Читать книгу Burn Me Once - Clare Connelly - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

IS IT POSSIBLE to pass out from pleasure? I know that’s generally the body’s response to painful stimuli, but is it possible to be so turned on that the pleasure almost becomes pain? I’ve never had sex in a cab, but if this drive takes any longer I’m going to do just that.

His hand is on my thigh and his tongue is tangled with mine, his lips move over mine and I am melting into the leather of the seat. Desire is like a volcano in my core, bursting with lava-like heat. He runs his fingers higher, confidently, firmly, until he reaches the lace of my thong. He pads his fingertips across me there and I groan into his mouth, my fingers lifting to knot into his thick hair, my body weak and strong all at once.

He removes his hand from between my legs and his desertion is a wave that flushes me with ice. I grind my hips impatiently and make a whimpering sound as his flat palm drags up my body, over the softness of my clothes to the curves of my breast. He rolls his hand across me as though I am an object and he its owner. His touch sends spirals of fire deep into my body, affecting me on a cellular level.

I make a gurgling sound and laugh, pushing up to kiss him harder, to let my breasts flatten his hand between us. We are wedged together and my hands are curled around his neck and, God, he tastes and feels amazing. Better than amazing.

Finally the cab pulls to a stop and I am flushed with relief—until I realise it’s a stop sign.

‘You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,’ he snaps, his brow furrowed as he shoots an impatient look through the glass of his windscreen.

He feels it too, then. This need that is reverberating through the back of the cab somewhere in the middle of Park Avenue. It makes me feel inexplicably relieved, knowing that I’m not the only one out here on this limb.

He turns to look at me and I laugh at the bewilderment on his features.

‘I swear to God, if this takes much longer...’

I totally get it. Hadn’t I just been thinking the same thing?

I swallow, trying to bring moisture back into my parched mouth. My hand is still on his chest; I can feel the rapid beating of his heart. Thump, thump, thump.

Craning my head around, I can just make out the street sign that shows we’re on the corner of Park Avenue and East Twenty-Second. ‘You said the Gramercy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s like a block away. Let’s walk.’

He arches a brow, and heat simmers through me as he reaches forward and taps on the glass.

‘We’ll get out here.’

He tosses some money through the window and winks at me, opening the door and stepping out so that he can hold it wide for me. I follow, my foot landing on the pavement for the briefest moment before his arm wraps around my waist and draws me to him.

I don’t think the cab has even driven off before his lips are back on mine, with renewed intensity and urgency. His body is strong and he pushes me easily, guiding me to the sandstone wall of some building. It’s cold and hard behind me, and he’s hard and hot against me, his body all angles and planes and thick strong legs surrounding me, holding me still as he grinds against me. His arms are my cage and, oh, the sweetness of being trapped by him!

His mouth holds my head to the wall and I devour him as he devours me, my hands curling around his back to find the waistband of his jeans. I slide my fingers beneath his shirt, groaning as warm skin rewards my seeking. It’s so soft and smooth beneath me. I draw my fingertips on a slow exploration higher, along the ridges of his spine and then to his sides, to hips that are carved and firm.

‘Fuuuuck...’

He groans into my mouth, wrenching his head away—and it is a wrench. Every line of his body speaks to that. It is as though he’s had to fight his way through quicksand just to find space between us.

Maybe it’s the whole rock star thing. Maybe it makes him sexier than mortals. I don’t know. This is so not normal, though. Is it for him?

‘I need to get you to my hotel. Now.’

I nod, not even bothering to argue with him. But there’s a frown between his eyes, just like I always get.

I lift my finger to it, absentmindedly exploring the groove. ‘What’s wrong?’

The line deepens. He has a dimple in his cheek and when he frowns it’s deliciously seductive.

‘Nothing. I...’ And then he shakes his head, steps back, reaches for my hand.

We’ve just been simulating sex with our clothes on, and yet there is something bizarrely intimate about the simple act of lacing our fingers together. His, mine, his, mine, his, mine—in and out, they are woven together, and it’s a new kind of coming together.

‘Let’s go.’

I nod, not sure I’m capable of speech anyway.

After a few paces he looks at me with an almost embarrassed grin. ‘You look like you’ve been thoroughly felt up.’

‘Felt up?’ I laugh. ‘I guess I have been, now that you mention it.’

He squeezes my hand and I lift my other hand to run it over my hair. Always difficult to contain, it is beyond wild now. His fingers have done that. The knowledge makes my tummy flip.

‘Sooo...’ he says on a laugh. A husky laugh. ‘This isn’t how I thought my night would be going down.’

I don’t know if it’s an intentional double entendre but I have an instant image of him doing just that—going down on me—in my mind, and my face heats up.

