I see pictures of a shabby-looking cottage, the paint peeling, the steel roof warped and the veranda partially collapsed where the boards have rotted.

‘What’s this?’ I flick through the pictures. The views are enviable, but the house is a mess.

Cam shrugs, his expression wary. ‘A cottage. I bought it a while ago. Before the money. To renovate.’

It can’t be larger than a hundred square metres. And the ceilings are low. ‘Do you plan to live here? You’ll be constantly bumping your head.’ He’s already told me he owns a Point Piper penthouse with harbour views back in Sydney.

At my confused expression, he takes the phone from me and scrolls through the pictures, as if showing off a prized possession. ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps. It’s in an amazing location. Look at the views.’

I nod. He’s right—this cottage commands an enviable spot on Sydney’s North Shore.

‘My mother grew up close by. After she moved away, we’d go back to her favourite spots for picnics or to the beach. She always admired this cottage, and when the elderly owner passed away I purchased it. For her.’ His face falls and he tucks the phone into his breast pocket. ‘She died before I could make a dent in the work it needs.’

My heart clenches, the urge to hold him and chase away the defeat in his eyes intense. ‘But you’re going to finish it anyway? Earn yourself a few splinters and build up a sweat?’

He grins because I understand him. It’s almost a tribute. My chest burns with empathy. I touch his arm, wanting to do more, but too afraid of the feelings I’ve battled all day.

‘Yeah, once I’m back in Sydney. Mum was right—it could be perfect.’

I take his hand and lead us back to the sofa, where I tug him down at my side. ‘How much work have you done?’

His enthusiasm falters. ‘Not that much. I bought it before the inheritance with my savings. It made Mum’s last weeks happier to think of me one day living in the cottage she admired from afar.’

My throat aches for his loss, the desire to be there for him building until I confess something I rarely allow myself to think, let alone say aloud. ‘You know, I often wonder what it would be like to live somewhere like that.’

Surprise flitters across his face. ‘You do…?’ A small, almost delighted smile kicks up his mouth.

‘Yeah. How peaceful it would be to wake up to the sound of the sea every morning. To step outside before the sun is fully up and drink coffee on a quaint old veranda like that, taste the salt in the air. Simple. Everything I need. To be…content, I guess.’

His silence and the frown that steals his smile and draws his thick eyebrows down over his eyes make me feel self-conscious. He stares, as if seeing me for the first time.

My face grows hot. I’ve revealed something from deep inside, a place I hardly ever delve. I want to stuff the telling words back inside my mouth. Instead I stand, collect my bag and the wide-brimmed hat that matches my outfit, and breathe my emotions back under control. What is he doing to me? Where did that insane and impractical confession come from? I have a perfectly adequate penthouse in Sydney with its own enviable views. Not that I spend much time there.

I wait for him to join me near the door, my shoulders tense as if I’m anticipating his next words.

‘You know, you could live like that, Orla. There’s nothing to stop you.’ His words are predictable, his tone mild, but the subtext is loaded with the unspoken. If I were that content woman, then perhaps there’d be a chance for us, or perhaps that’s just what I want to hear because maybe the appeal of that cottage, that life, is that it would include Cam.

But I can’t want that, to be his woman. It’s a dead-end fantasy.

‘I know.’ My clipped tone closes down this alarming conversation, but I soften it to say, ‘You should finish the cottage, Cam. I can tell it’s going to be beautiful. Shall we go?’

He accepts my change of subject, although there’s an undercurrent of unease between us on the journey to the racecourse in another of the sleek sports cars Cam loves. It’s as if we’re both wearing armour on top of our clothes. As if we need protection from each other, when prior to today everything was easy and open.

We park in the VIP car park and enter the grandstand, which is over a mile long and houses not only the immaculate racetrack, but also a trackside hotel and entertainment venue. I’m relatively well-known among Dubai’s business community, so I introduce Cam to some clients and local dignitaries. I’m deep in conversation with a former client who wants to talk shop when I sense Cam’s edginess. The unfamiliar taste of guilt makes me wince as I try to fight my first reaction to become defensive. I’m not used to having to explain my actions to anyone. But I’m supposed to be off the clock. This is supposed to be a social event.

