Burn My Hart by Clare Connelly
Intoxicated by Taryn Belle
Sin City Seduction by Margot Radcliffe
Also by Jackie Ashenden
The Knights of Ruin
Ruined
Destroyed
The Kings of Sydney
King’s Price
King’s Rule
King’s Ransom
Keep reading for an excerpt from Burn My Hart by Clare Connelly.
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Burn My Hart
by Clare Connelly
PROLOGUE
SHE’S BEAUTIFUL. BUT that’s not why I notice her. In a sea of men wearing tuxedos, she has Titian-red hair, long and wavy to halfway down her back, and she wears a dress of green silk that makes her pearly skin glow.
But beautiful women are a dime a dozen in my world, so it’s more than that.
Holden.
Our conversation rings in my ears and I know I would do anything to blot it out, to blot out the pain of the past. Sex, in my experience, is an exceptional way to silence memory and thought.
Do you remember that morning? When Dad dumped your mom? Don’t you remember the way she screamed?
Remember it? It’s burned inside of me, her wounded, animalistic cry of disbelief. Jagger and Holden were numb to it—they’d seen this often before. But for me, I’ve never forgotten that. My mother screamed as though her body was catching fire and my father did nothing but stare at her with contempt.
The memory is like the devil at my heels. I want to silence it. To conquer it in the only way I know how.
She lifts her head, her eyes latching onto mine. The flame transfers out of my body, across the room and ignites something within her. I see it in the flaring of her eyes, the lift of her lips into the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen, the hint of pink blossoming in her cheeks. My attention is dragged back to the conversation I’m in but, for the next hour, I’m conscious of her on a cellular level. I could pinpoint exactly where she is in the room at any time.
‘Hey.’ She’s right behind me. I turn around slowly. We’re both alone for the first time all night. Speculation lifts.
‘Hey yourself.’
‘Having fun?’ Her voice is soft and musical. Desire sparks in my gut.
‘Sure. I love this kind of thing.’ My tone is replete with sarcasm.
‘Same here.’ She responds in kind but her conspiratorial smile lightens her words.
‘Do you want a drink?’
She tilts her head to the side, considering that. ‘I think I’ve had enough to drink.’
The words sit between us, the implied invitation unmistakable. ‘Do you want to get out of here?’
Her eyes sharpen with something unmistakable and then she’s nodding. ‘Absolutely.’
* * *
I haven’t had sex in about a billion years. Okay, not quite that long, but a really long time. I’m too busy and there’s something about being Asha Sauvages that makes it hard to meet people I can trust.
So I have no idea what’s overtaken me tonight, nor why I propositioned this guy. Except I do. I mean, he’s hotter than Hades, and in this crowd of buttoned-up suits he stands out like a real-life Greek god. His hair is long, but pulled up into a messy man bun. His jaw is covered in a fine coating of stubble and his eyes are permanently narrowed, whether in disapproval or assessment. Either way, the effect is stunning. On his wrist he wears a couple of fine leather bands, and on the other an expensive wristwatch. Yep, he’s gorgeous, but that’s not why I propositioned him.
Today is the anniversary of my mother’s death—also known as my birthday—which means my father, brother and I go to the cemetery and then have lunch together.
And every year it’s the same thing. ‘We weren’t supposed to have any more children.’ I’m the ‘any more’. ‘If only we hadn’t fallen pregnant again.’ With me.
My brother’s sole purpose at these lunches is to rein my father in, but the longer the lunch goes on, the more wine he drinks, the more apparent it becomes that he really wishes, with all his heart, that I hadn’t been born.
Happy birthday, me!
Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t a self-esteem issue, it’s a fuck my family, I want to do something for myself mood. I have dedicated my life to our family business, to being someone my dad could be proud of, and tonight I just want to have really great sex and push everything else from my mind.
And Theo Hart is, if the rumours are to be believed, the king of great sex. He’s renowned in Manhattan for his phenomenal business skills—last month The Times ran an article about the Hart family and the fact their wealth increases by five million dollars every hour—but he’s just as revered for his devoted bachelorism. I’ve heard rumours about him for years, but this is the first time we’ve met and I have to say, for a night of mind-blowing no-strings sex, he’s exactly what the doctor ordered.
So I promise myself this: I’ll have one night with him and I’ll enjoy it fully so this day won’t be about my mother’s death while she was giving me life; it won’t be about the fact my dad is disappointed in me; it won’t be about anything except me and Theo Hart. He’s the birthday present I’m giving myself.
I had no way of knowing, though, that one night with Theo Hart wouldn’t be enough. That this would be the beginning of something bigger, something fun and intoxicating and something that would ultimately bring about more pain than I’ve ever known in my lifetime. If I had, would I have stepped away from him?
Probably not. Theo Hart has been my kryptonite from the moment we met and there’s simply no escaping that.
