Читать книгу Cross My Hart - Clare Connelly - Страница 10

I WATCH AS she walks into the hotel room, wondering what she thinks of this place. I think you can tell a lot about a person by the way they appraise hotels, and her eyes skim the simple, small room. A comfortable king-size bed—a prerequisite—a small en suite bathroom, a view of another city high-rise. The harbour is down at the rocks and I’m up near the park.

I remind myself she has no reason to be surprised by the somewhat meagre accommodation.

She doesn’t know who I am.

She doesn’t know what my bank balance is.

She knows nothing about me.

Except that she wants me.

And, God knows, I want her.

I’ve been with precisely three women since my marriage ended. An ex-girlfriend in Berlin for old times’ sake—even though the old times weren’t actually that great—a lawyer from Stockholm, and Katrina, who lives in the subpenthouse beneath me. That was a dick move, because every time I see her in the lift it’s like she’s angling for an invitation back to my place and nothing fills my veins with ice more than the idea of a relationship right now.

The ink on my divorce papers is barely dry—I got the notification from my lawyer last week—and I plan on staying single a goodly while. Possibly for ever.

This kind of thing—casual sex with fascinating and enchanting women—is all I need. Companionship, satisfaction and no strings—or iron chains, as was the case with Lorena. And this can’t be more than it is—one night. I’m leaving in the morning, flying north to check out a golf course I’m toying with buying before heading home to the States.

This is my one night in Sydney.

One night with Grace.

I don’t even know her last name, and I want to keep it that way. Last names lead to expectations and I expect nothing of women now. I expect nothing at all. I thought I was different, that my marriage was different, but here I am, twenty-nine with a divorce under my belt. Who knows how many I could rack up if I wasn’t determined to not become Adrian Hart?

My father screwed up in a billion ways—but by far the worst, the one I run from every day of my life, was his ability to suck people in, chew them up and spit them out. Time and time again I saw him make women love him, but he never loved anyone. Not even us, I think. He was proud of his sons, proud that he had three boys to raise and carry on the Hart name.

But he didn’t love us.

He didn’t love anyone.

How else could you explain what he did to Holden? I think of my brother and the news he learned only a month ago—that Hart blood does not run through his veins—and anger slams into me. Our father was a bastard, but keeping the truth of Holden’s parentage from him was the cruellest, strangest decision he made.

Grace’s eyes have stopped inspecting the room and now she’s looking at me with a mix of curiosity and desire. I like the latter.

‘Would you like a drink?’ I offer, moving to the minibar and scanning it.

‘God, no, those things cost a fortune. Don’t waste your money.’

My lips twitch involuntarily, imagining how my brothers would react to that comment. With over thirty billion apiece, it’s been a long time since any of us has worried about the overinflated cost of the minibar. Then again, isn’t that part of why I choose to stay in places like this? Because I hate the assumptions people make when they know who I am. I hate everything people think about me when they know who I am.

‘It’s fine,’ I assure her. ‘Champagne?’

She moves towards me, the skirt she’s wearing kicking a little as she walks, so my eyes drop to her legs of their own accord.

‘I don’t need a drink.’ She presses a hand to my chest and then pushes me backwards, towards the bed.

I laugh, a husky sound from low in my throat. Her forwardness is different but, fuck me, I like it. She pushes again, her eyes holding mine, and I fall onto the bed, pushing up it until I’m in the middle. I watch as she stands at my feet, her fingers moving to the bottom of her shirt. For a second she hesitates, and then she lifts it up, over her sides, towards her head and she drops it to her side. I don’t see more than the swish of the fabric, though, because my eyes are locked to her breasts as though they’re some kind of glue or magnet in effect.

They are nice breasts.

My hands tingle with a need to touch them, to feel their weight in my palms. She reaches around behind herself for the bra strap, and I hold my breath, watching as she undoes it, her eyes still on mine. There is challenge in them and pride, a mutinous look of sheer determination, as she does something that perhaps she thought she might chicken out of.

