Harden My Hart

by Clare Connelly

  Besides, it’s hardly a strip search.

  That will come later.

  The thought heats my cheeks so I’m worried the X-ray will show my elevated heart rate as I step through the scanner. It doesn’t. Nothing untoward is in evidence, apparently.

  ‘This way.’ She gestures to another elevator and this time, when the doors ping open, she doesn’t follow behind me. Instead, she simply swipes her card and presses a button then offers one more brittle smile as the doors clip shut.

  I hold my breath, feeling like I’m spinning on some kind of merry-go-round.

  The doors open and the merry-go-round speeds up because, whatever this place is, I feel as though it’s a palace high up in the sky.

  I step off the elevator, my eyes moving quickly through the space. Double height ceilings, more marble here, white and glossy, world-class artwork, designer furniture and views of Sydney that are unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

  One whole wall of the penthouse is constructed from glass and as I stare at this incredible apartment a door opens and Holden steps in.

  My heart begins to hammer, slamming into my ribs like it has some kind of vendetta against the rest of my body.

  Now, in the middle of his penthouse, I feel all kinds of uncertain. It’s one thing to know a guy’s a billionaire, and sure, he had the private jet, but somehow this just feels so much more real because it’s a language I speak. I know what property costs. I know what Sydney costs.

  I process all those thoughts in the space of a few seconds, but when he steps into the room and closes the door I can think of nothing but Holden.

  First of all, it’s winter and he’s just been out on the balcony wearing only a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. Is he crazy? Secondly, he looks good enough to eat. Tanned and virile, his short dark hair serving to emphasise the strength of his face, his eyes locked to me in a way that heats my blood.

  ‘Cora.’ He says my name like it’s an incantation. Or maybe he says it with disbelief, like he didn’t think I’d actually come. I move deeper into the apartment, looking for somewhere I can put my clutch down and deciding on a little side table. I lay it on the edge then unravel my scarf and place it there too. I’m conscious of his eyes on me the whole time and my body responds predictably.

  ‘The security to get up here’s kind of intense.’

  He nods, his expression unchanging. ‘It’s necessary.’

  ‘But why here? You didn’t have a bodyguard on the flight.’

  He moves closer, his hands reaching for the shoulders of my jacket, holding it so I can shrug out of it. This is familiar. Slower than last time, but no less urgent. If anything, there’s a sort of restraint about him, as though he’s willing himself not to pounce on me.

  ‘My jet is a safe space. Staff are rigorously screened. Ordinarily.’

  Was that why he was so surprised at how easily I’d got on board? A pang of something like remorse shifts through me. ‘I didn’t realise.’

  ‘Generally, I can operate beneath the radar, which makes this kind of security unnecessary. But here in the casino there’s a chance of being targeted.’ His hands linger on my shoulders, his touch like heaven. ‘I hope you weren’t offended.’

  ‘Not at all. Just interested.’

  His thumb begins to stroke my collarbone, moving over the dress so it pulls a bit and somehow the added tactile experience of the dress underneath his thumb on my skin makes my body tremble. My stomach squeezes and my nipples pucker almost painfully.

  ‘Interested, huh?’

  I feel his subtle shift in conversation and nod. ‘Very.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Needs wash over me. I close my eyes for a moment as if I can brace for this, and when I open them he’s reaching for me, lifting me over his shoulder so I can only laugh.

  ‘I can walk, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, but I can walk quicker.’

  It speaks of a breathtaking urgency—familiar, once more—and I stop smiling because I feel it too, I feel this desperate need pushing me to him, just like last time we were together. I flush as I remember the stairs and the way we made love there.

  I’m barely aware of the layout of the penthouse. The enormous entrance way and living room I stepped into feeds into a long, wide corridor. Marble underfoot, white walls, the frames of world-class paintings. We pass several doors, some shut, some open, none easy to see through, before he rounds a corner and enters a darkened room. I’m conscious of another glittering aspect of Sydney, this time looking back towards the CBD, so it’s all high-rises and lights.

