“Would I find—?”
“No, no, I’ll go.”
From the bathroom she could hear the crunch of his zipper and the whip of cloth as he undid his jeans. She fished out the box of condoms from her toiletry bag. When she looked out the door, she saw him wriggle out of the jeans, the hard lines of his torso drawn in all the right places, and some jagged scar lines running across his abdomen in parallel with his ribs. She forgot to breathe.
She strode back to the bed, more than ready for him. She didn’t want foreplay. Not anymore. She gave him a pleading look, hoping he’d understand, and he did. He zipped down her trousers and pulled them off in two decisive tugs, throwing them over his shoulder. They landed on the miniature coffee machine on the side table. She laughed, lightheaded with anticipation.
Next came the panties, which he looped around his fingers at the seams. He kissed where skin met cloth along the top rim. He pulled them down an inch and kissed again … and again until the cloth was stretched across her hips, then further down, until he’d exposed her most secret parts to his mouth. His tongue explored the soft folds in probing caresses and then slid inside, caressing her clit. She clenched up and gradually relaxed into the exquisite pleasure. Her breath came erratically. He sat up and cupped his hand where his mouth had been, and his gaze flickered to her face. She gave up any semblance of control at that point. “Adam, please—”
He planted his hands on either side of her shoulders and leaned his body over her. He held the plank pose with one arm as he opened the box of condoms with his other, fishing one out, and putting it between his teeth.
She wrapped a leg around his. “Just … do it, would you?”
“Look, you try doing this balancing on one arm,” he said out of the side of his mouth.
She giggled. “Oh here, let me.” She whipped the condom from his teeth and ripped it open, smoothing his underwear down impossibly hard thighs to his knees. She took a moment to run her fingers along his long shaft, pleased at how his face tightened with pleasure. She watched, fascinated—his jaw clenched, skin taut, more like a man in pain than pleasure.
“I’m close,” he said, muscles bunching in his neck and shoulders. “Too close.” She rolled on the condom quickly and slid back under him. He placed his hands on her thighs and parted her legs so he could kneel between them. His face was serious now, his eyes blazing.
Words stopped. So did thought. Only skin on skin mattered, pleasure and movement, smell and touch. Adam eased himself into where she waited for him, and her inner muscles clenched around the unfamiliar, glorious length of him … further and even further. Every muscle in her being tightened into a frantic rhythm. And she was already near. So near.
All they could hear was their breathing and the hum of air-conditioning. Everything within her gathered and shattered. He came seconds after, with an anguished groan. Through her haze of euphoria, she saw the ecstasy in the way his eyes tensed, before his face relaxed by a micro-degree back to its normal, shuttered state. He eased his full weight down on her for the first time, a comforting heaviness. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and dug her hands into the damp hair at the back of his skull.
All she could think was wow.
Chapter 16
Viv opened her eyes and peeped over the edge of the duvet. She squirmed, thinking of the wonderful passion of last night, and marveled at how soundly she’d slept afterward. They’d done it three times. And she’d done it again—slept with a Formula One driver.
The space beside her was empty. She shot up. Had he gone?
Then she saw him through a wide slit in the curtain, in T-shirt and boxers, sitting on her balcony, chin propped on hand, peering into space. Heart-stoppingly gorgeous, but tense around the forehead. She could read his face better now. Something told her he’d been up a long time.
She climbed out of bed, took a dressing gown from the hook, and switched on the coffee machine. It hummed, breaking the silence. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stand up and occupy the doorway.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Yes, please.” He made no attempt to come closer, to touch her like she wanted to be touched. To kiss her senseless. No, he just stood there, blocking the morning sun.
She didn’t know what to say. Words had a way of dividing people. The minute she opened her mouth it would either strengthen or weaken what they’d shared—mind-blowing sex and a deeper connection than she could ever have thought possible. All she wanted to do was hold onto this warm buzz and shut out the reality of the world they were in, the reality of who he was.
Whatever happened, she wouldn’t cling. That’s what they hated most of all.
“I guess I’m holding up your schedule?” she said, leaving the opportunity wide open for him to bolt out the door. After all, it was seven thirty already, and that was late in Formula One driver terms.
“Guess again.” He came over and trailed his lips down her neck, awaking the delicious feelings all over again. Her body fired up, and her doubts smashed to smithereens.
She shivered. “Thanks for last night.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said, eyes glowing. “You’ve no idea what you’ve done to me. I feel … alive.”
She had no answer to that. None at all. Except to say she’d felt so in the moment, not worrying about anything or anyone. She’d been in a place where time stood still. But none of that sounded particularly sane. And it sounded clingy. She handed him his coffee.
“So—” they both said.
“You first,” she said, unable to lift her gaze to meet his. She longed for him to clasp her into his taut body, and he could probably read that in her eyes.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asked after a gulp of the coffee.
“Tonight? I—I hadn’t planned anything.” Even if she had, which she couldn’t recall right now, she’d cancel everything, absolutely everything. “Sleeping?”
“Why don’t you come to my room for a change?”
She nodded.
