Burn My Hart

by Clare Connelly

  ‘I want to stay like this for ever,’ I groan, my body heavy with delight, my nipples tight and sensitive, my blood languid after rushing through my body for over an hour.

  His control blows my mind. He is still so rock-hard. I feel his cock against my thigh as he flicks my nipples with his tongue and I shiver because all I can do is feel, and I feel almost too much.

  ‘I like having you as my prisoner,’ he murmurs, the words dark.

  ‘Even though I can’t touch you?’

  ‘That’s part of the appeal.’ He pushes up onto his elbows, his eyes linked to mine. ‘Do you want to touch me, Asha?’

  I nod slowly. I do. I stare at his body hungrily.

  ‘What do you want to do to me?’

  I bite down on my lower lip, thinking about that, wondering which of my dozens of kinky fantasies I’d like to play out. The truth is, he’s made all mine come true, and yet there’s still so much more I want. A lifetime of exploring Theo’s body wouldn’t be enough.

  I push that thought—that dangerous incursion into my pleasure—to the back of my mind.

  ‘I want to go down on you,’ I say honestly, my mouth dry at the thought. ‘I want to climb on top of you and take you deep inside me.’ A grin lifts my lips. ‘I want to tie you up.’

  He laughs and shakes his head. ‘Done, done and no way.’

  ‘Huh.’ I pout. ‘So what’s good for the goose isn’t for the gander?’

  ‘In this case, yeah.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem fair.’

  ‘Are you complaining?’

  I shake my head slowly. ‘Not even a little bit.’

  ‘Good.’ He brings his mouth closer to mine, brushing a light kiss over my lips. ‘You are the sexiest woman I’ve ever known.’

  The praise warms me all the way down to my toes.

  ‘What an honour,’ I tease him, but really the admission means something to me. In a relationship defined by sex, being the best he’s ever had is important and flattering and worthy of holding to my heart.

  He reaches above me, untying the makeshift restraint. I flex my wrists, grabbing for the underwear and laughing when I see how stretched out it is. ‘I don’t think I’ll wear it again.’

  ‘I like you without underwear anyway.’

  Heat flies through me.

  ‘In fact, I’m just going to imagine you naked beneath your clothes from now on. Deal?’

  I reach up and push at his chest. ‘Deal.’ But, before he can speak, I drag my mouth to his cock and remove the condom, because I want to feel him inside me, all of him.

  I take his length deep in my mouth, my body exulting in the power of this, tasting the promise of his release. His hands on my shoulders are tight and I hear his guttural cry.

  ‘You need to stop,’ he implores me quietly, his hips lifting a little, his hunger understandable after God knows how long of driving my body to the edge again and again.

  In response, I flick his tip with my tongue. He swears, a hiss from between his lips, and then his hands are in my hair, his fingers tangling in its length as I move my mouth up and down until I taste more of him.

  ‘You need to stop,’ he repeats. ‘I can’t hold on.’

  ‘Don’t hold on.’ I lift my eyes the length of his body and stare at him for a brief moment before taking him deeper, moving faster now, curving one hand around his base and cupping him, squeezing him, as I take him all the way to the back of my throat.

  He cries my name as he comes and I hold myself where I am, my mouth low over him, and then I begin to move again until he’s spent and his voice has silenced. Only the sound of his husky breathing fills the air. I let go of his cock and pull up, smiling at him and his passion-ravaged face.

  ‘Now imagine how much better that would have been if you’d been tied up.’

  He reaches for me, pulling me towards him, snuggling me into the crook of his arm. ‘I beg to differ, Asha. Nothing could ever be better than that.’

  * * *

  Her fingers stroke the geranium petal reflexively. It’s a gesture born of idle thought, not intent, and yet my eyes latch onto the repetitive motion and my body stirs. Light breaks across Paris, golden and warm, and Asha shifts a little, her eyes moving to mine, her irises such a rich shade of green, like the ocean, or the leaves of the geranium.