Grace’s hands drop to her skirt, and my cock is like granite in my pants. I am desperate to touch her, for my hands to be doing what her hands are, but somehow I feel like this matters to her. That taking charge of this is a big part of what she needs, and so I stay where she’s pushed me, I lie there and I watch her and I tell myself, soon. Soon I will touch her and taste her and kiss her and drive myself deep into her body, burying myself balls-deep in her wetness, making her cry my name again and again into this tiny room.

She moves slowly, too slowly. I want to see her, I want to see her naked, but she teases the skirt over her narrow hips, her eyes almost laughing as they watch me, and then, realising she’s enjoying this, I hiss out a breath, but still don’t move. Finally, finally, she’s wearing just about the most delicious scrap of lace I’ve ever seen. It’s barely anything—fine and delicate, it covers her vagina but at the hips it’s just lace, narrow bands that wrap around to the back.

‘Turn around,’ I command, my voice throaty.

Her eyes hitch to mine and she bites down on her lip again, drawing my attention to the full pillow of her lower lip. It was one of the first things I noticed about her. That, and the long blond hair that tumbled over one shoulder. And the way she kept stirring her drink and darting her eyes around the bar.

With the same speed, or lack thereof, she used to remove her skirt, she begins to spin, turning her back on me, and I can’t help the groan that escapes me. ‘Fuck me,’ I mutter, because the lace is just a T between two perfect peach-like arse cheeks.

She tosses a glance over her shoulder. ‘Isn’t that the plan?’

Okay. I get that she wants to be in control here, but suddenly my dick is like a torture device in my pants. I move my hands to my belt but she turns back to me and I’m hit with the realisation of her beautiful rounded breasts and I don’t know if I’m an arse or tit man any more, but just that Grace is whatever I need and want.

She straddles me, her hands on mine. ‘Let me.’

She’s really doing the whole ‘take charge’ thing, but I lie back, not caring if it’s her or me who gets my clothes off, just caring that somehow we’re naked together, soon.

But, instead of unbuttoning my jeans, she leans up to my shirt, which means wriggling her body higher up my frame, so suddenly her G-string-clad body is pressed right over my dick.

She moves her hips provocatively and I am done with the passive lie-still thing. I grab her hips, holding her on my cock, staring at her while I move my hips, as though I really were inside of her and she were naked, her legs spread, taking me into her wet core.

Her eyes flare wide and I grunt as I move her body up and down my length, through my jeans, and she’s not passive here, either; she begins to grind her hips, using me to get off, her hands balling in my shirt front before pushing it up my body, and I lift my head so she can get it off completely and then she’s dropping her body forward so her breasts, her soft, round breasts, run over my hair-roughened chest and she moans, low in her throat. Her nipples are puckered and hard and I thrust against her and she whimpers, her fingers digging into my shoulders as she cries out and trembles, pleasure filling her in a way that is more erotic than just about anything I’ve ever known.

Fuck me sideways, she’s hot.

Her breathing is loud, tortured. Her mouth is hot, and she drops it to my shoulder first, nipping the flesh there with her teeth before dragging it lower, to my chest. She finds a nipple and flicks it; my dick jerks in my pants.

I bring my hands around and cup her arse, pressing her against me, and then slide a hand in front of her, finding her clit, and then her seam, pushing inside her, rejoicing at the feel of her muscles, so tight, so wet, so hot. I swirl my finger around her and she whimpers and then her hands are on my belt and she’s moving away from me, she’s looking at me with white-hot hunger as she pushes her thong down her thighs and steps out of it, then rips my jeans apart, pushing them.

She works fast, but not fast enough. The second I’m naked I feel like it’s taken ten years to reach this stage, but hell, it was worth it.

I’m desperate to roll her onto her back, to take over, but there’s that look in her eyes that speaks of a desperation, as though she’s proving something to herself, and far be it from me to stand in the way of whatever challenge she’s facing.

