The Dare Collection December 2019. Clare Connelly
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‘We’re nearly there.’
‘Nearly where?’
‘Don’t like surprises?’
‘I like some surprises.’
‘Speaking of which,’ he murmurs, surprising me by bundling me into his arms and pushing me against a wall. My breath catches in my throat, my face tilting towards him. ‘Did you get the box I sent you?’
A smile lifts the corners of my lips. ‘Which box would that be?’ I feign ignorance.
‘A little box of silk and lace, and a rather delightfully placed ribbon, if memory serves…’
‘Ah.’ I can’t stop the smile that spreads over my face. ‘You’re just going to have to wait and see.’
‘Haven’t I been waiting a decade already?’ he groans, dropping his head forward and brushing his lips over mine. Desire sets up camp in my belly.
‘Did you choose the lingerie yourself?’ I can’t help asking.
His face is serious. ‘Of course. Did you think I had my assistant do it?’
‘Or your driver,’ I tease.
‘Edward can cross town in fifteen minutes flat but I don’t think he and I share the same taste in women’s apparel.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘You don’t like Edward’s taste either?’
I laugh. ‘I don’t think I’ve even clapped eyes on the man. I just meant I like the idea of you going into a boutique and picking something out. For me.’
‘Ah.’ He nods, sagely, his own mouth quirking into a delicious smile. ‘I did.’ He drops his head a little closer, so his breath teases my cheek. ‘You know what else I did?’
My heart rate accelerates. ‘What?’
‘I ran my fingers over it.’
Heat pools between my legs.
‘I imagined you in it.’
God. I feel weak-kneed.
‘And then…’
I hold my breath, waiting. Desire is like a moth inside me, my blood the flame to which it’s drawn. I feel the wings beating through my veins, hollowing me out from under my skin.
‘Yeah?’ My voice is just a croak.
‘I went home and jacked off, imagining you in it.’
‘Oh, God.’ It’s a tremulous acknowledgement of one of the sexiest images I’ve ever had planted in my brain.
He’s smiling; I’m not. I’m burning up. I can no longer wait to be with him. I look around us—we are practically alone, save for the cars hurtling past and the occasional jogger out for a late-night run.
‘I want to go home with you.’
He nods.
‘Now.’
He laughs. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Wherever you were taking me, scrap it. I just want to get in a cab and go back to yours.’
‘I’m taking you there now.’
I push away from the wall, my expression showing him I mean business. ‘Good, then let’s go.’
A few minutes later, he leads me across the street and towards the Hudson.
‘You live on the water?’
I wrack my brain, trying to remember his address details from the paperwork, and come up empty. Someone better at this than I am might have taken the time to pull his file out for review, to re-familiarise themselves with his bio. But it never occurred to me and, actually, I’m kind of glad, because it’s nice learning about Nicholas straight from the horse’s mouth, rather than having a heap of his life story stored in my memory banks.
‘I don’t.’
‘Then why are we going down here?’
‘Just a second.’ He grins, and I know he likes this—knowing something I don’t. His hand curves around mine. He must feel the way my pulse is rabbiting in my wrist.
We pass a big building with a sign that proclaims MANHATTAN HELICOPTER RIDES in shining red letters.
But the office is boarded up. Further along there are a couple of security guys, and several sleek black helicopters. Nicholas holds something up and one of the security guys waves us through.
‘Good evening, Mr Rothsmore.’
He dips his head in silent acknowledgement, shepherding me past more of the helicopters before changing course and weaving us between two. We approach one, larger than the rest, with Rothsmore Group emblazoned across the tail.
‘What is this?’
‘A helicopter.’
I roll my eyes. ‘No kidding.’
‘I thought it’d be the fastest way back to my place.’
I laugh, a little unsteadily. ‘You’re going to pilot the thing?’
He leans closer, so I smell his intoxicating fragrance, and my gut rolls in a way that I am learning to get used to. ‘It’s not my first time.’
He holds the door open for me, then supports my hand as I step up into the helicopter. Inside, it’s like a cross between a private jet and a spaceship. The interior is all beige leather with shining wood panelling. I take the co-pilot’s seat, but behind us there’s a cabin with four deep armchairs facing towards a central table. Each has a thick black seat belt coming from both shoulders into a latch between the legs.
I reach for the clip and hook it in place, the pressure between my legs exacerbating an already fraught central nervous system.
Despite all of the events I’ve organised for the club, this is actually my first time in a helicopter. I have to say I’m a little afraid of the whole idea. I mean, they’re so un-aerodynamic…how can a helicopter possibly hope to survive if something goes wrong with it? They’re like a dead weight on the atmosphere, pure drag. At least a plane looks as if it should glide, even if the rational part of me knows that an aeroplane is also a dead weight.
My point being, I thought I’d be afraid, climbing into this thing, but the second Nicholas takes the seat beside me, I relax. I smile. More than that, my insides buzz and hum with excitement.
This is going to be fun—and that’s what we’re all about.
New York glitters beneath us. The world-famous bridge cuts over the darkness of the Hudson, the only void of light in what appears to be a sparkler as we get higher over the city.
I am torn between looking at the view and looking at Nicholas, who flies the helicopter as though he does so every day. And perhaps he does.
I note the strength and capability of his hands as he manages the controls, pushing levers while he manoeuvres the navigation stick. Perhaps he feels me watching him because he shifts to look at me, his eyes pinning me to the spot, and his smile, though slow to spread, is as if it’s poured from hot lava, pure sex appeal and dynamism.
I swallow and look away, butterflies now rampant in my stomach. He begins to bring the helicopter in lower, over the city proper, and another void looms before us. Central Park, I recognise from the surrounding buildings. I’m on the Upper East Side, a little further north, but he lowers the helicopter down gently, onto the roof of a high rise that must be just south of the park. Billionaires’ Row—that figures.
A cursory look from my window shows three other helicopters on the roof. He unhooks his seat belt then reaches across; before I realise what he’s doing, his hand is between my legs. My face jerks towards him,