  ‘You’re awake.’ Her smile is like sunshine after the storm. But what storm? With Asha, it’s always sunshine. My body is in a permanent state of nirvana. I am alive with sensual heat, rock-hard with desire, heavy with satiation. It’s revolutionary to me to experience something like this. Maybe I’ve been wrong all these years, preferring to hook up with women for a night or two at most. The ongoingness of this, without any emotional complication, gives me the best of all worlds.

  We know each other intimately and with that knowledge comes the kind of pleasure you don’t get from a one-night stand. I’m going to miss this. And her.

  The realisation is like a lightning bolt in my mind, briefly slashing through the warm pleasure of my thoughts. Because I can’t miss her. It’s not allowed, it’s not what we’ve agreed. Sex is sex and once Asha’s out of my life I’ll find someone else to have sex with, someone who’ll agree to these exact same terms. Even when I don’t want to? That thought doesn’t bear examination. We have a plan and I have no intention of breaking it, even when there’s something moving through me, something selfish and hungry that just wants more of this, always.

  I know, even as I reach for the geranium in her fingertips, that there is no one like Asha. I might find someone different, someone who fits with me in other ways, but Asha is unique.

  ‘Where did this come from?’

  ‘The windowsill.’ She smiles, more sunshine.

  ‘Have you been up for long?’

  She makes a noise of assent. ‘Jet lag.’ The word is said with a smile but there’s a depth to her tone that has me studying her face thoughtfully. ‘I was thinking about my grand-mère too.’ Her eyes shift down, shielding her thoughts from me.

  Curiosity flexes inside of me. ‘When did you lose her?’

  ‘A long time ago.’ She lifts the geranium to her nostrils, inhaling its scent, a wistful smile changing her expression now. ‘She loved geraniums. All flowers, really. When she was a little girl, they didn’t have a lot of money. She used to tell me about her life in the Loire Valley, filled with abundant beauty and a permanently empty belly.’ She lifts her eyes to mine and my breath rushes out of me at the sparkling depth in her irises. ‘My great-grandfather was in the War and when he came back he would collect flowers for my great-grandmother every morning. “I never thought I should see colours like this again. I never thought I would smell their intoxicating fragrance”.’

  Her expression assumes a faraway look.

  ‘He was a chemist by training, so it wasn’t a big step for him to move into perfume production. He distilled several flowers, over months, years, blending their essences until he created the exact fragrance he wanted, the scent that had kept him going while he was away. It reminded him of my great-grandmother and life in the little village they called home.’

  She smells the geranium again and I am struck by how elemental she is, how like the stunning geranium—strong and vibrant, beautiful.

  ‘And that’s how the company was born?’

  ‘Mmm.’ She smiles. ‘He called it Fleurs Sauvages. Our name—Sauvages—means ‘wild’, and while he was at war he used to say that was just how he felt. Wild and untamed, feral, surviving on instinct alone. But, coming home, he saw beauty in the wildness, beauty in the flowers that grew through the cracks in the village walls, little escapees seeking only sunshine and water.’

  Her laugh is a soft pealing bell. ‘I spent a lot of time at his knee, listening to his stories. Can you tell?’

  ‘And he liked to talk?’

  �
��Oh, towards the end, yes, he lived for these memories. They’re a part of our company ethos now, a part of our institutional memory. He’s eternal because of the business.’

  ‘How did he start selling the perfume?’

  ‘He was an ambitious man. War had made him hungry too, and he had a daughter to feed. He was very clever, associating the brand with wealth and aspiration from the beginning, so Fleurs Sauvages was the only perfume anyone wanted to wear.’

  I stroke her arm and she smiles at me, so unguarded and relaxed, my chest expands. I like making her smile.

  ‘I used to love coming here.’

  ‘To this shrine to colour?’ I tease.

  Her smile is wistful and a rueful expression touches her features as she looks around the room. ‘To France. I grew up in America but France is so much a part of me. I hear their voices in my head while I work, my grandparents, my great-grandparents.’ Her smile is reminiscent now.

  ‘Did you come to stay with your grandmother after your ex died?’