He’s right; I never stop. I’m never off the clock. My stomach twists, a strange mix of resentment for the life I chose and longing for something more. I shoot him an apologetic look and wrap up my consultation as politely as I can, reassuring the sheikh I’ll see him before I leave Dubai.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say when I’ve escaped. ‘He’s a very good customer and he prefers to work with the top dog, not the very competent minions.’

Cam’s expression is free of judgement, but I hear the censure from inside my own head. Don’t you want more than work?

‘I’m not surprised. She’s beautiful and talented—it’s almost a shame there’s only one of her…’ He smiles, and I slip into the comfort of his arms, because I’m less sure of my life plan than I was yesterday.

We head to our private suite with a terrace overlooking the racetrack. It’s a perfect day for the races, although I’m glad for the air-conditioning of our suite. As it’s the first race of the season, the grandstand is packed with spectators. We can’t bet, but our waiter informs us there are several competitions running for correctly guessing the place-getters. I choose the three horses with names that appeal the most—Desert Haze, Buyer Beware and Human Condition—knowing nothing about their pedigrees, owners or trainers, but Cam seems more interested in the pre-race action at the edge of the track.

‘There he is.’ He hands me a pair of binoculars and points in the general direction of the milling jockeys and horses.

‘Who?’

‘My horse—number seven.’ He slips his arm around my waist and tugs me close, his enthusiasm a distraction I need.

I focus in on the thoroughbred—a magnificent chestnut stallion—the jockey bedecked in red and gold. ‘Did you place an offshore bet?’ Of course Cam would find a way to offload some cash in a country where gambling is illegal.

‘No.’ He sounds so pleased with himself, I take a good hard look at his face, which is wreathed in smug excitement. ‘I bought him. He’s mine. Contempt of Court—isn’t he perfect?’

Unease dries my mouth as I take another look at Cam’s latest purchase. It doesn’t matter. I should let it go. I don’t want to spoil our evening, but really? A racehorse?

‘How long have you owned him?’ I hedge, hoping to discover it’s a lifelong dream of his or a regular hobby. But the hair rising at the back of my neck tells me I’m unlikely to be comforted by his answer.

‘A week. When I knew Dubai was on your itinerary, I put out some feelers. He was already registered for the race, the name is perfect, so I offered the owner a number he couldn’t refuse.’ He takes two glasses of champagne from our waiter and hands me one, clinking his glass to mine with a grin.

I stare, a shudder passing through me at how much a thoroughbred already registered for one of the world’s richest races must have cost. It’s none of my business, he’s hardly bankrupting himself, and I’ll damage the fragile mood between us, but I can’t stay silent. On the surface he’s enjoying his inheritance, yes, but deep down it’s because he doesn’t care about the money, which makes sense if it’s from his father.

‘So you bought an expensive racehorse just for his name?’

He sees the disapproval I’m trying, and clearly failing, to hide. ‘I bought him because I could—the name was an added bonus. And I knew you wouldn’t approve.’

‘You’re right, I’m…cautious with my money, but it’s not that I don’t approve.’

‘What, then? We’re here to enjoy the races. Having a horse in the race will add to my enjoyment. I’m just making the most of this moment in a way I can afford.’

The unspoken is there again, hanging in the air between us like a swarm of irritable wasps. A dig, a rejoinder, aimed my way. What’s the point of having it all if you don’t take the time to enjoy it?

‘So what will you do with him? He’s not a homeless dog. Do you plan on shipping him back to Australia too, like the car?’ I can imagine why he’s struggling with his father’s legacy, since the money came from a man who abandoned him, but can’t he see that the excesses won’t help him deal with his anger and resentment? I can no longer ignore the two sides of Cam’s personality and the inconsistencies that tell me he’s hurting, despite his live-for-the-moment attitude and his hedonistic pursuits.

‘I told you, the car was a gift for my cousin. And I haven’t thought what I’ll do with him beyond today.’ Another shrug, but his body is tense, defensive. ‘He’ll pay his way, I guess, or I’ll sell him.’

‘So why buy a racehorse for a single race if it’s not a particular hobby of yours or a dream to fulfil?’ I can’t let this go. The dog food was cute, the drum kit for the boy heartbreaking but understandable, given what he’s hinted at about his own spartan upbringing with his single-parent mother. But this? It’s deeper than lavishly throwing around money.