CHAPTER ONE
Six months of very hot, no-strings sex later...
You’re late.
I READ HER text message with mixed feelings. Desire, impatience, need.
Frustration, because my brother Holden needs me and if I were anywhere near decent I’d put Asha off till another night so I could give Holden my undivided attention. But the thing is, where Asha’s concerned, I’m ruled by one particular part of my anatomy.
One hour. Max.
I tap the reply quickly, then jam the phone in my back pocket. ‘The wedding’s in a month, man.’
Holden’s grey eyes fix me with a level stare, the ki
nd of stare that would scare the shit out of someone who didn’t know Holden like I do.
‘I’m aware of the date.’ His lips are grim.
‘So? Get your shit together. Jagger needs us.’
He turns his head away, his square jaw covered in more than stubble. It looks like it’s been months since his skin has seen anything approaching a razor. In fact, it looks like months since his liver has seen anything other than alcohol. I shift my gaze around his apartment warily. ‘You need to move on.’
‘Sure.’ His shrug reeks of sarcasm. ‘Done.’
I grind my teeth together. ‘How many times and in how many ways do we have to say it? You’re our brother. I don’t give a shit what some goddamned paternity test shows. No one does. You were raised a Hart, you’ll always be a Hart.’
‘But I’m not.’ The words are emphatic. ‘And with all due respect, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t do that.’
He stares at me.
‘Don’t act like you have a monopoly on the whole “fucked up by your parents” thing. We’re all by-products of our father’s approach to life.’
Holden turns away from me. ‘He’s not my father, remember?’
‘You think biology is the only definition of family?’
His back is ramrod-straight.
I expel an angry breath. ‘So what, man? You want to just turn your back on us? Walk out on Jagger and me, like we mean nothing?’
‘No.’ It’s an angry denial. And then he angles his face back towards mine, his eyes like ice chips. ‘I just need time.’
‘It’s been months.’
‘There’s no statute of limitations on this. I’ll get over it if and when I’m ready.’
‘Fine. But just—don’t block us out, okay? I’m here for you. So’s Jagger.’ We’re not much into the touchy-feely stuff—no one who’d lived our childhoods would be—but I feel like I need to say to Holden what I’ve never said to another person in all my adult life. ‘I love you, man.’
His brows lift in surprise and for the briefest moment there’s a grin on his face, so familiar that my stomach clenches because I catch a tiny ghost of my brother, my real brother, the guy I grew up with. He reaches for a pair of socks that are balled up on the bench beside him and throws them at me. ‘You’re turning soft in your old age.’
I laugh, reassured for now, glad to have sighted him and convinced myself he hasn’t drunk himself into a catatonic stupor. ‘Yeah, yeah. I gotta go. See you Sunday?’
‘Sunday?’
‘Pick-up. At the hotel. Don’t be late.’ I throw the socks back at him. They land between his eyes. I laugh as I leave, but there’s a heaviness inside me, a heaviness I can’t shake.
* * *
‘You’re late.’ I pull the door inwards at his knock, and a familiar rush of longing assaults me. Theo Hart in any guise is one of the hottest guys on the planet. I mean, he could basically be Jason Momoa’s body double. Fewer tats, but every inch of delicious rugged hotness. I swear a little drool escapes the corner of my lips.
I love him in a suit, all buttoned up and conservative, every detail immaculate, but I love him most like this, because this is so perfectly suited to the man he is. In low-slung, faded denims and a black T-shirt, he is casual and hyper-masculine.
‘Sorry.’ He grins and my stomach flip-flops. His eyes drop from my face, scanning my body slowly, so sensual heat licks my flesh as though he’s touching me. The gown is couture, a gift from a designer friend. I traded her a signature Fleurs Sauvages luggage set for the entire Spring-Summer collection. This piece is black silk and it hugs my breasts, hips and falls to just above my knees. It’s a simple slip but the detail is in the design. The cut of the fabric enhances curves without being overstated. ‘You look beaut—’
‘No time.’ I reach for him, pulling him inside. He kicks the door shut with his booted foot, stepping out of them shortly after so his feet are bare. He lifts me against his body, all his hard planes and muscles making my insides turn to mush. ‘Where were you?’
He kisses me and my hands tangle in his hair. It’s styled into a messy man bun on top of his head. I dislodge it unapologetically.
‘Got held up. Doesn’t. Matter.’ He’s pushing at my dress but I shake my head.
‘I have to go out soon. I literally have twenty minutes.’
‘Fuck.’ The word makes me smile because it speaks volumes regarding our mutual desperation. It’s unsurprising. It’s been two weeks since last we saw each other—the longest since we started this bizarre and mutually satisfying agreement. ‘Cancel your plans.’
It’s easy to forget that Theo is one of the wealthiest men on the planet. There’s something low-key about him that puts me at ease, then he fires commands like that at me and I remember he runs the shipping and maritime branch of the behemoth that is Hart Industries, that he’s used to commanding tens of thousands of employees.
