Burn My Hart--A Sexy Billionaire Romance

by Clare Connelly

She’s wearing a bright maxi dress, strapless, and her red hair is piled high on her head in a topknot.

  ‘Hey.’

  She grins. I volley it back.

  ‘How was Australia?’

  ‘Ridgey-didge.’ I do my best Australian accent. She laughs.

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ She steps back, sweeping a hand wider. ‘Come on in.’

  I don’t need to be asked twice. The bachelor party was pretty tame—no strippers, on Jagger’s insistence. ‘Grace would hate it and, to be honest, so would I.’

  We played golf at the course Jagger bought about a year ago, had a few drinks, swam, played some more golf, and that was it. Or it should have been, but when we got back to Sydney Holden managed to pull me into his one-man destruction show, and I woke up feeling like I’d eaten an ashtray and drunk a brewery. I’m surprised I can still stand. The flight was good though—twenty-four hours of sleep and rehydrating so now I feel almost human again.

  Ready for anything, I reach for Asha but she presses a hand to my chest. ‘I’m starving.’

  I lift a brow teasingly.

  ‘For food,’ she drawls. ‘I haven’t eaten all day.’

  I look at my watch. ‘It’s seven o’clock.’

  ‘I know. I had back-to-back meetings and then...’ She trails off, a frown on her face.

  ‘And then?’ I prompt.

  ‘Nothing.’ She waves a hand in the air. ‘Work stuff.’

  We don’t really talk about our lives. Not in depth. She’s pushing the subject away out of habit, but I’m curious. In some way, knowing that we’ve set the date to end this has liberated me from our usual rules. I don’t care how much I know about her now—one way or another this will end come the wedding, so what’s the harm in talking to her properly? It doesn’t change anything—it just makes us friends with benefits. Yeah, friends. What’s wrong with that?

  I put my hands on her shoulders, rubbing them slowly, her little sigh a pleasure that fills my soul. ‘You’re stressed?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Because...?’

  ‘Just work stuff. Launching a new line, you know.’

  ‘Sounds like kind of a big deal?’

  ‘Kind of.’ She reaches for my hand and weaves her fingers through mine then pulls me towards the kitchen. I pass the cookbooks I noticed last time I was here. ‘I made pasta.’ She nods towards something that smells impossibly good. ‘You hungry?’

  ‘I wasn’t.’ I grin.

  Her pleasure at my compliment is unmistakable and it warms me.

  ‘Grab a bowl. Behind you, beside the fridge.’

  I pull two out and hand them to her and, despite the fact dinner is cooking, I can’t resist pulling her closer, pressing a kiss to her lips. She tastes like vanilla and butter, all sweet and creamy. I ache to strip that dress from her body and taste her all over.

  ‘So your brother obviously doesn’t share your disdain for the institution of marriage?’ She pulls away from me, scooping pasta into two bowls then sprinkling some freshly grated Parmesan on top. There’s a bottle of white wine on the counter; she fills two glasses then hands one to me. I look around at the bench, but she shakes her head.

  ‘Through there. It’s nice out; let’s sit on the terrace.’

  I didn’t even realise she had one—shows how much attention I’ve paid to the place. Through the living room, a pair of sliding glass doors open onto a deck that has a couple of sun loungers and an outdoor setting.

  ‘It’s no infinity pool,’ she teases, sitting in one of the chairs, curling a leg beneath her.

  I take the seat opposite, the view of Manhattan at dusk setting off Asha’s unconventional beauty.

  She spears a piece of pasta, her eyes holding mine. She’s waiting for me to say something. That’s right, she asked about Jagger and marriage.

  ‘I think Jagger’s a reformed man,’ I posit thoughtfully. ‘He’s had his time as a marriage hater, like the rest of us.’

  ‘But then he met—what did you say her name is?’

  ‘Grace.’ I smile, thinking of the Australian woman who didn’t just steal Jagger’s heart; she stitched it right back together again. I ease back in the chair, pretty sure this moment is as perfect as any could ever be—a warm summer evening, a beautiful woman, delicious food and wine, and the certainty that sex is on the horizon...easy, uncomplicated sex. ‘Yeah, he met Grace, did his best to fuck it up and then went out of his way to fix it.’

