Читать книгу The Dare Collection February 2019 - Nicola Marsh, Avril Tremayne - Страница 16

I SNEAK OUT while he is asleep. Somewhere in the middle hours of the night, in the gap between darkness and dawn, champagne and pleasure have receded from my body, leaving only a gaping hole of uncertainty.

I watched him sleep. I watched his chest, his beautiful chest so covered in tattoos, as it lifted up and down with reassuring regularity. I watched his parted lips release their breaths, and I wondered if I dared to steal, while he was sleeping, the kiss we had forgotten about.

I watched his eyelids flutter as he dreamed—of me, I hope.

And then I slid my feet from the bed, my body all kinds of sore and aware, my heart groaning in complaint at the removal of the possibility of more Connor.

I had only the dress to wear. I slipped it back on in the dimly lit lounge before tiptoeing to the door and pushing my feet into my heels.

I half hoped he would wake.

He didn’t. I pulled the heavy door inwards and moved into the corridor of the luxurious building, taking in all the details I’d been too sexually desperate to notice the night before. The large bright artwork on either side of the lift, the polished wooden floors, the stunning view of a new day splitting over the heart of London’s financial district.

I pressed the button and a moment later the lift pinged open and before I knew it I was here, slipping into the bowels of London, surrounded by the early-morning activity of Canary Wharf tube station.

I don’t want to think about what I’ve done. I assiduously ignore my conscience and responsible self as I step onto the Tube, grateful that the earliness of the hour means I get a seat. It’s a long way to Putney.

I refuse to let my regrets break through, though I know they’re there and I know I’ll have to answer them soon enough.

I stifle a yawn and sit up straighter, so as not to fall asleep.

Three tubes, forty-five minutes later and I am home. I keep my head bent as I move inside, pushing the door inwards, and then lay my back against it so that the hard wood holds me upright. My knees threaten to sag anyway.

I am home, in my own place, and yet here the judgement at what I have done is stronger.

He’s my lecturer...

And yet...

I groan as my body, so far from his now, aches to be with him again. To kiss his tattoos and ask him what each means.

This is madness. This is bliss.

I am hard with need for Olivia Amorelli when I wake. She is not beside me when I reach for her. I frown but I’m not, initially, worried. I’m curious, though, naturally. I smile as I see the remnants of our passion—the champagne bottle, bulldog clips, condom wrappers.

The penthouse is deathly silent. My frown deepens as I look into the bathroom and see it empty. The lounge and kitchen are similarly deserted. There is no note nor explanation, yet it is clear that Olivia is no longer here.

I flick a glance at the clock on the oven. It’s just gone eight, so it’s not like I’ve slept the day away and she had to leave.

I can’t fight the disappointment that surges inside me. It is eclipsed only by an unshakeable sense of worry.

Of doubt.

It’s uncharacteristic of me to feel that I’ve erred with a woman and yet now her departure has given me every cause for concern.

I had the sense last night that Olivia was inexperienced. Haven’t I felt that innocence in her all along? Her purity and goodness are a huge part of what draws me to her. She is everything I need and I can’t say why.

Her fingers shook as she unbuttoned my shirt.

And I tied her up and tortured her with desires that must have been overwhelming for her. She enjoyed it. I frown. God, she enjoyed it, didn’t she? She couldn’t have been faking that kind of pleasure?

Her absence makes me doubt everything.

I reach for my phone and swear aloud: I don’t have her number. We didn’t need to swap numbers because we have a guaranteed way of seeing one another each week.

There’s the app, I remember with a growing sense of unease. Is it creepy to use a university enrolment form to get her number?

Any creepier than luring her back to her professor’s place and fucking her senseless?

Jesus Christ.

I go to the study and reach for the iPad and groan when it’s not there. I must have left it at my office on campus.

Suddenly, not contacting her isn’t an option. I need to at least know that she’s okay. That I didn’t hurt or terrify her. I am aware of the darkness that runs through me and I wish now I had concealed it better from the sweetness of Olivia Amorelli.

I’ll shower, as though that can cleanse me of this sin, and then I’ll go to my office. I can fix her if I’ve hurt her. I can fix this.

* * *

The doorbell rings, a little after five in the afternoon. Hands that were trailing over Connor’s tattooed chest earlier that same day are now covered in flour and gnocchi dough. Professor Wainwright’s latest lecture is playing from my Bluetooth speaker and the glass of Pinot Grigio I poured a few minutes ago sits before me, ice-cold and tantalising.

It’s hardly a convenient time for a guest.

The doorbell rings again and I make a sound of exasperation.

‘Just a second.’ I use my elbow to negotiate the mixer tap up and run my hands beneath the water, wiping away the gnocchi before drying them on the front of my apron as I walk towards the door.

I look through the little peephole and a small sound of surprise, mingled with delight, escapes.

Connor is on the other side of my front door. Connor Hughes in jeans and a T-shirt, looking handsome even when distorted by the fish-eye glass. I can see the whisper of a tattoo on one arm, dark ink sighing from beneath the sleeve.