Unknowingly, I quicken my step. ‘You and me both,’ I hear myself respond, hugely impressed at my ability to sound almost normal.

‘What were your plans tonight?’

‘Drinks with the girls.’ I shrug. ‘Then home by ten to catch up on Poldark and do a face mask.’

He pulls a face.

‘What? You don’t approve?’

‘Of Poldark? It’s something my mother watches.’

‘Mmm... Her and every other red-blooded woman on the planet.’

‘Seriously?’

He squeezes my hand again. I love the way that feels. Like he’s reaching right into my heart and giving it a little paddle with electricity.

‘Uh, yeah. Poldark is awesome. Hot, hot, hot. You should watch it.’

‘After that recommendation? How could I not?’

We stop at an intersection and traffic moves through it, too thick for us to go against the lights. And so we wait.

The night is balmy—I love New York nights like this.

‘Yeah. Summer’s got something going for it.’

I hadn’t realised I’d spoken aloud until he answered my observation. He pulls my hand, so that I bump closer to him. I love the way he smells. The way he feels. A shiver of something a bit like apprehension runs down my spine but I refuse to analyse it. The problem is, though, I’m really not this girl any more. I used to be able to just roll with the night...have fun without taking a second to think about the consequences.

When, exactly, did I grow out of that?

I remember learning to drive and my dad telling me that young people always think they’re invincible. I guess it’s true. It’s so easy to believe that nothing will happen—nothing will go wrong.

And nothing has gone wrong for me, yet caution has set into my bones along with age. At twenty-five I am less able to ignore the paths before me, and I wonder which this night will lead to.

After we’ve slept together—then what? Do I stay the night? Or creep out while he sleeps? If I stay, do we have breakfast together?

And then...?

Do I give him my number and wonder if Ethan I-have-won-a-million-Grammys Ash will call me? Worse, do I take his number and then call him? Agonising over what to say and whether he wants to see me again?

‘So, Alesandre, when you’re not being impossibly sexy in tacky bars what do you do with yourself?’

‘Alesandre is just the Italian version of Alexandra, you know.’

‘Mmm. So that’s a no. Altona?’

I laugh and shake my head. The lights switch to green and we move across the street, each as swiftly as the other, our mutual anxiety to be in privacy barrelling towards us.

‘My flatmates chose the venue.’ I wrinkle my nose. ‘They like it.’

They like the prices, really, but loyalty keeps me quiet on that score. Cassie’s a Broadway actress, but roles are few and far between and she’s forever auditioning and waiting for her big break. She’s an incredible performer, though—I have no doubt she’ll hit it big. Eliza is a primary school teacher, and while she works hard she seems to spend almost her entire salary on stuff for her students. New supplies, craft projects, science experiments...

Maybe if she didn’t insist on doing that we’d be able to drink in slightly more salubrious accommodations.

‘You’re not from New York?’

‘How can you tell?’ I look up at him, surprise obvious on my face.

He draws us to a slow stop just before moving down East Twenty-Second. ‘Your accent.’

‘You can pick up on that?’

He grins. ‘Is that weird?’

I bite down on my lip to stop myself groaning at how damned sexy the twist of his lips is. Ahead of us, the retro light installation above the Gramercy Park Hotel leads a path to our immediate future. Beneath it there’s a huddle of people. I’m not sure, at first, why they’re just standing there—and then I make out the shape of a long-lens camera.

‘There’s paparazzi at your hotel.’ My eyes lift to his face.

A muscle throbs against his jaw, like he’s clenching his teeth or thinking dark thoughts. My insides clench.

‘You go ahead of me,’ he says.

‘Will that work?’

He looks at me for a long moment and then nods. ‘Yeah. Wait for me at the lifts inside.’

It’s easy enough for me to slip past the paparazzi. One photographer lifts his camera and holds it poised at my face. But then, when he sees through the lens that I am nobody, he drops it once more.

I am glad I am nobody.

I am glad I am not her.

The woman who ruined a family.

Guilt sledges through me.

Ethan Ash isn’t Jeremy, and this isn’t a big deal.

It’s just...sex. Fun. Easy. Nothing serious.

Nonetheless, my heart palpitates furiously as I turn and look over my shoulder, catching sight of him as he saunters—yes, saunters—across the street, hands in the pockets of his well-worn jeans, head tilted at an angle that shows the hard lines of his face.

Desire whips me.

I move quickly across the foyer, wanting to be well beyond the paparazzi’s point of interest by the time Ethan joins me. I catch a brief impression of sumptuous red carpet, black and white tiles, enormous crystal chandeliers, animal skins and a fire that would, in winter, create warmth and cosiness with stunning ease.

