My heart aches for the picture he’s painted. ‘That must have been incredibly wretched for you.’
His eyes lift to mine. There is darkness there. Confusion. ‘I thought it was normal,’ he says. ‘For a long time. As a child you live in a bubble. Eventually I stayed over with friends, saw their parents, realised my own family was particularly, uniquely fucked up.’ He lifts a hand, stroking my cheek. ‘She never got to experience life outside the home. She never got to walk away from him, to travel, to do anything without him. He oppressed her, he controlled her, he dominated her. She deserved so much better.’
‘Of course she did.’
He’s quiet.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Now I lift my face towards his. He’s watching me with an intensity that makes something inside me ache. I have no interest in pretending that what we’re doing is purely for fun any longer, even if it is temporary. I lift up on tiptoes and press my lips to his. ‘Thank you for telling me.’
He’s very still; he doesn’t kiss me back. ‘I don’t know why I did,’ he murmurs, shaking his head. ‘I never speak about them.’
‘I’m glad you did.’
‘Why?’
I shrug, awkward. ‘I don’t know.’
His smile is more of a grimace.
‘You told me our grief is different. You said you’ve accepted she’s no longer here and that you’ve become used to living without her. That it’s a faraway pain. But I don’t... I think you’re misrepresenting how you feel.’
‘You’re calling me a liar?’ he asks, stroking my back again.
‘Not exactly. But maybe you’re a little bit in denial.’
‘Why?’
‘Because your father killed your mother and he’s still alive and every day you have to make a choice not to see him. That’s hard.’
‘I made the choice a decade ago. I will never re-evaluate it.’ His certainty sends a shiver dancing down my spine. He’s hurting, despite what he says, and I don’t want him to.
At first I wanted to sleep with Michael Brophy because he’s drop dead gorgeous, sinfully sexy and clearly knows what he’s doing.
But now, in this moment, I’m making a decision and it’s motivated by other factors. I want to go to bed with Michael to erase this pain from his heart, just for a moment. I have limited power with him, but I want to wield it. I want to turn the grief that is wrapped around him and spin it into something else altogether.
‘Take me to bed, Mr Brophy.’ I lift up and kiss him softly. ‘Take me to bed right now.’
* * *
The bedroom is in darkness, but Michael makes it light. He reaches for a lamp, switching it on as I walk to the edge of the bed.
I lift my eyes to find him watching me, his eyes chasing the fleeting expressions and making sense of them. He unbuttons his shirt, his gaze not leaving my face, his face wearing a mask that is impossible to decipher as he slowly, painstakingly slowly, removes the shirt from his body. My throat is thick, my skin covered in fine goosebumps, and my stomach is in knots.
The shirt slides down his body, dropping to the floor with a soft noise. I hear everything—the brush of cotton against his hair-roughened arms, his exhalation as he pushes the shirt free, the fall of it through the air of this bedroom, and then its landing—it’s as though my senses are on alert.
I can only stare at him.
His hand strums my hip, his fingers splayed wide there before dragging upwards, finding the top of the zip. He watches me the whole time he loosens it, sliding it down my side, all the way to my hip, so the dress parts and the night air whispers across my bare skin.
My senses are on high alert, so when he eases the dress down my body it’s its own kind of foreplay. I bite down on my lower lip as it brushes over my nipples and then my sex, my so very aroused, very ready body aching for satisfaction and touch. He drags my underpants down with the dress; I am naked to his touch, his inspection. I am naked to him. The knowledge of how exposed I am makes me crave him in a whole new way.
‘Michael,’ I murmur as he crouches at my feet, holding the voluminous dress for me to step out of. I press a hand on his shoulder and lift out of it. He stands slowly, running his hands over my legs, my body, with a reverence that robs me of breath.
‘Millie...’ He says my name in the same way I said his, one brow cocked, sardonic curiosity on his features. I swallow, and I can no longer let him dictate the pace of this. I am so hungry for him. My body is on fire and he’s trickling water on me with a teaspoon.
‘I want you to fuck me.’
And my hands lift to his chest. I push him with all my might; he falls backwards onto the bed, laughing a little. But I straddle him immediately and he’s not laughing now. I feel his hard dick between my legs and I am wet, and desperate.
‘Stupid pants,’ I grunt, reaching between my legs and finding his belt buckle. My fingers fumble and I swear softly again under my breath, rolling off him so he can take over. He pushes at his trousers, lifting his ass so he can get them off while lying down. His boxers follow.
‘Stupid pants,’ he agrees, but he brings his body over mine, his eyes seeking answers I don’t have, and then he’s kissing me, hard and in a way that makes my insides tremble. His fingers lace with mine, trapping my hands beside me, and his arousal teases me—there’s no other way to describe it. He’s so close, and I arch my back and lift my legs around him, inviting him to take me, but he only kisses me. He kisses me in a way that makes my soul ache, but I am hungry for so much more and I will not be satisfied with kisses.
I am alive with passions that are driven by an instinct I can’t quell.
‘Please...’ I run my fingernails down his back, digging my fingers into the toned cheeks of his ass.