  She sips her wine. ‘Sounds complicated.’

  ‘Not really.’ I shrug. ‘She’s perfect for him, just took Jagger a while to realise it—bonehead that he is.’

  ‘Where are they having the wedding?’

  ‘On the yacht.’

  ‘Your brother’s?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s not a huge ceremony. Sixty or so people—just how they wanted it.’

  She places her fork on the table, her eyes spearing me with a warning. ‘Theo, I can’t possibly come if it’s so intimate...’

  My eyes narrow, her words the last thing I want to hear. As far as I’ve considered it, it’s a done deal. ‘I’ve already told them you’re my guest. They’ll be disappointed if you back out.’

  ‘Disappointed?’ She quirks a brow in that sexy, cynical little way of hers. ‘They don’t even know me.’

  ‘But they know you’re my date and, given I have a long-established hatred for the institution of dating, let’s just say they’re all a little curious about you.’

  ‘But we’re not dating.’ She looks shocked.

  I can’t help but be amused by this. About six months ago, Forbes ran a piece about my brothers and me—‘Hartbreakers’. Clever, right?

  The gist of it was that Jagger was the sensible one whereas Holden and I were wild and untameable, cast in the image of our father—that went down well, obviously. You can imagine the words used to describe us—bad-boy bachelors, determinedly single, rakes—as though we were some kind of construct of a Dickens novel. Apparently women are ‘tripping over themselves’ to land a Hart.

  But Asha isn’t.

  It’s why this works so well. From the beginning she’s been completely happy to keep this light and simple. I’ve never been with a woman who’s so receptive to the lack of emotional complication I want. Nonetheless, her look of abject horror at the mere suggestion we’re dating sparks amusement and, yeah, it knocks my ego a little, sure.

  I shrug nonchalantly. ‘It seemed a little more acceptable than going into details about our arrangement. Besides, I didn’t think you’d like me introducing you as a friend with benefits.’

  ‘Is that what we are?’

  I grin. ‘Something like that.’

  Her mesmerising eyes are locked to mine, amusement and scepticism flashing in them. ‘Somehow I doubt your brothers could be so easily shocked.’

  She’s right, of course. ‘I’m a gentleman; what can I say?’

  A smirk crosses her lips. ‘You are very far from that, Theo Hart.’

  Sparks fly from me to her, so warmth arcs around the terrace.

  ‘Besides, you want me to come to this wedding to meet friends of yours, right? So what if I get chatting to some guy and end up dating them, or even marrying them? You don’t think that will strike your family as odd?’

  Something shifts inside of me. It feels a little like indigestion. I suggested this to Asha. I mean, if Angus and I are the kind of men she goes for, then she clearly doesn’t have the best judgement. I mean, he’s no way near good enough for her and I’m the most commitment-phobic guy in the universe.

  ‘They’ll think I wouldn’t commit and you found someone who would. Or that I fucked it up somehow.’ I grin. ‘Believe me when I tell you that one of my relationships ending abruptly is not going to spark even a hint of surprise from any of my family.’

  Curiosity crosses her
features. She’s weighing up her words, wondering how to ask whatever it is she’s thinking. It’s at this point I realise this is our first time sharing a meal together. We’ve feasted on delivery burgers in bed once or twice, when hunger has driven us to make contact with the outside world, but usually we’re not together long enough to span a proper meal. It’s more of a wham, bam, you’re the best sex ever ma’am, kind of affair.

  This, eating across from Asha, is different, and I notice new things about her. Like how long and elegant her fingers are, how neatly manicured are her nails. How she holds her fork mid-air as she speaks, as though she’s the conductor and I’m the orchestra.

  ‘Have you always been so anti-relationships?’

  I focus my gaze on the view, a frown tightening my jaw. I don’t know why but I don’t particularly know how to answer the question.

  ‘Have you always been such a great cook?’ I volley back, shifting my gaze to hers.

  She hesitates a moment. ‘It was either that or starve.’

  I lean back in my chair, silently encouraging her to continue.