‘Why does this bother you so much? I can afford to buy ten racehorses if I want them. I’m living the high life.’

I ignore the jibe I could interpret as some sort of comparison. ‘Are you? Or are you running from something?’ I sigh and touch his arm to show him that, although I’m crossing a line here, I’m doing so because I care. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to upset you, I just… I can’t stand by and watch you struggle with your inheritance. There are ways I can help.’

I see the look on his face, an expression I’ve never seen before on easygoing, laid-back Cam—cold, hard anger. ‘Well, thank you for the unsolicited financial advice but I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m not some schoolboy with a winning lottery ticket.’

‘No, but you don’t care about the money either, do you? It’s because it’s his, isn’t it? Your father’s?’ I’m walking a fine line here, but I ache for him. ‘That’s why you’re blowing it with private planes and racehorses and fast cars. You’re not at peace with it.’

He’s still angry, malice glittering in his beautiful, expressive eyes. A desecration. ‘What makes you think I’m struggling? I’m having the time of my life, aren’t I? World-class luxury, every hedonistic pursuit known to man, and a beautiful woman on tap, for whenever I want a good fuck.’

My hand curls into a fist and I’m tempted to slap him, but he’s clearly hurting, lashing out. I’ve backed him into a corner and he’s fighting for his life. I step closer, when I’m certain he expected his harsh words to drive me away. ‘One minute you’re passionate about the underdog, tipping the hotel staff, making some kid’s drumming dream come true, even taking time to play with abandoned dogs, and the next you’re blowing millions of dollars with a cavalier attitude. We’re all complex beings, but this,’ I wave a hand at the racehorses, ‘isn’t you.’

His eyes dart, some of the anger leaving him, as if he’s warring with some internal demons.

The race is about to start, so I’m aware my timing sucks. But is there ever a good time to feel exposed? Don’t I feel the same way every time he pushes me to talk about my father or brings me to account over my workaholic tendencies? Every time we’ve been intimate this past week, as if with each searing look he peels away another layer of my armour? Every time I peer into the future and see a terrifying glimpse of a life I thought I was long past craving?

I lean up against the rail, pretending to watch the race I’m no longer interested in. I feel his struggle in the tense air between us, and regret makes my posture deflate. I want to close the gap. To touch him again. To offer physical comfort if he won’t accept my emotional support. He’s there, right beside me, but may as well be miles away.

‘You’re right.’ His sigh carries in the dry air, my hearing highly attuned to the strain and defeat in his voice. ‘The inheritance was from my—’ he makes a fist and then relaxes it as quickly ‘—my father.’

I hold my breath, desperate to hear what he’s finally decided to tell me, but feeling every blade of his pain. It’s my penance for pushing him, for caring this much, for breaking my own rules.

‘I didn’t want it. Why would I? From a man I never knew? A man who considered my existence irrelevant, who held little score in the values of integrity and family commitment.’

A man so unlike him.

He turns to face me then, both of us deaf to the starter gun and the roar of the excited crowds as we hold each other’s eye contact with brittle and fragile force.

‘I’m sorry, Cam. I understand. I can see how you might harbour resentment for your childhood, but your anger won’t make a difference to what’s done. There are other ways to compensate.’

He presses his lips together, but I see in his eyes that he’s heard. He’s a smart man; he’s probably told himself the same thing a thousand times.

I plough on. ‘Perhaps he was sorry. Ashamed. Perhaps leaving you that money was his way of apologising. The only way he knew how to reach out to you after having left like he did.’

I’m shocked speechless by the venomous expression souring his face. ‘Well, neither of us knew him, did we? Maybe he just wants to control me from the grave. To disrupt my life, which by the way was pretty near perfect before all of this, and dictate how I live. Just because money was the most important thing in his life. I’m not him.’

‘Of course you’re not him. You’re wonderful. I’m just trying to point out that there are other things you can do with your money.’

‘His money. You know, Orla, you more than anyone should understand what it’s like to have a manipulative parent.’