  The smile slips. ‘For a time.’ She moves in the bed, turning back to face me. She is naked, just how I like her. I reach for her, drawing her closer to me, wanting to kiss the smile back into place.

  ‘I think he’d be proud of you.’

  Her eyes are huge in her face. I brush my lips over hers and feel her sigh. ‘Do you?’

  It’s so strange, that she wouldn’t immediately see that as an indisputable fact. I catch her face in my hands, one on each cheek. ‘Hell, yeah, Asha. Of course he would be.’

  And I kiss her to show her how honest I’m being. I kiss her as though my life depends on it. She tastes like vanilla and raspberries; her skin is warm like sunshine. She is a wildflower brought to life, with her bright hair and soft skin.

  My very own fleur sauvage. I push up, my body over hers, an insatiable need to possess her driving my movements now. I reach across the bed, pulling a condom from the bedside table and rolling it in place. She stares up at me, her hair like a jewel across the bedlinen. I kiss her as I thrust deep inside her, moving quickly, desperately, hungrily, my body knowing how to give pleasure and take pleasure all at once.

  She arches her back, her moans calling to me. I drop my head, taking one of her beautiful nipples into my mouth, my hands on her hips revelling in the feeling of her, of this. I remember the way she looked tied to the bed, the way her hair spilled across the pillow and I remember the way she went down on me, taking my cock deep in her mouth until I tipped my seed into her throat.

  Fuck. She is hotter than anything, anyone, anytime.

  I make her mine, as I’ve done countless times since we met, and she welcomes me as always, meeting my passion with her own, answering my needs as I answer hers.

  It’s only much later, when she’s dressed for her day, making coffee in the kitchen, that I realise we crushed the geranium into nothing. I pick up its broken, fragile remnant and hold it in my hand for a moment before discarding it on the bedside table.

  Nothing lasts for ever. Ashes to ashes.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘ASH. WAKE UP.’

  I blink slowly, a fog of disorientation making it hard to think straight. Where am I? There’s a noise, low and soft, like the hum of a car. No, not a car. A plane. I’m on the Hart Industries jet. We left the States last night, bound for Sydney. Is it morning? Travelling multiple time zones always throws my body clock out of whack, or maybe it’s some kind of self-preservation technique because, a month after my abortive date with Angus Fienes and our subsequent deal, the Sydney weekend is here and that means one thing: this is over. The end. No more Theo.

  ‘We’re nearly landing. Come and see.’

  I look towards the window to my right. All I can see is blue sky.

  ‘Not yet. I’ll show you.’ He’s like a little boy at Christmas. Pushing aside the last vestiges of sleep, I step out of the bed and heat suffuses my cheeks as I remember how we spent a good portion of the flight. It turns out there is something special about the mile-high club after all.

  I place my hand in his without thinking and follow him through the plane. At the door to the cockpit he surprises me by spinning around, pressing a kiss to my lips then grinning again, the same look of happiness on his features.

  I return his smile but it feels dredged from deep within me. My dream is hot on my heels, grabbing hold of me, and I remember it piece by piece as Theo opens the door.

  I was in a maze, one of those huge mazes made of pine trees, thick and dark, and I couldn’t find Theo. I knew he was there because I could feel him but I couldn’t find him. And as I took each turn, looking for him, the maze corridors grew thinner and darker so they were pressing down on me and against me, the needles sharp, hurting my skin, the air thin, making breathing difficult. There were no stars in the sky but it was night, and it was neither cold nor hot, just heavy. The air was oppressive. I shiver as the dream rushes through me.

  Theo doesn’t notice my expression.

  ‘Have a seat.’ He gestures to a fold-down chair behind the captain. ‘Asha, this is Major Andrews.’

  ‘Hey.’ I remember him from the last flight.

  ‘Good morning, ma’am.’

  I don’t tell him to call me Asha. What would be the point? I’m probably never going to see him again. The thought rushes through me like an icy wind. I’ve made my peace with this—or thought I had—but the truth is, the reality of what I have to get through in the next seventy-two hours is enough to make my insides shudder.

  This is the end.