  ‘My dad couldn’t cook to save his life. When we were young, we had a nanny, Mrs Bessington—Bessie. We loved her. But when she retired Dad didn’t get around to hiring anyone else and suddenly the home-cooked snacks disappeared...’

  ‘So it was sink or swim?’

  ‘Cook or starve,’ she corrects me with a wink.

  ‘Who raised you then?’

  She tilts her head to the side. ‘We went away to school, and in the holidays Dad made an effort to be around.’

  ‘Made an effort?’ I prompt, curious at that.

  Her smile doesn’t sit quite right on her face, like her muscles are working too hard to hold it in place. ‘He’s always worked really long hours. I must get my insane work ethic from him,’ she jokes, reaching for her wine and sipping it. ‘But I guess you know a thing or two about that.’

  I don’t particularly want to discuss my father. ‘Where did you go to school?’

  ‘Felton Academy until I was thirteen, then I went to France for a couple of years, to a boarding school in the Loire Valley. My great-grandmother was a student there, so it’s sort of a tradition,’ she murmurs, spearing another piece of pasta. ‘Dad’s really into all that stuff.’ I suspect her eyes are itching to roll heavenward.

  ‘Did you like it?’

  She laughs. ‘I liked it but I’m not so sure it liked me.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘My rebellious phase.’ She pulls her dress down a little—not far enough for my liking—to reveal the top of her breast, where a familiar line of ink is scrawled. It’s cursive script and I could duplicate the text in my sleep, though I’ve never asked what it means.

  ‘It’s French?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Cendres en cendres toujours.’

  Her accent is perfect. How come I didn’t realise she spoke French before? Because this is probably the longest conversation we’ve ever had that hasn’t also involved nudity—which has the habit of switching my brain off.

  ‘Ashes to ashes, always,’ she elaborates.

  ‘Ashes to ashes? Around the time you became Asha?’

  Her smile is lopsided. ‘It’s tragic, right?’

  I laugh. ‘There are worse ways to rebel.’

  She runs her finger over the tattoo, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘I felt so damned liberated. My boyfriend at the time did this.’ She laughs softly. ‘It’s not as random as it sounds—he was training to become a tattooist and working with one of the best inkers in Paris. But it hurt like a mother trucker, believe me.’

  I like the tattoo a little less now I know its provenance.

  ‘But you’d know.’ She nods towards my chest, where I have my own collection of ink.

  ‘I was way too drunk to feel mine.’

  ‘Oh, tough guy, huh?’ Her laugh is like music dancing through my veins.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘You showed me yours so I show you mine?’

  ‘A PG version of that,’ she quips.

  ‘I think I prefer R-rated.’

  ‘Same. Soon.’ Promise sizzles between us. My cock is so hard against my pants I have to shift a bit in the seat.

  I lift my shirt over my head, loving the way her eyes drop to my bare chest as though she can’t help it. The tattoo is actually on my biceps so it’s a gratuitous chest-reveal but I’m becoming increasingly impatient for Asha and I’m willing to play dirty to move things along.

  Ποσειδώνας

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘My chest?’

  She shoots me a look of exasperation. ‘And the tattoo.’ She shakes her head a little from side to side and a tendril of her red hair waves against her cheek. I lean forward and catch it, tucking it behind her ear. She stills, her eyes hooking to mine, her pupils huge, her lips parted. Fuck, wanting her is going to be the end of me.

  ‘One summer Dad engaged a tennis coach for Joshua and me. He was Greek, and super nice. He tried to teach us the alphabet but it might as well have been Sanskrit for all the sense it made. What does it say?’

  Great. Now I’m imagining Asha in a tiny white tennis dress, her tanned legs all long and athletic as she runs across the court. My dick is actually painful with how hard it is.

  ‘Poseidon.’

  Her lips curve upwards. ‘Like the Greek god of war?’

  ‘That’s Ares. Poseidon is the Greek god of the sea, water. Earthquakes.’ I laugh.

  ‘Is Poseidon somehow significant to you?’

  ‘I’m Poseidon,’ I deadpan.

  ‘God complex much?’