He drags his mouth down my body, finding a nipple and flicking it with his tongue. It’s like sparking a flame near a stove-top. My body incinerates. I writhe beneath him. He moves to the other nipple, his fingers on my sides, gentle, slow, teasing, and then he drags his mouth lower, and I whimper when his tongue traces over my clit, driving me to the edge of the world as I know it.
I want to tell him to stop with the delay. I want him. His cock. Sex. Not this. But I do want this. I want to have my cake and to eat it too. I smile as he runs a finger over my seam, and then inside me, and then another finger, and his mouth kisses my most private place and I see stars and the heat of this pleasure, at the perfection of this.
And then, for the briefest, most agonising moment, he is gone. I lie there, my breath stretched, my lungs burning. There is a crinkle of something and when I push up onto my elbows he is sliding a condom over his length, his eyes watching me.
‘Don’t ever sleep with a guy who doesn’t respect you enough to protect you, Millie.’ His eyes flare and my heart turns over at his edict, given without a hint of anything other than his trademark control.
‘Cross my heart.’
His grin is just a flash on his face and then he’s back on top of me, kissing me more slowly now, but with so much intensity I would have fallen to my knees if I’d been standing up. It’s a moment of perfection. His strong thigh nudges my legs further apart; I lift my feet to the mattress, bending my knees, and he kisses me while the tip of his cock pushes at my entrance.
I hold my breath, I hold my everything—I feel like something is about to change, something monumental. We’ve slept together before—I know what this is. I’m not the virgin I was when I propositioned him, and yet this is different. I’m conscious of that difference, of this feeling. I’m conscious of all of him. I hold my breath until my lungs are burning inside me. All of me is on fire.
* * *
She’s so tight. My cock pushes inside her slowly. I groan, dipping down and kissing her. I kiss her, tasting her, rolling her tongue with mine, knotting our fingers together, and I push in deeper.
She squeezes my length; her tig
htness is like a vice. I deserve a fucking medal for being able to control this—even for someone like me, who controls all aspects of my life, this is something else.
I ease into her, stroking her hair, lifting up to look at her because suddenly I can’t not look at her. And she smiles at me; the most beautiful smile, and then bites down on her lip, pulling me back to her.
Our lips mesh, our tongues too, and finally I drive myself into her, all of me, all of her, and we are one again, like I’ve been needing since this morning, and the night before, and every time I’ve fucked her and knew I would be counting down until I could have her again.
There is urgency stoking me and I bury myself in her tightness and then I drop my head to the curve of her neck, kissing her there, feeling her soft breasts press to my chest as I move. She calls my name over and over; my name on her lips is an art form and a gift. She calls my name over and over as she comes and I hold her and kiss her, swallowing my name, my pleasure-soaked name, and I tip her over the edge, controlling my own orgasm with a monumental effort of restraint. She is quivering beneath me, her body like jelly, her breathing loud, her face flushed.
Fuck!
I am on top of the world. Seeing her like this, knowing I did that to her—it is a feeling beyond compare. Every macho instinct I possess roars inside me, beating my chest. I prop up on my elbows and she smiles at me slowly and, damn it, I lose a piece of myself in that moment.
I kiss her and she wraps her legs around my waist, holding me where I am, her muscles squeezing me, and I move my hips, a slower tempo now, moving deeper, driving into her gently, feeling every pulse of motion either of us makes, and then I am fighting my own inevitable break and she’s crying out again and this time, when she arches her back and succumbs to her orgasm, I tip into her, my own pleasure exploding within me, so we find our release together. I hold her tight, a guttural sound comes from deep within my core and then there is silence.
My head drops forward, pressing to her chest, and I feel her heart, its rapid, racing urgency, and I smile against her, listening to her lungs expelling air, her blood rushing, her body’s tempo.
It is like the beating of a drum, a marching that is in sync with time’s passage. I listen to it. I listen to time moving beyond us, and I hold onto this moment for as long as I can.
CHAPTER NINE
‘HOW OLD WERE YOU?’ I’m not even sure he’s not asleep. I lie on the soft mattress, staring out at a sparkling New York city, my back pressed to his tight body, his arm clamped over me. His breathing is rhythmic and neither of us has spoken for some time.
Silence.
I expel a soft breath and my body brushes against his. Alertness lashes me.
‘How old was I, when?’ His voice is thick with sleep.
A smile curves my lips. ‘When you first had sex with someone?’
He’s quiet again. Has he fallen asleep? I flip over; his arm doesn’t relax, so I’m trapped beneath him. I like being trapped in his arms.
I push the thought aside and focus on his face. His beautiful, handsome face. His eyes are shut. I lift a finger, tracing the outside of his lips. He blinks open, his brow furrowed. ‘That tickles.’
‘Sorry,’ I whisper. I’m not.
‘So?’
‘How can you not be tired?’ he demands, moving his arm only to view the watch at his wrist, before replacing it around my waist, his fingers splayed at my back.
I shrug.
‘Didn’t we say we weren’t going to do the whole ex talk?’
‘I’m not asking who you slept with. This is about you.’
‘Fair point, counsellor.’ He focuses over my shoulder for a moment, lost in thought. ‘I was fifteen.’