I ignore his reference. I’ve laid him bare and he’s lashing out again. And, of course, he’s right. My father has done his fair share of damage. My shoulders slump. Am I still jumping through my father’s hoops? Is that what drives me still? Yes, maybe in the beginning…but now, when I’m more successful than ever, more even than he is?

But this isn’t about me.

‘Why are you so convinced your father wanted to control you? Why isn’t it just a gift? A way to make amends?’

‘Gifts are yours to do with as you please. They’re not conditional. They don’t chain you.’

I think about my earrings, the gift designed to send me away, quietly and without a fuss, from a role that was mine by rights. A gift I wear to remind myself that we don’t always receive what we deserve, and that not everyone, even those who should do, sees the real us.

‘I know that.’ My voice is small, because Cam’s touched a nerve.

‘Without conditions I could do what I like with it, but he put a clause in the will which prevents me from giving more than twenty-five per cent away. I couldn’t even donate the entire sum to the hospice that nursed my mother through her last days. Even from the grave, he still cares more about that money than he does about me or his ex-wife and mother to his only son.’

His smile is so vengeful, my stomach turns. ‘I’d stake my life on the fact that he would detest what I’m doing with his billions,’ he says. ‘Frittering it away with a cavalier attitude, as you called it.’

A brittle silence settles between us. He’s right. Neither of us knows his father’s intent.

I grow hot under Cam’s focus. I want to rewind, to start over, to hold him until I’ve chased away the distress I’ve put in his eyes. But how do I repair the damage? We’re not a real couple. We only have a few weeks of shared history to fall back on, most of that superficial and impersonal, at my insistence. Why would he seek comfort from me of all people? And I shouldn’t offer it, not after admitting that my feelings are dangerously ensnared.

But…

I glance down at the racetrack. The race is over. ‘I’m sorry, it looks like Contempt of Court lost.’ I turn back to face him, seeing him, understanding him in a whole new light. ‘You’re right though—it’s a perfect name.’ A two-fingered gesture to a man he can’t confront any other way.

All the energy drains from my body. I’ve messed up. I should have known Cam would never do anything frivolous or erratic. He’s the most thoughtful and considerate human being I know. This is what happens when I forget my rules. This is what I hoped to avoid by keeping things purely physical. This feeling of failure. That I can’t do this. That relationships just aren’t my strength.

I should stick to what I know.

‘Do you want to get out of here?’ I want to touch him, to show him my regret for both his situation and for drawing out his secret pain. I want to get back to where we were this morning. Restore my own equilibrium and his in the only way I can allow: physically.

But not here.

His struggle to let go of the things I’ve dragged up passes over his face, but he finally nods and I gather my bag and hat.

The journey is tense, quiet, stomach-churning. Back at the M Club in Dubai’s downtown, I assume we’re heading for our room, but without comment Cam takes my hand and leads me to the basement club, which is alive with the insistent beat of some dance track. The last thing I want to do is dance, to pretend that everything between us is okay. But perhaps that’s exactly what I need to do. Pretend. Pretend this is still about no-strings pleasure.

I follow him, weaving through the crowds of clubbers.

‘Let’s get a drink,’ says Cam, his voice hard, all that lovely deep and sexy resonance rubbed away. ‘I’ve reserved one of the private rooms.’

I nod, my heart heavy, but I follow him to the club’s perimeter, where discreet private booths are located. The interior is decorated in signature M Club black—a womblike space, a fully stocked bar, a wide and sumptuous sofa, an adjustable PA system so the volume of the thumping music can be altered to personal taste or allow conversation, and a wall of one-way glass, to ensure absolute privacy, even as the occupants feel part of the club’s vibrant atmosphere with a view of the dance floor.

Cam hands me a Scotch, knocking back his own in a single swallow. He doesn’t adjust the volume of the music, but I don’t think we’re here for conversation.

I take a mouthful of my drink, my mind scrambling for something to say. I want to make things right between us. I shouldn’t have pushed so hard. I shouldn’t have lowered my guard enough to care. But I do.

‘Cam, I’m sorry.’

His fingers settle against my mouth. He hushes me as he glides the pad of his fingers across my sensitive lips.

He takes my glass and drains what’s left and then replaces his fingers with his mouth, parting his lips to allow a trickle of the liquor to pass from his mouth to mine in a decadent, provocative kiss.