‘Open the door, Olivia.’

I hadn’t even considered not doing so, but hell, do I need a minute to catch my breath! And get changed.

‘Um...’ I toss a harried look towards the mirror and wince. I am wearing no make-up, and exhaustion from the night before is something I carry on my face like a mask. I showered when I came home in the early hours of the morning and changed into stretchy black yoga pants and an oversized singlet top that shows serious side boob when I move my arms. ‘Wait a second.’

‘Open the damned door,’ he responds.

The commanding tone that was so erotic last night pisses me off now. I push the chain lock into place—a necessary security feature for a ground-floor flat like this—and open the door a fraction. ‘I’m not decent. If you want to come in, you’re going to have to wait a minute for me to get changed.’ His eyes drop to what he can see through the inch-wide opening.

‘I don’t know. You naked beneath an apron is pretty decent to me.’

‘I’m not naked!’ I retort with a blush spreading to my cheeks.

‘Then let me in.’

I grit my teeth. ‘Two minutes.’

He wants to argue with me. I can see it in every line of his body, and the tight way he’s holding his jaw. But he doesn’t. His eyes meet mine and he nods.

I walk down the hallway and into my bedroom—which is a complete tip. I squawk, and make a mental note that we cannot end up in here, no matter what happens. I am not the neatest person in the world. I make an effort to maintain the lounge area of the flat in case my family pop in uninvited, but the bedroom and bathroom are always kind of disgraceful.

I pull a sweater on over my singlet and squeeze my cheeks between my fingers until they’ve got some colour back in them, then move quickly downstairs. I unhook the chain and pull the door inwards without stepping aside.

‘What are you doing here?’ A smile tickles the side of my lips even though I’m surprised by his appearance at my home. ‘And how do you know where I live?’

He narrows his gaze. ‘You said I could come in if I let you get changed.’

I roll my eyes. ‘So I did, sir.’ I step back and he moves into my home, casting his eyes over it with undisguised interest.

‘You’re cooking?’ His eyes land on the little lines of gnocchi and the bowl beside them. ‘And listening to a lecture?’ He grins when he looks at me.

I shrug. ‘So?’

‘Nothing. Just...you surprise me.’ He pushes the door shut behind him and it closes with a resounding thud, as if to underscore that we are alone.

I force myself to remain unaffected, but the butterflies in my tummy are fluttering wildly. ‘Would you like something to drink?’

‘Whatever you’re having,’ he says as though it’s not important.

What is Connor Hughes doing in my kitchen? In my tiny flat in Putney, being all huge and overpowering, strong and distractingly masculine? I pause the lecture and turn my back on him in the hope that I can catch my breath, reaching into the fridge and pulling out the bottle of wine, pouring him a glass which I slide over the bench without meeting his eyes.

‘Thank you.’ The murmured gratitude is unexpected and it slicks my insides with awareness. I lift my eyes to him then and almost wish I hadn’t when my knees, already so weakened, threaten to buckle.

‘What are you making?’ He asks the question softly, and I wonder—absurdly—if he’s nervous. Connor Hughes doesn’t get nervous. And not because of me.

‘Gnocchi.’ I lift my wine to my lips and sip it, then wish I hadn’t when I am instantly reminded of the way he dribbled champagne into my mouth last night.

‘For dinner?’

‘No.’ I lift the bowl and show him the quantity of dough. ‘For lunch tomorrow.’

He doesn’t say anything and now I’m the nervous one, so I explain. ‘We always have family lunch at my parents’ place on a Sunday. It’s a lot of people for my mum to cater for so I like to bring a dish.’

He nods, and I have the strangest sense that he’s filing this information away.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask after a moment, pressing my hands into the flour and then reaching into the bowl and lifting a walnut-sized piece out and forming a small circle in my hands.

‘I wanted to...’ He clears his throat. ‘You were gone this morning. When I woke up.’

My forehead crinkles. ‘I know.’

He reaches across, his touch on my cheek light and surprising. ‘I wanted to make sure you were okay.’

My eyes are wide when they lift to his face. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

Relief is palpable. My genuine confusion seems to warm him and he smiles. ‘Jesus. I thought I might have scared the shit out of you with all the tying up and blindfolding...’

‘The makeshift nipple clamps,’ I remind him with a teasing smile.

‘Yeah.’ Regret is back in his voice. ‘All that.’

‘No.’ I bite down on my lip, knowing I need to be honest with him. ‘You didn’t scare me.’ My reaction did, though. The depth of my desire for him. The way I needed him. The way I really didn’t want to leave him.

‘Jesus, Olivia. Why’d you run out, then?’

I shrug. ‘I didn’t run out. I just woke up and thought it would be easier if I came home.’

His laugh is a beautiful sound. Neither of us speak for a moment, but the silence is filled with the ebb and flow of thoughts and wants. He sips his wine, his eyes trained on my hands as they work, expertly shaping the gnocchi, one by one.

‘But you’ve never done that before.’

I bite down on my lip as I grab another piece of dough. He reaches across and pads his thumb over my lip, reminding me forcefully of how he did that last night.

