‘Yeah, I guess so.’
‘Have you always been like that? So driven?’
‘Yes.’
I laugh at his quick response. ‘Even as a kid?’
‘Especially as a kid.’ For a moment something dark passes over his face, but it’s gone again so quickly I can’t even say for sure that I wasn’t imagining it. ‘You must know a thing or two about drive, yourself? I imagine a medical degree is no easy stretch?’
It’s strange how far away my university life feels. As though it’s something that happened to someone else. ‘It wasn’t hard,’ I say, tilting my head to the side thoughtfully. ‘I think things with my mum were so shit I was just glad to have something else I could lose myself in, you know?’
He doesn’t say anything and, despite the fact I don’t really want to taint this weekend with anything serious or dark, I find myself elaborating. ‘I think it helped me feel close to her too. You know? She was an amazing surgeon. Studying something she’d perfected really felt right.’
‘She was proud of you?’
My heart twists painfully in my chest and I have to look away. The emotions well inside me, strong and forceful. ‘Yes.’ The plane has built up speed and now it pushes up into the air, its angle steep, taking us over Dublin quickly.
‘You’re an only child?’
My smile is bittersweet. ‘Uh huh.’
‘Your father?’
I expel a soft breath. ‘I don’t know him.’
‘You don’t know him?’ His fingers curl into my hair, flicking it gently.
I look back at him. ‘Never met him.’
‘Did she tell the guy about you?’ There’s a hint of judgement in his tone that I don’t like.
‘It’s not like that.’ I’m quick to defend Mum. ‘I’m not some secret love child or anything. I’m a test tube baby.’ Strange, I spent so much of my childhood hiding my scientific creation from anyone, ashamed of my unconventional conception.
‘Really?’
I nod. ‘Mum didn’t marry; she didn’t have a partner. No one she wanted to share a child with. And the years slipped by and she realised that the only way she was going to become a mother was if she took matters into her own hands.’
A stewardess steps into the cabin, her smile bright, her uniform a professional grey suit. ‘Can I get you anything to drink, Mr Brophy? Ms Davis?’
‘Champagne?’ he suggests.
‘Sure.’
‘And some light refreshments.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The stewardess leaves again and, though I’m hungry, I’m also disappointed because I don’t want to have to wait to get back in that bedroom.
‘So you have a father out there, somewhere. You never thought about looking for him?’
‘I guess that depends on your definition of fatherhood,’ I say thoughtfully.
‘Isn’t there only one construction?’
My lips twist. ‘That’s how a lawyer would look at it, I guess.’
He watches me thoughtfully. ‘But you don’t?’
‘I...’
The stewardess returns, wheeling a small trolley. She removes an ice bucket of champagne and places it on the table to Michael’s left, then reaches between us with a small, ‘Excuse me,’ pulling a small table from the armrest. She places a platter on it—oysters, cheese, meats, olives—then smiles and leaves.
Michael pours a glass of champagne and hands it to me. ‘You were saying?’
I watch the bubbles as they dance around the glass.
‘I think fatherhood is about more than biology,’ I say quietly. ‘Yes, theoretically, there is a man out there who shares my DNA. Maybe I even have half-siblings.’ My heart lurches at that—I wished, at Mum’s funeral, I had someone who could stand beside me and know what I was feeling, who could feel that pain. ‘But he chose not to know me. I think he’d resent it if I turned up on his doorstep and wanted to forge some kind of relationship.’
‘You’re talking about him. His rights. What he wants. I’m asking what you want.’
I expel a sigh. ‘I guess I want things to stay as they are.’
‘Why?’
Again, I’m reminded of what he must be like in court—formidable, dogged and determined. ‘Why not?’
He stares at me for another moment, then shrugs. ‘I think not knowing would kill me.’
‘Because you’re a control freak,’ I tease, sipping my champagne. It’s beautiful. Floral and delicate.
‘Am I?’