  Just inside the door he eases me to the ground, but the second my feet hit the carpet he’s reaching for the bottom of my dress and lifting it up my body, his impatience igniting a fierce volcanic eruption within me because I can’t say I’ve ever needed anything like I need Holden.

  But maybe he was right this afternoon. Perhaps it’s not him I need so much as the wilful obliteration of memories that feel so much more real now that I’m back in Australia.

  The dress is a caress as he drives it up my body. I’m not wearing a bra. The fewer clothes you wear the better. For both of us.

  ‘Jesus.’ He groans, dropping his head and burying it between my breasts so I tilt my head back to give him better access. His hands grip my hips, holding me to him, and then he’s undressing himself with the same desperate hunger, pushing his jeans down, stripping his shirt over his head, stepping out of his socks so he’s completely naked.

  I take a step back because one thing I haven’t done yet—either of the times we were together—is properly look at him. I was so caught up in what we were doing both times, in the excitement of it, that my observational skills were off kilter, but now I want to see and recognise every damned detail I can.

  His chest isn’t just broad and muscled, it’s marked with layers of ink, so many tattoos that I could spend hours decoding them, asking about each, because I’m as sure as anything that there’s a story there.

  One in particular stands out and sends a shiver down my spine. Letters in what I imagine must be the Greek alphabet and, above them, a picture of some kind of mythological god. I press a finger to it but he winces, as though it’s fresh ink when it’s not. It’s like I’ve hurt him.

  And before I can ask the significance of the tattoo he’s pushing me across the room with his body, his powerful frame guiding me to the bed so we stumble onto it together and all thoughts of artwork flee from my brain. There is no space for them when Holden Hart is on top of me, pressing me into the mattress with his powerful frame. I kick my shoes off—he’s forgotten them—then wrap my legs around him, silently drawing him towards me. At the same time I push up onto my elbows, moving my mouth towards his. He hesitates for a second, looking at me with a question or a doubt in his eyes, then shakes his head gruffly, makes a growling noise and takes complete possession of my mouth, the pressure of the kiss pushing me back down into the bed.

  I writhe beneath him, my body needing more than he’s giving me, my pulse firing for some kind of absolution from this delightful torment. His cock is between my legs and I ache to feel him inside of me, just like last time, but he doesn’t move and he doesn’t answer my repeated attempts to bring him towards my sex.

  I swear into his mouth and shake my head, breaking our kiss.

  ‘Fuck me, Holden.’

  His eyes flicker to mine, something travelling between us, unspoken but important, and then he stands, staring down at me as his chest shifts with each breath he draws in. I watch as he strides, long-legged, across the room, disappearing through a door for a moment then returning with not just one condom but a line of them.

  And lightning strikes through the core of my being because I was so very close to forgetting about protection completely. I’m not even on the fucking pill! What the hell? Didn’t I learn my lesson with Dave? But of course I did!
The few guys I’ve been with since Dave have had to listen to my lectures on safe sex ad nauseum because falling pregnant is a consequence I’m not willing to entertain, ever.

  ‘Crap.’ There’s an apology in my curse. ‘I was just so—’

  ‘I know.’

  He rips one foil square open and pulls the rubber out, positioning it over his length while he’s watching me.

  ‘I never don’t use protection,’ I say urgently, needing him, for some reason, to understand, as if that can assuage the torrent of panic which engulfs me.

  ‘I don’t either. It will never happen, Cora. If you forget, I won’t.’

  I swallow because it’s not really good enough, but there’s no point belabouring that point now. I can reprimand myself later.

  ‘Please...’ I reach for him, knowing he’ll drive those thoughts from my mind too, that forgetfulness is within reach. ‘Now.’

  He nods, understanding, dropping on top of me so I laugh. He doesn’t. He’s so serious. So sombre. But in this—sex—we connect, so I wonder what it is in his life that makes him how he is, and I reject the idea of asking him because it speaks of something other than this.