I swallow, my lips clinging to his in silent apology. His kiss turns demanding, his tongue probing while his eyes burn into mine as if begging for something. Silence? Understanding? Escape?

He pulls back. ‘I don’t want to talk any more.’ His hands settle on my hips and his body starts to move to the pounding beat of the dance track. I move with him, lost in the intensity in his eyes, deep, dark desire concealing the earlier pain. I clutch the lifeline. The desire. It’s easier to chase because I want him, despite my other, harder-to-name feelings. Our need for each other is the only stability left now everything else feels as if it’s shifting underfoot.

He wants to hide. To retreat behind what we do, what we know—how to make each other feel good. I do too. Haven’t I done the same myself, more than once? Used him in the same way? Isn’t a part of me doing exactly that now? Avoiding the treacherous thoughts of us being more than this?

This whole proposition began because I wanted a distraction, and now so does Cam.

I loop my arms around his neck and kick off my sandals, my hips matching his rhythm, which is confident and inherently sexy—like everything else about him. He bends so low, our lips brush as we move, not quite a kiss, but somehow more, a presence, a reminder that the other person is there, breathing the same air.

His hands curve over my backside, his fingers curling and bunching up the silk fabric of my dress as he grinds me against his hard length. ‘Turn around,’ he murmurs against my mouth, his hard stare glittering with now familiar challenge.

I obey, pulse leaping. When I’m faced away from him, his big hands on my hips and my hands looped around his neck behind my head, I push my ass back to torture him some more. Him and myself. Because he’s hard and ready for me and I want him, as always.

We dance on, my back to his front, one of his arms around my waist and the other hand on my hip as we sway together in a way that’s more foreplay than choreography and would be completely prohibited in any other establishment in this country other than here in the privacy and decadence of the M Club.

The track changes, seamlessly blending into one that’s more sensuous. No longer content to merely tease, I drag Cam’s hands north to cup my breasts through my dress. He gives me a hint of friction, his thumbs and fingers rolling my nipples, but it’s not enough. I want more. I always want more of the way he makes me feel.

But can this, just this, ever be enough?

To switch off my mind, I tangle my fingers in the hair at his nape as I rest my head on his shoulder and turn my face to his, begging for his mouth.

‘Cam.’ His name sounds like a plea and it is. A plea to drag me with him into oblivion, to guide us both until we’re lost in sensation. Because otherwise I’ll think, and thinking about this man, and the way I am with him, is as addictive as it is foolish.

Cam presses his mouth to my neck, below my ear, and judders wrack my body—he knows how sensitive I am in that spot, knows it turns me on to feel his scruff against my skin and hear his breath panting because he feels the same need.

‘Let’s go upstairs,’ I say, twisting so I can capture his mouth, touch my tongue to his, swallow the sound of the low groan he lets free. I want to ensure everything is right with us after our fight. I want to know he’s still with me, still happy to travel to Singapore and then on to Sydney, our hometown, where this heady whirlwind will come to a natural end.

As if it’s still part of our dance, Cam nudges me forward, following close behind until I’m only inches in front of the wall of one-way glass that gifts us a panoramic view of the club. Before I can repeat my desire to take this upstairs to our suite, his hands slip to the button between my breasts and he slowly undoes one after another.

I gasp, the rational part of my brain tricked into believing the people dancing only a few metres on the other side of the glass can see us.

Can I do this? Here?

The answer is as clear as the window in front of me. The same answer as every other time Cam’s challenged me, or I’ve challenged myself.

Yes.

‘Tell me to stop.’ Cam speaks against my throat, his lips a sensual glide and his chin prickling my nerves alive.

Stop is what we should do. Not just this display of exhibitionism, but also the arrangement we made. Before I slip any deeper into the building feelings and before we push each other to expose more than we can recover from.

‘Tell me to stop.’ He presses his erection between my buttocks and I brace my hands flat on the glass, pressing my lips together to hold in the words. Because I want him. In any way. All the ways it’s possible to want someone.

I ignore the racing of my heart and the spike of adrenaline warning me to pull back. His hands continue with the buttons, his hips still swaying to the beat behind me, where I’m too turned on to do more than hold my body upright and glory in the decadence of his touch. While he scrapes kisses up and down my neck, he scoops the cups of my bra down, exposing my breasts.