‘Sure. That can’t be news to you?’
He shakes his head slowly from side to side. ‘No.’
I’m filled with questions. A thousand of them. They bubble inside me, demanding answers, but something holds me back from asking them. I realise what it is minutes later, after I’ve been staring at him as though knowing every single detail of his body is now my life’s mission.
Michael Brophy is not a normal man. At least, he’s not like any man I’ve ever met. I fear the strength of my attraction to him because he is someone in whom I could lose myself utterly. And I’m not about getting lost. I’m not about relationships. I’m on the trip of a lifetime—I’m seeing the world. I’m being footloose and fancy-free for the first time in my life and nothing will get in the way of that.
Maybe, just maybe, if this dream was all my own, I would allow for some flexibility.
But I’m doing this for Mum—travelling as she was never able to. I owe it to her to do it properly.
So this is what it is—what we both agreed to. Sex. A fling. Fun. There’s no need to get too personal. I unclip my seat belt, renewed determination in my heart and mind. He’s watching me and it adds imperative to my movements. I push up, straddling him, almost spilling my champagne in the process.
He remains impassive but I feel his breathing and, more than that, I feel the spark in the air around us. I feel the energy and I know we are both equally beholden to desire. I might not have experience but I have brains and intuition and they are telling me that he’s as lost to this as I am.
‘You know, I’ve heard about this thing,’ I say, sipping my champagne, then leaning down and kissing him.
‘Yeah?’ His hands curve around my back; desire storms my body.
‘The Mile-High Club.’
His laugh is throaty. ‘What’s that all about?’ he teases, pushing the strap of my dress down and peppering my shoulder with kisses.
Embarrassment heats my cheeks but I ignore it. I know he likes to make me blush. I’m getting used to it. ‘Something about orgasms at high altitude being much more...stimulating.’
‘Really? You don’t say...’
‘Of course, I have no experience...’
He looks at me from hooded eyes. ‘Let’s see what we can do about that.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
I WANT TO rip the damned dress from her body; I’ve wanted to since she stepped out of the limousine and a breeze lifted it just enough to expose her slender ankles and the hint of calves to my watchful eyes. It is an intriguing shade of green, dark and mossy, but it seems to make her eyes dance with magic. It is a beautiful dress but if I had my way Millie Davis would be naked every minute of the time we are together.
I want to rip the dress from her body, but I don’t. I crouch down before her and start with her shoes. Beige leather sandals. I unclick first one, my hand curving around her ankle as I slide it from her foot, then the other, pulling it from her softly, placing it on the floor beside her. My eyes lift to hers and I catch the hem of her dress in the palm of my hand. It’s soft and smells like her, like lavender and vanilla and everything sweet and kind in this world.
I lift the dress higher until I reach her knees, where I let my hand curve around the back of her leg. I feel rather than see or hear the way she catches her breath. Her responsiveness is hot
as fuck, all the more so because I know I’m the first man to make her feel any of these things. Am I just a little hard for that fact? For the fact that I will always be her first? Even when she’s in Paris, gone, and we’ve lost contact, these memories of me will live in her brain, her mind, her body—for always.
Show me a man who wouldn’t want that.
I kiss her knee, feather-light, then lift the dress higher, to her thighs, and over her underwear. God, more silk and lace, black this time. My chest kicks inwards. I stand as I push the dress up her body, layering gentle kisses across her flat stomach until I reach her breasts—breasts that aren’t held by a bra.
I groan as I finally push the dress over her head, catching her hair in my hands as I dispense with the fabric, holding her face still for my inspection. The bed behind us beckons but I stay standing, just looking at her.
‘You want to know what it feels like to orgasm at this altitude?’
Her eyes show excitement and anticipation—a tornado of feelings. I reach behind me for her champagne and pass it to her. ‘Try not to spill any.’