We’ve only got one night, but I plan on using the whole night, every goddamned minute, to enjoy Grace as much as I can before I leave. This first time, though, it’s like slaking a ghost. There’s a need humming through her that’s more than just physical.

‘Condom?’ she asks, panting, her eyes sheened with the haze of her desperation. For a second I’m jarred out of this sexual fog and into reality because I was very close to forgetting to use protection and I would have said, until two minutes ago, that safe sex is reflexive for me—as much so as brushing my teeth or walking my dog.

‘Yeah.’ I push out of bed, using the chance to get rid of my jocks, and reach for my wallet. I always travel prepared, even though I didn’t come here expecting this. Seeing those divorce papers made me contemplate celibacy.

Briefly.

Her eyes are devouring me, my ink, my muscles. I watch her watching me and wonder what her ex was like. It’s a thought out of nowhere; it doesn’t belong. I shove it aside, using my mouth to tear open the wrapper, and then unfurl the rubber over my length. Slowly, so slowly it’s almost agonising, but I want to pay her back a little for her own sensual tease. I cover my dick and keep my palm wrapped around the base of my cock.

Her breath is the only sound in the room, hot little rasps that make me feel like I could come any minute. And then she’s moving towards me, around the bed, her beautiful naked body something I’d love to just stare at, but, instead, she barrels against me and her mouth finds mine, hot and insistent, determined. Sweet Jesus, we haven’t kissed before and this is all so backwards that only now, after I’ve had my finger inside of her, do I realise she’s a great fucking kisser.

If we’d kissed in the bar I would have known this would happen—you can tell a lot about your chemistry with someone from the way you kiss, and this kiss is burning me up. Or maybe it’s the feel of her generous, soft breasts pressed against my chest, or the little moaning noises she’s making.

Fuck me.

I lift her arm, needing more of her, all of her, and wrap her legs around my waist, just needing to be as close as possible to her, and spin her so her back is against the wall. My desperate, hungry cock nudges at her rear without design and she arches her back, breaking our kiss for a second but giving me access to her breasts. My mouth, my ravenous, seeking mouth, drops to her nipple and sucks it inwards. Rolling my tongue over her swollen nipple, tracing it, sucking it, my hand seeks the pleasure of the weight of her other breast.

I feel it in my palm, my fingers brushing over her nipple, and she’s crying my name and it feels so good to hear her say it I am bursting inside. Fuck this, I need her. No. I have a ravenous need for all of her; all she offers I will take and take again.

But there’s heartbreak in the room, too, and as I pull away from her, kissing my way up her chest towards her throat, where I flick her pulse with my tongue, I ask, ‘You’re sure?’

Because I’m not a total arse, and she’s mourning her ex and using sex to deal with that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to be used, but I want to hear that she’s sure before we do this. I’m not my father—I’m not someone who exists in a bubble, not caring who he hurts.

Her eyes latch to mine and I don’t think her ex is anywhere in her mind right now. This is her and me and the tornado of desire that’s swallowing us up whole.

In answer, she digs her heels into my back so she can push up my body a bit, and rearranges herself, moving over my length. Her eyes are wide as she takes my tip inside herself and every bone in my body wants me to push inside of her all the way, but I don’t. I wait, letting her get used to this, to the size of me, the feel of me.

She digs her nails into my shoulders as she goes down lower, and my hands cup her arse, holding her there, supporting her, and just feeling her beautiful roundness. Lower, and my cock is half-buried in her and she feels so tight, she’s squeezing me in a way that is insanity inducing. Lower, and I see stars at how good this feels. She moans, tips her hips, rocking forward a little, and heat stains her cheeks. She’s riding a wave and I still, watching her pleasure herself on my body for the second time that night.

Her responsiveness is some kind of catnip.

Lower still, until finally all of me is deep inside her, so deep, and we are melded together completely. And now, only now, do I thrust, lifting my head to watch her as I hold her hips still and push, deeper, harder, and she cries out, biting down on her lip, moaning, and begging me for more, please, more.