  His nudges my legs apart and drives into me. Not like last time. Not tentatively, not slowly. He drives himself into me in a way that tells me he’s been craving this, needing me, just as badly as I have him. I moan as he fills my body, my muscles rejoicing to welcome him back, my back arching. No sooner has he entered me than he begins to move, and he drags his mouth to my breasts, tormenting my nipples in a way from which they’re yet to recover.

  I hold him tight and I mirror his movements, my mouth seeking his shoulder first then migrating lower, nipping his collarbone before kissing the top of his pectoral muscle and then, out of nowhere, a mind-blowing orgasm bursts through me, ripping me apart at the seams, obliterating sense from soul. I explode on a rushed wave, all the more potent for how surprising the orgasm was to me. It came out of nowhere and it burned me alive.

  I shout his name, uncaring if anyone hears, uncaring if I deafen him, because he deserves it in a way, for being so good at this.

  He makes a low rumbling noise, not exactly a laugh but something close to it, and then he’s standing up, grabbing me to follow, kissing me as he grips my hips and turns me over, his hands fondling my breasts, pushing me towards the bed so I’m bent at the hips and then he enters me from behind, his possession absolute, his cock so deep that I feel another orgasm building already. One hand pushes down my body, finding my clit, and he strums me there while his other hand is clamped vice-like across my breasts, driving me towards heaven... God, another galaxy, I don’t know! Except I’m floating out of this room and far from this earth.

  Every time he pushes into me my body reverberates and his hand at my clit doesn’t let up so the orgasm that’s building crashes over me and this time he’s with me, his own release marked by the sound of his voice joining mine, a groan forced out of him as he holds me still, both of us allowed to experience every shift and vibration brought on by this. I stay there, my elbows propped on the bed, my eyes focused on the view of Sydney, stars in my eyes and a lightness inside of me.

  A happiness and euphoria that must somehow be biologically programmed.

  There is no other explanation. Sex releases happy-making hormones and I guess I’ve never really known great sex before because I’ve definitely never had such a palpable shift in my mood as this.

  I don’t know how long we stay like that. Long enough that my breathing slows and my heart steadies and then he’s pulling out of me, and I have to use all my willpower to stop from crying out at the loss.

  I bite my lip to stop an actual sound of complaint. Two orgasms in ten minutes? I don’t think I have anything to complain about, actually. But nonetheless...

  I push up from the bed, schooling my features into a bland expression—so as not to give anything away—and force a cool smile to my face. I’m pretty sure my eyes are fevered and my cheeks are red from pleasure but when I turn to face him I offer only the smile.

  He’s looking at me as though he wants to say something. But what?

  I feel that shift inside of him, the seriousness that I first noticed on board his plane. I wonder what’s behind it, what’s lurking beneath the surface with him.

  Uncertainty threatens to engulf me. Should I go? I feel like that’s the sensible thing to do. His invitation was for sex. Nothing more. So?

  ‘That was great,’ I say, annoyed that the words emerge a little breathlessly. I don’t want him to know how affected I was by that pleasure. But I was. I am.

  He nods, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. ‘Stay for a drink?’

  Something trips inside of me. Because it confirms what I’d just been thinking—that he’s expecting me to go away now we’ve slept together. And I hate that it bothers me because I came here expecting that.

  But there’s something else, because he doesn’t actually want me to go right now, hence he’s offering me a drink. Unless he’s just being polite.

  I tilt my chin, refusing to second-guess his intentions. What do I want? That’s what I should be focusing on.

  The problem is, I really don’t know. On the one hand, I want to stay. On the other? Something feels wrong and I don’t know what. I’m no good at this.

  ‘That’s fine.’ The words are brittle and, unconsciously, a frown shifts over my face.

  My frown is reflected on his face.