Bemused, she sips and I sink to my knees once more, eye height with her sex. She loves it when I go down on her. She’s crazy for it, and I’m crazy for it too—the way she tastes, the way she cries out as she comes. It’s hot, and addictive. I take my time removing the scrap of lace, pushing it down her legs while her breath is the only sound in the bedroom.
When it reaches her ankles she steps out of it and I use my hands to guide her legs apart a little.
‘Michael!’ I love the way she says my name—and especially when she’s close to coming. Like I’m a god, or heaven personified. A relief and a torment, all at once.
I expel a breath gently and she makes a strangled sound of awareness as heat from my mouth fans her.
‘Oh, my God,’ she cries out and I smile against her, smile against her madness and euphoria, and my own madness too. Because since when am I a man who’s hell-bent on slow, torturous seduction? When was the last time I didn’t just take a woman to bed for the pleasure she could give me—and, yes, the pleasure I could give her? Already I am desperate to feel her again, to bury myself deep inside her, to make her cry out with wanting me.
And soon I will.
Her fingers dig into my hair, pulling hard as I move faster, delighting in the feel of her beneath me, of the taste of her excitement.
‘Michael,’ she groans, and something wet lands on my head. Champagne. I laugh, pulling away from her for a moment. But the amusement dies on my face at the sight of Millie in the throes of passion. Christ. In all my life I’ll never forget the perfection of that moment. Her pale skin shines in the evening sunlight that filters through the windows of the jet and the rapture of her face is angelic and breathtaking.
Fuck.
I stand up, taking her champagne flute and putting it down, using my body to guide her back to the bed. She falls into it gratefully and I stare at her for a moment before dropping my mouth to her breast, sucking on it until she’s whimpering beneath me, her body jerking and writhing in a way that has me harder than a rock.
I move my mouth downwards, finding her clit once more. This time she says only, ‘Please.’
I understand. I part her legs with my hands and lash her with my tongue, and when she explodes I feel it, and I push a single finger inside her so her muscles clench hard around me and she bucks her back and then collapses against the bed. Goosebumps cover her skin in a delicate layer.
Her breathing is raspy and then she’s reaching for me, pulling me up towards her. I barely have time to push my pants apart and slide a condom in place before I’m driving into her, desperate for this possession, desperate for her.
Her muscles squeeze me tight and I stare down at her as I thrust deep. She scores her nails down my back, over my shirt, and then cups my arse, holding me tight inside her. I grunt, my balls throbbing, pleasure so close.
‘Fuck.’ I devour her mouth, my lips seeking hers as though she is the answer to every question I’ve ever asked. I kiss her hard and she kisses me right back, the same hunger in her, the same need pounding through her. ‘Fuck,’ I curse into her mouth. Her orgasm is intense; she screams into the cabin and it’s my undoing. I push into her one last time and find my own release—intense, dark, desperate: perfect.
‘Oh, my God,’ she moans a moment later.
I push up, watching her, studying her.
‘So? Are the rumours about the Mile-High Club true? Was that better than the other night?’
‘I couldn’t say with certainty,’ she murmurs after a moment, looking at me from beneath half-shuttered eyes. ‘I think more research might be in order.’
I laugh but, fuck, desire is racing through me. ‘You’re right, Millie. We do want to be thorough, after all...’
* * *
The Manhattan Ballet Guild’s home is just off Broadway. Built in the sixties, of wood and concrete, it would have been cutting-edge in its day, and even now it has a certain Space Age appeal. Space Age as conceived of in The Jetsons.
His chauffeured limousine pulls to a stop in front of it and I take a moment to stare—and to simply breathe.
Since we arrived the night before, New York has been a whirlwind of sightseeing and exploring, and all done in the kind of style I could never have imagined I’d enjoy. I presumed we’d be staying in a hotel, but Michael, of course, has his own penthouse here in Manhattan, and it’s unlike anything I even knew existed. A sky palace would be a better description. ‘My partner and I share it,’ he said, when my awe had obviously overpowered me.