‘Fifteen?’ I blink, staring at him, and he slides his gaze back to my face.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s...so young!’
‘I can see why you’d say that,’ he says, teasing.
‘No. That’s not just a matter of opinion. Objectively speaking, you were young.’
‘Yes.’
‘How...’
‘I had a girlfriend.’ He grins. ‘She was older.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Of course she was.’
‘And I was a fifteen-year-old boy. Horny as fuck. Was I meant to turn her down?’
‘I...mean...kind of?’
‘Never. Going. To. Happen.’
I laugh.
‘And you, at fifteen, were still playing with dolls’ houses?’
‘I...no. I was studying.’ I flush to the roots of my hair. ‘Dolls’ houses were never really my thing. Even as a kid.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shrug, my eyes holding his thoughtfully. ‘How long were you with her?’
He arches a brow. ‘Three months.’
‘I thought you didn’t do relationships?’
‘I was a kid.’ His lips tug downwards, matching mine. ‘But you’re right. I think she’s probably my longest relationship.’
He’s dedicated to being single. I get it. ‘Surely, from time to time, you want more than...this?’
His eyes lock onto mine. ‘No.’
‘Never?’
‘Never.’
‘How can that be?’
‘I like my life. I like my job, my career, my lifestyle. I like sex, with lots of women. I like casual, no mess, no fuss. I like this,’ and he pushes up, his body on top of mine, his legs straddling me.
I make a sound of surprise, then of desire, as his nearness instantly sparks want in my bloodstream.
‘Why would I want more than this?’
I scrunch my nose, even as thought is becoming almost impossible. ‘You don’t want kids?’
‘Hell, no.’ He visibly blanches.
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘I just know myself. I don’t want that responsibility. How could I ever be a fucking dad, Millie? Look at my own upbringing. Look at the way I was raised. Do you think I’d ever get married, have a kid, knowing Clint Brophy’s blood runs through my veins?’
Desire, surging in my gut, is doused instantly, sucked out of me, replaced with utter, complete sympathy.
‘Are you like him, Michael?’
‘I do everything in my power not to be,’ he says firmly, rolling off me and flipping onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. But I don’t like the separation, nor the distance. I pull his arm out and wriggle my body closer, laying my head on his chest so his arm can wrap around my shoulders. ‘I don’t want to be.’
‘Then you’re not,’ I say firmly.
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Why not?’ I stifle a yawn.
‘Because.’ The word is somewhat belligerent. ‘He’s a fucking nightmare, but he’s still my father. I look like him. Speak like him. Why is it so hard to believe that I won’t act like him too, one day?’
‘You asked me yesterday...no, the day before? You asked me if I think parenthood is purely biology. I don’t. I think being a parent is a choice you make, and your behaviour is a choice too. Do you think all children of murderers or rapists grow up to perpetrate the same crimes as their parents?’
He’s quiet and so tense his body is rigid. ‘No.’
‘Of course they don’t. Because having an impulse and acting on it are two entirely different things.’ I snuggle in closer. ‘I’m sorry you’ve let your fear of his legacy control your life so much, Michael.’
He doesn’t answer and I drift off to sleep, with no way of knowing that my words are etching into his soul, turning over stones he’d buried years and years earlier. I fall asleep and I dream of Michael—good dreams, but dreams that don’t live up to reality. I’m not sure anything could match the truth of what I’ve shared, and with whom.
* * *
‘Where are we going?’ she a
sks, finishing off the square of pizza, looking up and down Eighth Avenue.
‘You want the quintessential New York experience, right?’
‘I think we did that last night,’ she drawls. ‘The ballet, I mean. And dinner. And...’ She laughs and slaps my shoulder. ‘Oh, shut up.’
I laugh back, catching her hand and squeezing it in mine. ‘This is different.’
‘Different, huh?’ She falls into step beside me and I don’t realise we’re holding hands until we’re almost there. I don’t think I’ve ever held hands with a woman before. I cough and lift my hand, releasing hers and then dropping mine to my side.
If she notices my incredibly awkward gesture, she doesn’t show it. She’s still scanning the street, looking for some hint of our destination. I’m surprised the sound of the crowds doesn’t give it away.
‘I’m not dressed for anything except being a tourist,’ she says, drawing my attention to her casual jeans and singlet top. God, and the tiny hint of midriff exposed when she gestures to things, and the single pink bra strap I can see just a hint of. And the curve of her breasts and the snug fit of her jeans on her rounded ass. Great. I’m straining against my own jeans, and we have a whole afternoon to get through.
‘Actually—’ my voice is hoarse ‘—you’re dressed perfectly for what we’re doing.’
‘Which is?’ She arches her brows, eyeing me expectantly.
‘You’ll see,’ I say softly and her eyes seem to light up with the force of a thousand light bulbs. Her exuberance is contagious.
Fuck it. I reach for her hand, lacing my fingers through hers—it feels less awkward this time. The street gets busier as we approach Madison Square Garden.
‘Whoa, I wonder what’s going on in there,’ she says, scanning the stadium. ‘Oh! The Knicks!’ She points to the huge sign on the corner.
‘American basketball,’ I say, watching her face.
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