‘I can’t. You’re going to have to go fast.’
His grin widens. ‘I don’t think that’ll be a problem.’
I laugh, because where a mere mortal might feel the need to insist they could never come quickly, Theo is secure enough in his manhood, and has given me more than enough orgasms, to know that the ability to render pleasure quickly isn’t a bad thing.
He’s only been to my apartment a couple of times before this but he remembers the way to my bedroom easily. We kiss and walk and stumble a bit as we move quickly through the penthouse, shouldering our way through the doorway and falling onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and fabric. He pulls at my underwear, a lace thong, gliding it from my legs with reverence even as he moves quickly, then pushes my dress up. I lift onto my elbows so he can guide it over my head.
‘Don’t let it crumple,’ I instruct, laughing because Theo is the last person on earth to give a crap about preserving clothing. But I have to wear the dress tonight and wrinkles will kind of be a giveaway as to what I’ve been doing.
With a droll expression, he drapes it at the foot of the bed but I don’t watch. I decide I don’t really care about crinkles. I don’t really care about anything in this moment except him and this.
His fingertips caress my flesh and I tremble, pleasure bursting through me. My hair is long and red. I used to hate it and dye it black, but somewhere in my early twenties I gave myself over to its natural colour and let it grow. It falls to the small of my back in thick, voluptuous Titian curls, and I love how obsessed by it he is. His hands fist the lengths and he drops his head, kissing my mouth, holding my hair, the weight of his body on mine a pleasure beyond compare. My hands fumble at his belt, undoing it, pushing his zip down, freeing his cock, my fingertips curling around his length hungrily. I release a jagged sigh of relief. It’s been way too long—a mistake of circumstance. His life is busy, and mine is the same. Coordinating our schedules is hard but, oh, so worth it.
‘Protection,’ he grunts, pushing his clothes off impatiently at the same time he pulls a condom from his wallet and slides it over his dick. He’s impressively efficient with this stuff and never forgets the practicalities, which I love, because sometimes I’m so caught up in what’s happening between us that I can barely recall my name.
‘I will move heaven and earth to avoid having children,’ he joked one time, when I thanked him for always being so prepared with his condom supply.
He said it as a joke but I felt the undercurrent and knew not to push it. He’s dropped enough little comments like that over the last few months for me to get the picture: he had a shit childhood and is a committed lone wolf.
His body is back on mine in two seconds and I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him towards me.
I don’t need to ask twice. There’s no mystery to this—we both know why he’s here, and it’s far from our first time. He thrusts into me and my body trembles in silent bu
t powerful recognition. Thank God. It’s been too long. He moves slowly at first so I drag my nails—painted our newest shade of red, Ruby Rose—down his back and dig my fingers into his buttocks. He laughs, that deep, husky tone of his voice sending a frisson of desire along my spine.
He thrusts deeper, harder and I tilt my head back, pleasure exploding through me. His mouth drops to my breasts, his stubbled jaw providing a sensual contrast on my flesh—his mouth is warm and soft while his jaw is almost painful on my sensitive skin. He sucks a nipple deep in his mouth, rolling it with his tongue the way he knows I like, his fingers tormenting my other breast as he drives deeper and I arch my back, welcoming him, needing him.
My first orgasm is mind-blowing. I dig my nails in harder, only stopping when it occurs to me, in the back of my desire-flushed mind, that I might draw blood. I let my hands fall to my sides and I ride the wave, pleasure contorting my face, satiation making my breath husky.
As my breath starts to return, I push up so we roll over and I’m on top. His eyes are laced with heat, his sculpted cheekbones slashed with dark colour, and I know his own orgasm is close at hand. With my body on his, I begin to rock on my haunches, pushing up and easing myself down, slowly, tormenting him in a way that’s seriously unkind given how quickly he just got me off.
But the power of this is addictive and I love that he doesn’t fight me, I love that he submits to my brand of torment, letting me take control even when I suspect he wants to grab my hips and hold me down. I lean forward so my breasts brush his chest and he growls my name in the back of his throat so it reverberates from his body to mine. Ashaahh. I love the way he says that, deep and guttural. It’s so primal.
I keep moving my hips, rocking back and forth, the pressure of his cock inside me and his body against mine making my temperature skyrocket. Pleasure builds again so I know I’m going to come once more, and hard. I’m trembling all over, an orgasm on the periphery of my awareness, and then he’s kissing my lips. His hands grab my hips and he moves me in time with his own thrusts, so he’s buried deep inside of me again and again until finally he explodes just as I tip over the edge of the earth. Our bodies fall apart in unison, our voices mingled as pleasure wraps around us both, fervently demanding our surrender. And we give it willingly, urgently, the speed of this coming together unusual for us, but nothing I’m going to complain about.
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