‘Your partner?’
‘Connor. Business partner. We have a separate company that controls our property holdings.’
‘Sounds fancy,’ I teased.
The penthouse was just the beginning of the fancy, though. He whisked me to a restaurant in Central Park, where we ate delicacies and drank champagne and then walked through the park as the sun went down.
He woke me up by going down on me. I have no experience outside of Michael but I have to believe he’s unnaturally good at oral sex, because no sooner do his lips touch me down there than I begin to feel like I’m about to fall apart. Surely that’s not normal. I don’t want to get my hopes up that the next guy I meet is going to have his skills and prowess. He is some kind of sexual magician.
I would have stayed in bed with him all day, contenting myself to see Manhattan from the spectacular view afforded from his bedroom windows, but we went out instead, walking the streets, catching the ferry, shopping, looking, discovering.
When we got back to his gorgeous apartment, I walked into the bedroom to find a dress laid out on the bed. Upon closer inspection, I recognised a couture label discreetly stitched into the seam. The dress is a perfect fit, pale pink and floaty to just above my knees. It is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever worn.
There were shoes too. I styled my hair into a loose chignon and filled my metallic clutch with the essentials. I feel like Cinderella, I’m not going to lie to you.
‘Are you ready?’
I turn to face him and my heart stutters in my chest. Dressed in a black tuxedo with a white bow tie, he is the definition of sophisticated bachelor. And for the next little while, he’s all mine.
‘Uh huh.’
In the car he leans forward and knocks on the glass divider. A moment later, the driver opens my door. I step out, looking up at the building, a whole kaleidoscope of butterflies looping through my belly. He puts a hand in the small of my back and moves me towards the stairs.
‘Thank you for this, Michael,’ I say, pausing on the bottom step to look at him. And I smile, and something catches in my chest.
‘I have something for you.’
‘Something other than this dress, this ballet, this whole weekend?’
He nods, reaching into his pocket. The box he pulls
out is small and a familiar turquoise colour, wrapped in a shiny white ribbon.
I hesitate before taking it.
‘It’s just a trinket,’ he explains, understanding my reason for hesitating. Because gifts are complicated, and valuable gifts even more so. Then again, this is a man with the world at his fingertips. To him, a jewel is probably no more significant than giving a magazine out is to anyone else.
‘Should I open it now?’
His eyes crinkle at the corners, as if he’s laughing at a secret joke. ‘No sense in waiting.’
I look towards the building. Well-dressed guests are milling at the doors. I pull on the white ribbon, releasing it from its hold and then lift the top off the box. Inside is a delicate bracelet, white-gold, with a single charm hanging from the clasp. A cherry made of white gold, with a diamond at its core.
‘It’s lovely...’ And then my cheeks flush pink as the significance of this man giving me a cherry dawns on me.
‘It seemed appropriate,’ he says and he laughs.
I laugh right back, hitting his chest. ‘Subtle.’
‘As a brick.’ He takes the bracelet from me, looping it on my wrist. ‘It’s something to remember me by.’ He winks and I laugh again, ignoring the strange breathlessness stealing through me.
The ballet is perfection. Our seats are not simply seats, of course, and I don’t know why I’m surprised when we’re led to a box with six seats—and no one else joins us. Champagne is served, gelati at the intermission and, despite the fact Michael Brophy is beside me in all his stunning, distracting hotness, I find myself completely enthralled by the ballet.
In the final act I settle back in my seat, watching, and, out of nowhere, a memory dances on the periphery of my mind, intangible, like a whisper through a wall at first, but stronger then, pulling at me, demanding attention. I watch the ballet but I see my mother. Not as she was at the end, wraith-like, so pale and weak. I see her as she will always be in my mind. Strong, with silky blonde hair, a quick smile, watchful eyes and freckles across her nose. A body that is strong and has not yet betrayed her with its weakness.
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