“Come meet me at the circuit after the practice runs.”
She took a step back. “Um, is that a good idea?”
“Don’t you want to see me?”
“Oh, Adam, of course I do, but—” She pressed her fingers to her forehead, trying to think. “At the circuit? So publicly? That’s a bit … complicated.”
“It’s not complicated.” He put his cup down and rubbed a hand over the stubble of his jaw.
“What I mean is, we have to keep this one under the radar of the press and, well, just about everyone else, too.”
“You mean sneak around?” Adam’s voice cooled to the temperature of permafrost.
“Well, yes, if you want to put it like that. We don’t even know what this is …” She reached for his arm and trailed her finger along a vein from his elbow to his wrist. “I want to see you. We’ll still see each other. I can’t have my boss and everyone else thinking that I’m sleeping around with the drivers.”
“Are you?”
She slapped his arm. “Just you.”
He didn’t answer.
“Adam, I’m a journalist now. This would be the end of my career. I have to report on you guys. I can’t be seen to have favorites.”
He rubbed his forehead, looking confused, then took a seat on the bed. Viv sighed inwardly. This was what happened once people opened their mouths—hateful reality invaded the cocoon of loveliness they’d wrapped themselves in for that night of fantastic sex.
On the other hand, his idea of being seen in public with her was from Cloud Cuckooland and even she in her sex-numbed state of mind could see that.
“I’m afraid it has to be on these terms—secret—or not at all.”
“Secret?”
“Yes.”
“That’s nice. You get to choose,” he said.
“What?”
“You choose which parts of your life you get to hide and which parts get opened to the public. Convenient.”
“
Adam, it’s to protect you as well.”
He winced. “Yeah, I know. Sorry. I’m not a fan of sneaking around.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll do all that. You do your thing. I’ll come to your hotel wherever you are. I’m a pro at dodging the press. Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want our private lives plastered up as headlines.”
“No.”
“Well then. That’s settled.”
Adam stroked her cheek with his forefinger and let it linger on her chin, vestiges of a smile lingering at the side of his mouth. “Do you always settle things your way?”
“Hey, we came to a mutual agreement here.” She lifted her chin higher. “Speaking of which—we need to finish an interview.”
“You are joking.”
“Not at all. I think I have about five usable seconds in total where you’re actually saying something and behaving yourself. We need a new date, Adam. Strictly professional, of course.”
“On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“You come to the ballet tomorrow night with me.”
“You strike a hard bargain.”
God, ballet. She’d not seen a performance since she’d watched her best friend Emma Daley graduate to the London School of Ballet at the age of seventeen. Aside from the cost of tickets, she’d never wanted to be reminded of what might’ve been. “Are you saying you just happened to buy one ticket too many and are at a loss as to what to do with it?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“A proper, live, TV, BBC-exclusive interview?”
“Yes.”
“Okay then, you’ve got a ballet partner.”
He grinned boyishly, and it was worth it just to see that. He bent his head and kissed her, and it made her quiver with the memories of their night together.
“I do have to go now though,” he said, breaking off the kiss.
“Go, go, go.” She shooed him towards the door, handing him his wallet he’d left on the side table, overcompensating for the way she’d started to melt inside. Another kiss like that and she’d be a puddle of goo on the plush carpet.
When the door closed behind him, it had the effect of a bucket of ice-cold water. Who was in Cloud Cuckooland now? One night of sex and she’d forgotten how to think. The Montreal ballet house wasn’t a private bedroom. Okay, it was a formal setting, not as bad as a nightclub, but still, it was public.
One lucky camera shot, and the press would be on fire with the news of their “affair.” And all this before she’d got a decent interview with him. Either he was more devious than she was giving him credit for, or he had lost his head as much as she had.
Thank goodness it was tomorrow night and not tonight. She’d need at least a day to recover.
• • •
Vivienne wanted them to meet in the café across from the ballet house, like she’d researched the location beforehand and figured this was the best way of not being seen in public. Fine by him.
When he saw her standing in the light of the streetlamp in a pale yellow, chiffon dress, white jacket, looking angelic, he wondered why the whole world hadn’t stopped to stare at her and take photos. He wanted to pull her into his taxi and drive off somewhere more private entirely.
He paid the driver and stepped out, adjusting the lapels of his tux. Normally he felt okay in a shirt and suit, but today everything felt too tight. One night’s absence from this woman had almost driven him to despair, thinking their night together had been an illusion, worrying that she’d somehow slipped away from him. But the fact that she was here now gave him hope.
“You came,” he said.
She turned quickly, eyes wide. “Of course.”
“Thanks.”
“Just holding up my end of the bargain.”
“Wearing this dress?” He took her cold fingers and placed them on his forearm.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. You look … ” he fought for words “… ethereal—far too good for this world.”
“Not so bad yourself.” She laughed, a rich, soft laugh that made him long to tug her to him and devour her with kisses. Her eyes wandered to his face, his neck. He felt ridiculous for not kissing her, but her body language was ambiguous, confusing the hell out of him.
