The Dare Collection: May 2018. Clare Connelly
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focused on the job so that I am able to focus on him. On the thumb-print-sized divot in his chin. The little score between his brows. The colours in his eyes that have mesmerised me from the first moment I saw him.
My breath escapes as a sigh and his lips twist in acknowledgement of the noise.
His fingers find the hem at the bottom of my shirt and push it up, just enough for his fingertips to glance my flesh. His touch is strangely reverent, as though he is worshipping at the altar of me. It has to be said that if I were ever granted deity status I would totally spend my time doing this.
His eyes roam my face, but he says nothing. He just stares at me for a long, cold second, and then his fingers find me again, and this time they lift my shirt all the way up, over my face, discarding it on the table top.
I’m wearing a neon green sports bra and it’s glued to my skin. He slides his fingers under the elastic at the back and loosens it, but before he attempts to remove it he kisses me. It is a kiss of such depth and need that my gut twists. It is a kiss of ownership, of punishment, of anger and of conquest. Oh, and passion, too. So much passion.
I wrap my legs around his waist, holding him tight. His cock is hard. I feel him through my clothes and I moan into his mouth...a moan that must convey everything I want, because he picks me up, holding me to him, carrying me through the suite towards the bedroom.
He eases me to the ground and removes my bra at the same time, sliding it over my head. I laugh as it catches my hair.
He doesn’t.
His mood is serious.
Focused.
A stone drops through me.
Is this about wanting me? Or wanting her? The night we met, he was furious with her. And he wanted me. For me? For myself? Or was it payback? Did he want to hurt her by fucking me?
So what? I remind myself. This is exactly what I want. Sex. Hot sex. No-strings sex.
It is a swift coming together. We fuck like two people who have been kept apart for months. There is a furious hunger in our movements that burns brightly and explodes swiftly.
He holds me tight afterwards, holds me against his chest, kisses the top of my head and strokes my hair.
* * *
‘So, break it down for me. What’s all the fuss about?’
He slides another piece of peach between my lips. I take it, savouring the juicy sweetness without looking at him.
‘We’ve watched two episodes. How can you not get it?’
‘Maybe I’ve been a bit distracted.’
He reaches over and catches a dribble of peach juice that’s running down my chin. My cheeks flush.
I sigh with mock exasperation. ‘It’s just so angsty. I mean, he’s been away at war, and everyone thought he was dead. His poor fiancé has had to grieve his loss and move on with her life—which she’s done, by deciding to marry, let’s face it, an obviously very poor second choice. Then he comes back to town!’
He’s staring at me as though I’ve begun to talk in a foreign language.
‘It’s essentially a fight between good and evil! It’s a drama, and, yes, there’s romance, but it’s so... Oh, forget it.’
He shrugs. ‘It’s just kind of boring.’
‘How can you not get it?’ I’m outraged. It is so not boring.
He slices another piece of peach, and though I’m facing forward I can see him in the periphery of my vision, his fingers lean and insistent, the paring knife wielded expertly.
I turn to him as he lifts the fruit, my lips parted. He slides it in but I wrap my lips around his finger, holding it in my mouth a moment while my eyes meet his.
‘Plus,’ I say quietly, pulling away, ‘Aidan Turner is seriously hot.’
His brows shoot upwards. ‘This guy?’
‘Uh, yeah.’
I turn back to the screen, smiling to myself as I hear the cogs turning.
‘I mean, sure...if brooding and honourable is your thing.’
‘I think it’s kind of every woman’s thing,’ I say without looking at him.
‘Careful, Alicia.’
My expression is one of innocence. ‘What’s wrong?’
He straddles me quickly, surprising me, and holds the last piece of peach to my mouth. I bite around it, but he pulls his fingers away this time, disposing of the stone and then reaching for the remote. He silences Poldark as he crushes his lips to mine. I taste peach and imagine he does too.
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ He drags my lower lip between his teeth. ‘I just don’t want to share you with Poldark.’
I grin against his mouth even as a warning bell bleats in my brain. He’s just joking. Being silly. Distracting me from a show he doesn’t like. And I’m more than willing to be distracted.
* * *
‘Stay the night.’
I’m on the brink of sleep.
Time has ceased to have meaning. We have been in his bed for hours. Talking. Dozing. Kissing. My body is an odd mix of weightlessness and heaviness. I am satiated and needy.
‘What day is it?’
I’m only half joking. The week has passed so quickly that I can barely remember where I’m at.
‘Saturday. Tomorrow’s Sunday.’
He traces a finger down my nose, following the curve, lifting it over the small jump at its tip and then pressing it to my lips. I kiss it and he smiles beside me, then runs his finger onwards, over my chin to the cleft between my breasts.
Goosebumps scatter across my flesh.
‘Ally?’
‘Mmm?’ I rouse myself to pay better attention.
‘Stay tonight.’
‘No sleepovers, remember?’
‘Mmm... But you feel so good.’
He roves his hand over my naked breast, finding my nipple and circling it until I suck in a shuddering breath.
There is danger in spending the night. I know I must go. And I will. Soon.
I am no longer capable of thought, speech or staving off exhaustion. My eyes sweep shut.
I fall asleep with his hand on my breast and memories of him in my mind.
Where are you?
I PUSH MY phone back into my bag without answering, determinedly turning my attention to the flowers before me.
Stalls line the footpath, but I have my favourite, and I am nothing if not faithful. I select two bunches of tulips—yellow and pink—and hand over some cash from my back pocket. I cradle them against my chest as I weave through the markets, pausing to buy a pretzel and a coffee which I must juggle in one hand.
It’s worth it. The pretzel is warm and soft, the dough salty on the outside and almost sweet within. The pretzel is a perfect metaphor for New York, this city that I found so impenetrable at first and which I now adore.
I have been wandering the streets for over an hour, wondering that same thing. I feel my phone buzz, but have no choice but to ignore it. My hands are now full.
It will wait.