‘Your wish is my command, baby.’ I laugh, but it’s husky because I haven’t felt this turned on since I was in school and sex was still new and illicit. I thrust into her again and again and her back hits the wall and her legs stay tight around me so our bodies are like one, and my hands hold her arse, her beautiful butt, and I ache for everything, for this and so much more. I find her nipple again, the other breast this time, and I take it in my mouth, rolling her with my tongue, then clamping my teeth down so she cries my name into the room and I laugh, but it comes out strained because my own wave is lifting me up and I feel like I’m losing any grip I have on my control.

I take a breath, keeping my mouth on her breast, listening—feeling—the fast rushing of her heart, the beating that’s like a cacophony of wild horses, pounding hard, and I know I’m the cause for that. Male pride swells inside of me, but I want more. I want to make her come again. And again and again and again. I want to give her so many orgasms that she can’t even remember her ex’s name. Or maybe it’s that I want to give her so many orgasms I forget what a lying bitch my ex-wife was, I forget how much of our relationship was a fake.

Nothing about this is fake.

Grace is giving me everything, all of herself, and this moment, even though it’s just physical, is the most intimate I’ve been with anyone in a long time.

Fuck. Stop thinking so much and just enjoy this!

I pull her away from the wall and cross to the bed; my legs are shaking, desire and adrenaline pumping through them. I drop her onto her back, falling with her so we don’t have to come apart at all, and the second she connects with the mattress I push into her again. She stares up at me, her eyes huge in her face as she looks at me, as though she’s high or drugged or completely blissed out.

I pull out of her so just my tip is teasing her clit and she pushes onto her elbows, her blonde hair falling over her face. ‘Don’t you dare stop,’ she demands, fixing me with a look that is at once frantic and totally desperate.

The fact she doesn’t mind showing how turned on she feels is another form of catnip.

‘Wasn’t going to,’ I promise, not sure I could, even if a thousand wild horses tried to drag me away from her.

‘I’m so close,’ she says, and her cheeks flush pink and her beautiful, full lower lip gets dragged between her teeth. The thing is, I don’t want this to be over yet, not even for a moment, and I think I’m at the edge of my control myself.

I keep my tip at her seam and she writhes beneath me, desperately trying to pull me back inside of her, the keening noises she’s making something my mind will replay often. My mouth drags down her body, finding the underside of her breast and flicking at it. She’s salty and sweet and my gut clenches with a wave of desire—more like a tsunami. Down I go, all the way, crouching off the edge of the bed and pulling on her legs, pulling her lower. I kiss her thighs, the skin there so soft and pale, creamy and raw.

She isn’t moaning now, but her breathing punctures the stillness of the night. She’s waiting. Waiting quietly, uncertainly.

I smile to myself as my hands curve over her thighs and separate her legs a little wider, clamping them where they are, and her beautiful sex is right there before me.

‘Jagger...’ My name falls out of her mouth—a plea, a question.

‘You’re close?’ I ask, my tongue running up her seam.

Her harsh intake of breath is loud and primal.

Her hands scrape as they run over the duvet, digging into it.

‘Uh huh,’ she exhales. I find her clit and suck it into my mouth and she cries out louder now, and I laugh—despite the fact I’m as hard as I can get, the fact we’re surrounded by thin walls and God knows who else on the other side of them doesn’t seem to have entered her head and I’m glad. I love her lack of self-consciousness.

I flick my tongue over her and she trembles beneath me—I kiss her harder, faster, my tongue tasting her until she explodes and I keep her legs right where they are, when she might have pulled herself away, because I want to enjoy every damned thing about her release. As she rides that wave, I push a finger inside of her and she bucks hard, her muscles squeezing me, and I groan then because my cock is more than a little jealous to be missing this party.

But there’s time. We’ve got all night. Just this one night...and I’m going to make it count.