  Inescapably, inarguably, and probably for the best. Since we left Paris I have seen Theo almost every night. We didn’t consciously agree to that, but the impending cessation of our relationship filled us both with an insatiability, and indulging it seemed not a question of desire so much as a necessity. I have no idea how I’ll draw breath when Theo isn’t a part of my world and yet I must, because soon that’s the reality in which I’ll find myself.

  I imagine my future and know how important this is. I want everything he doesn’t; I want what he can’t give me. This has to end, even when that feels like ripping my arms from my body.

  Theo takes the co-pilot’s seat. His hair’s down, and it falls about an inch beneath his shoulders. The ends are much fairer than the top, but it’s not because of any chemical intervention or vanity, just the sun’s natural effect on him. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of jeans but he looks like he belongs behind the wheel—er...controls—of this thing. And there are about a billion controls. Tiny dials and wheels, switches and buttons. I watch, awestruck, as he and Major Andrews move side by side. It’s like some kind of ballet, perfectly choreographed. Despite what Theo says, he looks so at home here. I imagine he could well have chosen this as his career.

  ‘Wait for it,’ he murmurs, turning around to face me, his smile so beautiful I can’t help but return it. The plane dips a bit and the clouds wrap around us, grey and thick, woollen. It’s impossible to see, but then, flying’s not like driving. They’re relying on their instruments to direct them.

  The plane wobbles a bit as we pass through more clouds, but here, at the front of the plane, it’s barely a dip.

  ‘Wait for it,’ he says again, and now Major Andrews turns around to grin at me, apparently amused at Theo’s excitement.

  A few seconds later and the plane is out of the clouds. Sydney opens up beneath us like a tiara against the ocean, all sparkling silver high-rises, white waves, golden sand.

  The distinctive Opera House and bridge are visible as the plane circles lower, and I crane forward in my seat.

  It’s a spectacular city and this view of it is unrivalled. The plane drops lower and I keep my eyes on the view, marvelling at its beauty as conversation between Theo and Major Andrews turns quiet and serious. They’re focused now on the business of landing the plane.

  I watch as they run thei
r fingers over the dials and then the airport comes into view, the runway long and straight beneath us. Theo grips the controls and the plane lurches lower, and lower, and my stomach flops because seeing a plane come down like this is unnerving, actually. I’m not worried, just awestruck; it’s breathtaking.

  Lower and lower. There’s a noise as the wheels drop and then we’re in a proper descent and the plane touches down. I let my breath go, smiling as they apply the brakes and the plane slows down quickly, the wings offering resistance to help bring the plane to a halt. Theo unbuckles his seat belt and turns to me, standing before the plane has stopped moving. Major Andrews is steering it now, using the instrument panel to bring the bird into a hangar a little distance from the commercial planes.

  ‘So?’ Theo grins, his hands on his hips. ‘What do you think?’

  What do I think?

  I think seeing him fly an airplane is incredibly hot. I think Sydney is beautiful. I think he is beautiful. I think a thousand things and then I think a thousand that I shouldn’t, and in the back of my mind is my dream, the darkness and oppressiveness of it threatening to eclipse the happiness of that moment.

  ‘I think that was pretty cool,’ I say lightly, careful not to give away even the slightest hint of the thoughts that are hounding me.

  He grins. ‘I’m glad.’ His kiss is light and over before it begins. He pulls away from me and I watch as he walks along the plane, bracing himself on a chair as he nears my handbag. He lifts it up, then grins.

  Not a hint of concern.

  No beetling of his brow.

  Nothing.

  It’s almost the end, and he doesn’t care.

  I tell myself I don’t either.

  * * *

  Sydney in September is beautiful, and warm. I stretch against the sun lounger. The pool makes a gentle lapping noise at my feet. The harbour is right beneath us, sparkling and pretty, filled with boats—big old ferries but nimble, elegant speedboats too.

  I don’t hear the doorbell to the penthouse but Theo does. He pushes up, his hands trailing my feet as he moves past me. ‘The door,’ he explains at my quizzical look.