The Dare Collection: May 2018. Clare Connelly
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want to see you come.’
‘You will,’ I whisper, knowing that the wave is about to crash. Any minute.
He pushes deeper and I draw in an unsteady breath, digging my fingernails into my palms.
‘Let me see you.’
I don’t know what he means. I look to him for clarification and our eyes lock. He moves inside me, not looking away, and I don’t look away either because suddenly I can’t. There are invisible forces at work and they compel me to be brave even when I’m running from this feeling.
This perfect, perfect torment.
Inexplicably, tears threaten to moisten my eyes. I blink, but still I look at him. And I fall. I fall off the edge. There is nothing to hold, nothing to save my fall. I am weightless in the air—just me, my pleasure, no gravity, nothing.
I’m sure he sees this, because he’s watching me so closely, and because he kisses me differently as I tremble in his arms. A kiss of warmth rather than heat. Of understanding and acceptance. I kiss him back.
What else can I do?
He moves inside me slowly, letting muscles that are squeezing him frantically return to their normal state, and then he thrusts hard, so that I cry out, and we are falling together this time, holding hands, riding the same wave of pleasure at the same time. I cry his name into his mouth over and over again. Not Ethan Ash, because he is just Ethan again. Ethan who makes me feel as I never knew I could.
Ethan who is mine. Not the world’s.
Though he is. I know that.
But like this, right here, he is mine.
And I am his.
The thought rattles through me as though I am an empty barn and it is tumbleweed. It rocks me to my core.
I am no one’s.
I stiffen beneath him and press my fingers into his chest. I angle my head away.
‘You are fucking amazing,’ he says. ‘This is amazing.’
‘It’s not me,’ I say seriously.
‘I think it must be.’
He kisses the tip of my nose and my gut twists. I must flee from this tempting perfection before it sucks me under and robs me of breath and sanity altogether.
‘I should go.’
His laugh is husky. ‘I’m still inside you.’
He throbs and my breath catches in my throat. Heat suffuses my cheeks.
‘I know.’ With great effort I make my voice light. Amused.
‘You’re not going anywhere.’
He pulls away from me, though, straightening and then standing, striding through the hotel room towards the bathroom. I watch him go, my eyes hungrily devouring this aspect of him—his beautiful, naked body.
He emerges a minute later, a towel wrapped low around his waist. He strides to the phone and picks it up. ‘Ethan Ash. Give me Room Service.’
I prop myself on my elbows, knowing I should make an effort to get dressed, but enjoying watching him too much. I’ll move soon, I tell myself.
He turns to face me; our eyes lock. I am lost once more. I can feel him inside me even though he is across the room. The phantom of his being with me is a powerful, beautiful thing.
‘Fillet steak. Fries. Onion rings. A salad.’ He lifts a brow questioningly and covers the receiver. ‘Anything else?’
I shake my head.
‘Ice cream. Some oysters. Maybe some garlic bread. A peach.’
He winks at me, then hangs up as he strides over to me. He stares at me for a heart-thumping second, his expression unreadable, and then he drops his hands down, inviting me to grab them.
I know it’s not wise, but I put my hands in his as if on autopilot and he pulls me up to stand. Our bodies press to one another. My breath catches.
‘I’ve missed you.’
My heart drops.
He can’t have missed me. It’s not what we are.
I smile, but I know it’s only half a smile. I’m too perturbed, confused, concerned, to be properly amused.
‘I want to ask you something.’
I don’t think my look is encouraging, but apparently he doesn’t notice. He begins to sing again. His latest song. The one that is on all the radio stations—everywhere. His latest song that is a number one hit.
God, he’s so famous.
And yet we speak as though it doesn’t matter.
‘Yeah?’ It’s a hoarse prompt.
‘I’m doing a gig Friday night. Wanna come?’
It takes several seconds for me to connect the words with the truth. The fact that by ‘doing a gig’ he means performing at a concert. And not a little local town hall concert either.
‘Where?’ I ask with a sinking heart.
‘The Garden.’
‘Madison Square Garden?’
He nods.
He’ll be performing for tens of thousands of people. On Friday night. When I would usually be at happy hour with my two best friends.
‘That’s okay,’ I say, not quite sure how to reply properly. ‘I’m good.’
‘I know you’re good,’ he responds with a wry twist of his lips. ‘I’m asking if you want to come to the concert.’
I bite down on my lip and decide honesty is the best policy. ‘Will you be offended if I say no?’
He laughs. ‘No. My ego isn’t that fragile. I’m curious, though.’
Naturally. ‘It’s just...’ How can I put into words what I don’t fully understand myself?
‘You don’t like my music?’ he teases.
‘Can’t stand it,’ I quip back.
His smile makes my stomach lurch. ‘I just...’
‘Yes?’
His lips are twitching at the corners, showing his amusement even as he tries to listen seriously to whatever wisdom I’m about to share.
‘I don’t know. I mean... I just... First of all, I don’t see you like that. I know you’re some superstar, but I like it that this feels so normal.’ I pause. ‘I mean apart from the luxurious apartment, the mega-mansion at the heart of the village and your penchant for ordering everything off the room service menu.’
He laughs.
‘And we both know this isn’t a relationship.’ I force myself to meet his eyes. ‘We’re two people who have agreed to...to sleep together. To fuck. That’s our thing.’ I sigh. ‘I had fun today. At the MoMA with you. But we shouldn’t do that again.’
‘We can do the Staten Island Ferry next time,’ he teases.
‘I’m serious, Ethan.’ I need him to understand. ‘We’ve both said what we want from this. The MoMA, your concert... Those things aren’t on my list.’
He stares at me long and hard for a few seconds. ‘I thought we said we’d have fun?’
‘Yeah. Sexy fun.’
He laughs. ‘I found you very sexy at the MoMA. Think of it as foreplay, baby. It was just one afternoon.’
‘No.’ I shake