The elevators are simply shining doors submerged behind wood panelling. I wait beside them, staring straight ahead. I hear the rush of lenses clicking and buttons being pressed and I don’t look. There’s the rustle of a doorman moving outside, and then he is beside me, his finger jabbing at the button of the lift with obvious impatience. We don’t look at one another.

After only a few seconds, the doors ping open. It’s empty.

We step in and Ethan swipes a key card before pressing one of the old-fashioned radio buttons on the panel. It whooshes upwards and my tummy whooshes with it.

I have never wanted a guy this badly.

The atmosphere is heavy with that feeling, that need. It practically hums around us, so that it takes every ounce of my willpower not to press the stop button and beg him to fuck me then and there.

I dig my nails into my palms as extra insurance.

The doors ping open—finally—and even as we step out of the lift he’s reaching for me. Now, in the privacy of the hotel corridor, he lifts me off the ground, his arms tight around my waist as his mouth moves over mine, and he walks like I weigh nothing, and carrying me is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. His lips are punishing and I am submissive, taking the kiss, begging for more even as my legs lift, needing greater purchase, more intimacy, closeness—everything.

I wrap them around him and groan as I hear the unmistakable tearing of my skirt—which was definitely not designed to be spread-eagled around a rock star’s waist. Whoops. Somewhere in my mind I discover another consequential path of this coming together—some makeshift outfit assembly will be required in order for me to get home, whenever it is I do go home.

Without releasing his grip, without lifting his lips, he fumbles the key card against the door. The first time is unsuccessful and he swears into my mouth as the door remains resolutely closed. Second time it springs open and we burst through it. The door slams shut and Ethan drops the key card to the floor like litter, striding deeper into the suite.

I have a brief impression of more luxury, more red, more chandeliers made of beaded crystal—and an enormous bed that is like an oasis in the midst of a never-ending desert. But he turns sharply, propping me against a table instead.

The second my butt connects with the tabletop his hands reach for my blouse and he pulls at it, ripping every single button so that they pop and fly across the room like angry little witnesses to my thwarted needs.

It’s a damned nice blouse—one of my favourites—but I don’t bemoan its demise. I am as eager as he is to be naked and touching all over. I arch my back as he pushes the fabric down my arms, his fingers tracing my flesh as he frees me of the garment before they lift higher, finding my bra. He traces a thumb over the lace and I swear I whimper as though I’m about to come. I think I am about to come.

My eyes skittle to his face, shock in all my features. He understands. I know he does. He curves his hands around my butt and drags me to the edge of the table, so that I can feel the hard, aching heat of his cock through the fabric of his jeans, straining at it, practically breaking it. My fingers seek it—seek him. They fumble at his button and then a noise of triumph erupts from my lips as I find the zip and push it downwards.

But he’s moving, pushing at my bra, freeing my breasts in one moment and claiming them with his mouth the next. His tongue lashes my nipple as his fingers roll the other, and his dick grinds against me through the fabric of our clothes.

Perspiration sheens my skin. I lift my fingers from his jeans, from their futile mission of cock-hunting, and curl them around his hips instead, digging my nails into him, lifting my feet to the edges of the table and crying out as his teeth press into my nipple with enough pressure to make me see stars.

I’m at the edge of the world. Ethan’s there too, but I’m the one who’s stepping off...who’s being flung off! I dig my nails in harder and he rolls his mouth to my other breast, bringing his fingers to tease where his teeth have just been. It’s too much. The sensations and juxtapositions. The heat of his mouth and the coldness of the air-conditioned hotel room. The softness of his fingertips and the hurt of his teeth.

I cry out loudly as an orgasm crashes over me, sucking me under, rendering me the opposite of mute. I am loud and I am desperate and I have no grasp of control. No grasp of time, space or date either, to be honest. If you’d asked me where I was, I would have needed a shot of black coffee to wake up and remember.

I am doused in more sensations than I was even aware existed and yet I’m not done. He’s not done. This is just the beginning.

‘I want to fuck you.’

‘Isn’t that what you’re doing?’ I smile up at him, my body singing.

‘Hell, yeah.’

He pulls at my butt, jerking me closer to him, and then he rolls his cock against me so that I cry out again.

‘Please, Ethan...’ I groan hungrily.

Apparently he doesn’t need to be asked twice. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, then slides a condom from within its folds.

There is a small part of me that is consciously cheering what is about to happen—unlike my body, which is so in the moment. This isn’t just sex. It isn’t just relief. It’s release—it’s an exorcism. I am going to fuck another man, and with every moment and motion I am going to blot Jeremy further from my mind.