  I laugh. ‘You’re saying you don’t think I’m a Greek god?’

  She lifts her brows. ‘Do you think you’re a Greek god?’

  ‘Hey, some women in the past might have called me—’

  She shakes her head, reaching for her wine. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you’ve had lots of women in the past say lots of things to inflate your ego. Go back to the tattoo. Or did some ex-girlfriend of yours call you Poseidon? Possy?’

  My laugh is a growl. ‘No.’

  ‘You sure? It kind of suits you, Possy.’

  ‘Stop it, Charlotte.’ My voice holds a warning, but I’m only kidding.

  She sips her wine, her eyes sparking with mine. Hell, she’s sexy. ‘All that happens when you call me Charlotte is that you remind me of my brother, and that significantly reduces the likelihood of us having sex. Just FYI.’

  ‘Duly noted.’ Her tone is light but I know her well enough now to know there’s something more beneath it.

  ‘It was a dare.’

  ‘The tattoo?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘A dare from who?’

  ‘Holden. My brother.’ I gloss over the complexity of our situation, not wanting to think about the bombshell that exploded through our lives last year, nor the fact he’s still reeling from it.

  We all are.

  ‘He calls you Poseidon?’

  ‘I run our shipping business, our maritime construction, all the water stuff,’ I say with a lift of my shoulders, enjoying the way her eyes follow the movement. ‘Jagger’s Zeus—god of the skies, because he runs our construction side. High-rises.’

  She makes a cooing noise. ‘This is adorable.’

  I picture Jagger and Holden in my mind and try to imagine any circumstances in the world that would justify the three of us being called ‘adorable’. I can’t come up with any. Hell, we’re the exact opposite of that.

  ‘What’s Holden’s tattoo?’

  My frown is reflexive. ‘Hades.’

  ‘As in hell?’

  ‘It was his idea.’ I think back to that weekend—Jagger�
��s twenty-first—and how drunk we all were. How Holden suggested the tattoos and casually mentioned he’d be Hades. ‘He runs our casinos; he used to joke that gambling was the devil’s work, so...’

  ‘Used to?’

  I look at her and feel a pull to be honest with her, to confide in her exactly what a shit show the last year of Holden’s life has been. But instead I shake my head. ‘Still does, I guess.’

  She pushes back from her chair, moving around the table towards me, perching her butt on the edge. Her fingertips trail my other biceps, where there’s a more elaborate tattoo. She picks out the trident, and the wave that’s washing over it. ‘And here are more signs of the ocean.’

  But she’s so damned close and that dress is still lower than it should be. I lift my fingers up and curve them into the fabric, pulling it down completely to reveal her breasts. She smiles; there’s not a hint of awkwardness in her face—and why would there be? We’ve seen each other naked enough times to be completely familiar with each other’s bodies. It doesn’t change the effect her bare breast has on me though; my blood is like fire inside me.

  ‘You’re still eating.’ She looks down at my bowl, half-full.

  ‘You’re finished though, right?’

  She nods slowly and moves, lifting one leg so she’s straddling me. Her hands drop to my pants, working the button and zip. I have to shift a little to give her better access, but then her fingertips brush the tip of my cock and I bite back a curse. Relief is all-consuming. She frees me from my pants, running her nails over my length, her eyes hooked to mine with a look that is faintly mocking, like she knows how crazy I am for her right now.

  ‘Got any protection?’

  ‘No, I came over completely unprepared. Sorry.’ I reach into my back pocket and lift out a long string of foil squares.

  She laughs at my sarcasm, but it’s husky and summer’s breeze carries it away. ‘Ambitious?’

  ‘Desperate,’ I correct, ripping the top off one square and sliding it over my length. ‘And presumptuous?’

  ‘No. Spot on.’ She pulls her dress up and it’s only as she eases herself onto my length that I appreciate she’s not wearing any underwear. Christ.

  She’s so tight; her muscles squeeze me and I grind my teeth together in an attempt to keep some kind of grip on my willpower because, right now, I could actually just hold her hips low on me and spill myself into her. Two thrusts of my dick and I’d be done. But I don’t want that.