The cool air hits me and I gasp at being naked here, in front of strangers.

With a grunt, Cam presses up even closer so I’m shunted forwards the last inch and my bare nipples touch the frigid glass. I groan at the foreign sensation. But I have no time to absorb the pleasure, because Cam slips one hand between my legs and delves inside my lacy thong to stroke my swollen clit, which is aching and ready.

‘Tell me to stop,’ he says, gruff, his face buried against the side of my neck. I hear him inhale deeply, sucking in my scent, and I almost smile, because I’ve done the same thing a hundred times, sniffing his sweater left on a chair or his tousled hair while he’s asleep.

At my answering moan, he taps my foot with his and bunches my dress around my waist from behind, his intentions clear. He’s going to do this, right here. And I want him with equal desperation.

I spread my feet wide, excitement rising when I hear the clink of his belt buckle and the rasp of his zip. I can’t believe we’re doing this, but it’s as if we both need the reminder of why we’re here and only this—hot, demanding sex—will reset the boundaries.

His hand shifts from between my legs, and I cry out at its loss, only to press my mouth up against the glass to stave off the pleasure of his fingers, which he plunges inside me from behind, as if testing my readiness.

‘Cam, yes. I’m ready. Do it.’

His fingers disappear and I feel the fat head of his cock nudge my entrance. I tilt my hips back to allow him access, my palms pressing against the glass for leverage. He’s going too slowly. I want to control the pace. To chase away our fight and my own confusion.

I feel him enter me, just an inch or so, and it’s not enough.

‘What are you doing to me, Orla?’ he grits out, his fingers digging into my hips. ‘Tell me to stop.’

‘I don’t want you to stop,’ I cry. As to what we’re doing, I have no answers, because whatever I’m doing to him, he’s doing to me tenfold. I’m more alive when I’m with him, more myself than I’ve been in years, so long I’ve almost forgotten how it feels.

He surges inside with a protracted groan. I brace my palms against the glass as he drags my hips back to meet the thrust of his hips. His possession fills me and in that moment I want to be more to him, although I can’t define in what way. I just know that if he walked away tonight, after our fight, I’d grieve more than his company and the regular, earth-shifting orgasms. I’d grieve his loss.

As if he’s already decided to leave and I’m determined to give him something to remember, I lock my arms and push back from the glass, the illicit scandal of what we’re doing in such close proximity to the other club members and the thump of his hips against my backside making me cry out with acute waves of pleasure.

Cam grips my hips with punishing fingers, clearly battling control himself. ‘Touch yourself, Orla. Touch that greedy little clit that wants to be mine.’

His words thrill me, because all my body is his. I rush to obey, slipping one hand between my legs to rub myself while he pounds into me from behind.

It’s carnal, uninhibited and glorious. But it’s also communication. We’ve strayed from the path this evening, and this is a reminder that we can’t do that again, not without sacrificing something more. Something bigger than both of us. Something so good, we’d be fools not to enjoy it for whatever time we have left.

Just when I think he’s close to finishing, he grunts, pulls out and spins me around. He backs my ass up against the window as he kisses me and hoists me around the waist so my feet leave the floor.

‘I want to watch you come. Hold tight.’

I nod, his puppet, willing to have my strings pulled, because I know this man. I know his values and his desires and he sees what I need.

He grips my waist in one arm, his other hand pressing our entwined fingers against the window, and I wrap my legs around his hips. With my free hand I guide him back inside, and we groan together, as if it were the first time all over again.

Cam’s thrusts turn fast and shallow, his fingers pressed hard into the back of my hand as if he never wants to let me go. I grip his shoulder and tunnel my hand into his hair and hold on tight with everything I have. ‘Cam…’

His eyes lance mine and his thrusts knock the breath from me, but I need to say this. To make things right between us. ‘I’m sorry for what you’ve been through. Sorry for bringing up painful memories.’

His face twists with emotion. He drops his forehead to mine as he says, ‘Hush…’

His kiss tells me I’m forgiven, and then I can’t speak another word because he stops holding himself back, his hips powering into mine as he sinks as deep as he can go and we’re finally lost together.