‘No.’ I answer directly, with no need to dissemble. ‘I’ve never done anything like that.’

I don’t return the question. He was too confident with the belt, the blindfold, for it to have been his first time with that kind of kinky shit. An image of his vibrant sex life with other women is the last thing I want in my head so I smile brightly in the hope of dismissing it.

‘And did you like it?’ he prompts, his expression inscrutable.

My insides heat. I nod, almost incapable of speech.

‘What did you like?’ he asks.

I am embarrassed. Not by what we did, but at the discussion, in my kitchen, over gnocchi I will tomorrow serve to my parents.

‘All of it,’ I say, stumbling over the words a bit. He laughs.

‘And you’d like to do it again?’

Is he asking to make me admit the fact? Or because he needs to hear it? He’s not an insecure man. I know that to be true. He is the definition of confidence and, if anything, he goes beyond that, to blinding arrogance.

And yet he is asking me for something and I know he needs to hear my answer. ‘Yes.’

He simultaneously expels a breath and smiles—a smile that completely changes his face.

My heart races.

‘Would you like to stay for dinner?’

The question surprises us both. He stands up then, sipping his wine before moving around the bench and placing his hands on either side of me. His body presses into my back and his lips drop to my neck, nipping my flesh with his teeth, buzzing my skin with his stubble. I moan and drop a piece of gnocchi into the flour, so that a little cloud of white erupts from the benchtop. I don’t care.

My fingertips are numb.

His hands slide under the front of the apron, finding the hem of my shirt. He lifts it up, running his palms across my stomach and higher, to the swell of my breasts. He is gentle with them today, cupping them reverently as his tongue moves along my shoulder. I shiver against him and feel the hardness of his cock, just behind me.

He runs his hands lower, one hand pushing inside the elasticised waistband of my yoga pants. His fingertips brush against me, teasing my clit, teasing me, and I moan as pleasure radiates through me, all fiercely hot and burningly commanding.

I am panting against him as my pleasure mounts. How can my body feel like this again, now? It is as though the day has passed in a strange suspension of our natural state, and now we are back exactly where we were.

I breathe hard and fast and he moves faster and whispers in my ear, words I am too drugged by desire to catch, words that are low and soft. I feel his breath in my ear as his fingers rob me of any ability to think. I am his, for a song. I am his, for anything.

My fingertips dig into the benchtop as an orgasm explodes around me. It is fierce and all-consuming. I stand in my kitchen, the air thick with my passion, my skin pink, my breath rushed, and I wait for the world to stop racing.

I spin in his arms and stare up at him, my eyes round, my face flushed. I want him. I need him. I am lost to him. He understands, I know he does, and yet he steps back, a smile on his lips promising me things he is withdrawing right before me.

‘I can’t stay.’ The words aren’t even tinged with regret. My stomach swoops—not in a good way. He moves back towards the door and my hungry gaze chases him in confusion.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I have to go.’ He presses a hand to the doorknob. ‘I just needed to be sure.’

‘Of what?’

‘That you’re okay.’ His smile dazzles me then, almost as much as his concern.

I gape, though, so close to being with him and yet so far. ‘You don’t have to go right now, surely...’

‘Yeah, I really do.’ He laughs softly as he pulls the door inwards and then he leaves. Evaporates. Disappears.

* * *

I walk away from her to prove that I can. I walk away from her when I want to stay because it feels somehow vitally important. I don’t remember the last time I wanted someone like this. I don’t think I ever have.

In fact, I know I haven’t. This kind of desire isn’t welcome. I like my relationships to fit neatly into the space I allot them in my life. Snatched nights to suit my schedule, weekends away when I’m between cases. Always over when I say, and most definitely ‘out of sight, out of mind’. Olivia is the first woman to break into my mind and obliterate any box I might have hoped to contain her with. And it’s only been one night.

But what a night.

The law school ball. My apartment. Everything we wanted for four weeks exploded and we were powerless in the wake of that.

Sleeping together is absolute madness but I can’t see either of us stopping what we’ve started.

So finding a box and putting her—this, us—into it is crucial. Control is crucial.

Controlling this, her, what I want and need from her, remembering that this is just an infatuation—this is all important, and so I walk away from her to prove to us both that I can.

I need to be strong so I walk away when all I want to do is carry her to bed and make her my own again.

I stare at the cross on my wrist as I hail a cab. I am not a man of God, but from the age of twelve I was raised by one. Father O’Sullivan taught me many things, including the importance of an unswerving belief in my own strength.

I have conquered many things. The loss of my parents. The anger that swirled through my adolescent frame at their violent deaths. There were many torments to rise above and I have always done so.

But this, I fear, is something different altogether. I’m not so sure I can conquer this obsessive lust in a way that will save Olivia from losing everything she’s worked for. So much is at stake—I have to be strong. We must be careful.

As I slide into the back seat of a cab, I shoot one more look at her little house on the river. My gut twists with regret.

I would do almost anything to be back in her kitchen, with her in my arms...