  We stare at each other, a strange awkwardness between us, given what we’ve just shared. There is intimacy and there’s intimacy, and while we have plenty of one, the real intimacy is something neither of us wants, and it’s nowhere in evidence anyway.

  ‘I’m glad you came over.’

  A smile shifts the frown, just a small lift of one corner of my lips. ‘So am I.’

  His brow furrows and then he moves towards me again, his body warm, his masculine fragrance tickling my nostrils and making desire stir lazily back to life.

  ‘Stay for a drink.’ This time it’s not a question. I look up at him, knowing I should go, that staying is futile, and yet my feet don’t move.

  I want to stay. I want to have a drink with him, and I want to ask him about each and every tattoo that scores the smooth flesh of his body. And that’s the main reason I know I have to go. Because asking questions leads to knowledge and knowledge is a very dangerous commodity. Knowledge of a person can create affection for them, and I will not feel that for Holden, or anyone. Not now. Not when I’m on the brink of a new life, and new possibilities abound.

  I shake my head, forcing a smile across my face.

  ‘Thanks, but I got what I came for.’ I soften the statement with a wink, returning the mood between us to light, fun and flirty, then lift up and press my lips to his. ‘See you later.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Six days after landing

  I SCAN THE DOCUMENTS, only half listening to the meeting progressing around me. I barely slept last night. After Cora left I changed into a suit and toured the casino. It’s the only way to get a proper feel for how a place is running and I make it my business to play a few hands of poker at each of my casinos, every time I’m there. I stayed on the floor until four in the morning, then threw back a few Scotches before finally dropping into bed a little before five.

  It smelled like Cora and sex. It made me want her, so the couple of hours’ sleep were punctuated by memories of her, of all the ways I want to fuck her—so much more than ten minutes would ever satisfy.

  My mind replays every minute of the night before, specifically the time I spent with Cora. I see her eyes when I asked her to stay for a drink, the realisation that buried within that request was an expectation she’d go away again, soon.

  Did I hurt her feelings? Did she think I meant for her to spend the night? No. It was obvious why I invited her over. And that wa
s obviously why she came.

  ‘I got what I came for.’ We’re on the same page. This guilt is misplaced. So too is my desire to prolong the time we do spend together.

  Spend together?

  I scowl, scanning the documents, analysing that. It makes it sound like I want this to become a regular thing. I imagine not seeing Cora again and my body practically jerks in revolt. What the hell? Once is enough. Twice? More than.

  But it’s not.

  What I need is to get her out of my system—properly. Not ten minutes. Not necessarily even one night. A proper fuck fest so I can say goodbye and mean it next time.

  ‘The numbers don’t stack up.’ I interrupt my Australian director of operations, fixing him with a level stare. ‘The returns don’t justify the investment.’

  ‘But we’re seeing strong growth—’

  ‘Not strong enough.’ I stand, sweeping my gaze around the room, letting my eyes land on each person in attendance. ‘I’m not going to waste my time for numbers like this. Show me a plan for improvement and then I’ll consider it.’ I move towards the door without a backwards glance. I’m bored with meetings. I’m bored with business.

  I’m bored with everything except Cora. I pull my phone out to text her right as it starts ringing. My brother—no, not my brother. When will I get used to that? Theo’s face flashes up on the screen. I swipe it to answer.

  ‘You’re there?’

  ‘What?’ I’m testy.

  ‘You’re in Australia.’

  I compress my lips, stalking away from the boardroom and into the office I use here in our Sydney headquarters. The trees of Sydney’s Hyde Park are just visible from here, buffered by a few glass buildings between.

  I fight an urge to ask Theo what the hell it is to him.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’m glad. Did you see Felicity?’

  It takes me a second to realise who he’s talking about. The baby. Jagger and Grace’s child, the little Hart. My eyes sweep shut and my breath chokes a little. What I’ve lost stands before me, a monumental, epic, indisputable pain. Everything I believed myself to be is gone.