I am going to reduce his importance in my life.

With sex.

‘I’ve never been happier to see a little foil square.’ I grin, reaching for it. ‘Now. Let me see what I’m dealing with here.’

His grin is like warm treacle on a hot day. ‘You’re mighty impatient... Alicia.’

Hearing him say my real name is the biggest turn-on yet. And that’s saying something.

My eyes meet his and he knows.

‘Alicia.’

Even better than Ally. My name tastes wonderful on his mouth. He pushes at his jeans and I take over, sliding my hands into his grey cotton boxers, feeling the curve of his ass—of course it’s a fantastic ass. I hold his eyes as I bring my hands to the front, feeling for his long, hard dick. As I enclose it in my fist, wrapping my hand around it hungrily, he lets out a hoarse groan.

‘How do you feel about being fucked fast?’

His laugh is borderline apologetic, and there’s a vulnerability that makes me ache for more than just this. But only for a moment.

‘I feel really, really good about that.’

I rip the top off the condom with my teeth and then slide it over him as he steps out of his jeans. For a moment I wonder at his size—I haven’t slept with anyone in a really long time. Is it possible I’ve forgotten that dicks do this when they’re hard? But it’s big. Really big. And beautiful.

A shiver swirls through me. He pushes his shirt off impatiently and then he’s lifting me up once more, carrying me against his chest, cradling me, into the bedroom. He throws me on the bed and reaches for the remains of my skirt, tearing it off me and then pulling my thong down my legs.

It’s not slow, like he was with the bra. His hands graze my legs, my calves, my thighs, but that’s accidental. He needs me now as much as I need him. There’s no sense denying it. No sense in pretending.

As he brings himself over me I push my palm against his chest, knocking him so that he is on his side, next to me, and we’re face to face. I kiss him as I hitch my leg over his hip, and then push up on my knee so that I’m straddling him.

I don’t know why having control is important to me, but I suppose if I had to analyse it I would probably say that I feel so utterly out of my depth in what I’m feeling that I need something to make me have a sense of agency.

Choice is my agency, though, and I choose this. I choose to move on. I choose to forget. I choose not to let Jeremy make me cower any more. I choose all of what we’re doing.

And my choice has nothing to do with anything other than desire and need and everything to do with Ethan Ash and me—Alicia Douglas.

We are two chemicals, mixing together, swirling, swarming and about to explode.

‘Fuck me,’ I whisper as I lift up and lower myself over him, taking his length deep inside me slowly, letting my muscles adjust to this strange newness. To his size and his needs.

I almost can’t bear the perfection of that moment. The haunting rightness.

He lets out a long, slow grunt and his fingers dig into my hips. He holds me down, low on his length, and he throbs, pulses. I feel every jerk of his desire deep inside me. I hold my breath, chewing on my lip as my nerve-endings quiver in response. His cock is whispering secrets within me and my body is listening intently.

It’s but a moment. A magical moment. And then he’s moving, holding my hips low as he thrusts, his abs rippling with each movement. I drop lower, my mouth chasing each ridge of his chest, my tongue flicking his hair-roughened nipples, my body pressed against his.

His fingers roam my flesh again, like an object, like he owns me, and I love the feeling of being owned by him. I roll my hips and he swears, moving his hands to hold my face, dragging me up to his mouth, to kiss me. And he pushes up, flipping me onto my back while barely breaking the kiss.

Oh, God. It’s bone-meltingly perfect. Like this, he is deep, so deep, and he thrusts harder and faster and his tongue echoes the movements. I lift my legs and his hands grab my ankles, pushing them higher, moving them over his shoulders so that he has complete access to me. It breaks the kiss but I don’t care, because now his lips are moving over my leg, and every thrust is waving me on, nearer to explosive release.

I dig my fingers into his shoulders and there it is!

I cry out as the orgasm shreds me, my hand lifting to his chest to still him, to implore him to wait, so that I am able to feel every tremor of the earthquake he’s created. He knows. He waits. He is patient. The only sound in the room is that of his breathing, loud and hoarse, his control almost at breaking point. But he watches me, watches the effect of pleasure on my face, my skin, and then, when he knows—because he knows me—that I can take it again, he moves once more, slowly at first, letting new sensations build up, before he drops my legs back to the bed and brings his mouth to my mouth, kissing me, making me groan under the weight of the rightness of that moment.

The next time I come it’s with him. We are both on the edge of the cliff, stepping off it together. My fingers seek his and I lace them together again, and that act of intimacy means everything and nothing as our bodies sing in unison.

We are entwined. Him, me, and the luxury of the Park View Suite. I fear that I am lost. Or is that I’m found?