“Let’s get inside,” she said. “I’m uncomfortable standing here in public, even if the demographic is all middle-aged and predominantly female. Not your average racing aficionado.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “One of the reasons I enjoy ballet.”
“How did you get into it in the first place?”
“My mother brought me to a show—The Nutcracker—one Christmas a few years ago. She lives in New York now. She’s lived there since … well, since I was sixteen. I went to humor her and so I wouldn’t have to talk to her new boyfriend. I didn’t expect to like it—but I loved it. The precision of the dancers’ movements, the defiance of nature, the danger.”
“The complete control?”
“Yes. In some ways it’s like driving. All the preparation, the mental and physical perfection expected, the inherent risk, the total reliance on a two-hour performance on the day.”
She nodded. “The insane competition, the horrible politics, and the ugliness under it all?”
“Yes, and yet, when you see a perfect performance, it transcends the bad stuff.”
“So true,” she said, thoughtfully. “What about your mother? Was she a ballerina?”
“God, no. She’s a diplomat, and I think her hobby as a girl was negotiating pocket money raises from her parents. She was more bookish, I suppose. Has a way with people. Can convince them to do anything. Can’t think why she married a farmer like my father. What did or do your parents do?”
“Dad was a teacher—geography. Mum’s a nurse, part-time now. Very middle class. Lower end of middle class, actually.”
The bell sounded for entering the theater. They settled into their seats in the middle of the darkened auditorium, with a perfect view and acoustics.
Despite the much-hyped, debut performance of the lead ballerina, despite the flawless choreography, his eyes were drawn constantly from the stage to Vivienne sitting beside him, where a performance far more intriguing and private was playing out. She wasn’t watching as a normal observer—but as someone who had lived through the rigors of the dance. Her spine tightened on the difficult leaps … he could sense the ripple of tension coursing through her when the prima donna stretched into a high-extension arabesque.
Her chest swelled when a line of ballerinas took the fore of the stage in a line of mathematic perfection. Her fingers twitched on the armrest. He smoothed his hand down her wrist and covered her fingers. She tensed for a second, her sharp knuckles pressing up against his palm, but then she flattened out her hand under his, letting it go limp. He kept his hand there, moving it back and forth, communicating his opinion of the performance mixed in with his own thoughts of pure lust.
He let the music swirl over him, moving his forefinger in slow three-four time along the V of her middle and ring fingers. Her hand clenched, and she turned to look at him, glassy-eyed. He continued caressing the tiny valley between her knuckles and was gratified to notice her chest heaving, her neck relaxing its regal pose against the plush chair. If she were half as turned on as he was, they wouldn’t make it past the first intermission.
When the intermission lights pinged on, it was like a rude intrusion into their privacy. He pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles he’d been caressing. He glanced up to let people pass them on their way to the aisle.
“This is ... taking a lot out of me,” she said when they sat alone in their row. Her cheeks flamed pink, and her pupils were dark, swallowing up the hazel of her iris. She fanned herself with her free hand that clutched the program. “I’d forgotten how … charged … ballet can be. How utterly absorbing. I felt pains I’ve not felt in fifteen years.”
“Mental or physical?” He leaned his head closer, grazed
his lips against the irresistible curve of her cheek and then sought her lips with his. She opened slowly, beautifully, and he pressed deep. He was feeling pain, too, and she was the only one who could relieve him. He wanted her to understand this. This was torture. Mental and physical.
“Mmm,” she replied. Her fingers trailed along the top of his stiff collar and up along his jaw. He could rip off this blazer, this shirt if she just said the word to get them out of here. He watched her face as he moved his hand to where her dress hem cut across the middle of her thighs, as he slid fingers into the hot space between her legs. He slid his tongue into her mouth again. Her body arched forward. A small moan came from deep in her throat as he inched his fingers ever closer to her core.
“Adam.” She pressed out the word with her lips against his. “Don’t make me come in a goddamn theater.”
“Why not? Nobody’s watching.”
“Let’s get out of here. Look, I know you forked out over $300 for these tickets, but I swear I’ll pay you back and—”
He covered her mouth again with his. Ridiculous talk. He’d pay a hundred times as much to be teleported into a bed right this very moment.
“Come on,” he said, rising. The semi-darkness might just about cover the obvious effect she had on him. He strode through the crowds milling around the tables in front of the bar, through the sonorous buzz of middle-aged chatter, the heady scents of expensive colognes.
Only seconds away from the large gilded doors that marked their freedom, his phone buzzed in his trousers pocket, agitating his erection further.
“Christ,” he muttered and looked at caller ID.
Saskia.
She could wait.
He opened the doors and clenched his jaw as an elderly couple shuffled through first, before Vivienne, with a speed that would make a tortoise look nifty. The phone buzzed again in his pocket. Vivienne gave him a curious glance.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” she asked. “I’ll get us a taxi.” She turned away and stood arm raised at the edge of the sidewalk, her shapely back leg tilted up in a half-arabesque.
Saskia rang a third time. She never did that.
He pressed answer. “Oui?” He didn’t bother concealing his irritation.
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