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His Innocent Seduction
Clare Connelly


A sexual initiation… I enjoy the finer things—aged whisky, gourmet meals, beautiful women… So when sweet virgin Millie Davis propositions me, I vow we’ll savor every moment. It’s completely no-strings—love is too dangerous. Yet, how can someone so innocent bring me to the brink of losing control?







One night isn’t enough...to initiate her into the world of sexual pleasure!

Book 2 in Clare Connelly’s Guilty as Sin duet.

I enjoy the finer things in life—aged whiskey, gourmet meals and the company of beautiful women. So when sweet, charming Millie Davis asks me for one night of pleasure before she leaves Ireland, I vow we’ll both savor every moment. For much longer than one night...

Now, from the bedroom of my private jet to my luxurious Dublin and New York City penthouses, I’m tutoring her in exquisite physical passion and taking us both to new heights!

We agreed to no strings. And I learned long ago that love is a dangerous game. But the closer we get to Millie’s departure date, the more I want her to stay. How can someone so innocent bring me to the brink of losing control?

Sexy. Passionate. Bold. Discover Harlequin DARE, a new line of fun, edgy and sexually explicit romances for the fearless female.


CLARE CONNELLY was raised in small-town Australia among a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Mills & Boon book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a surefire sign that she’s in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Mills & Boons continue to be her favourite ever books. Writing for Mills & Boon is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com (http://www.clareconnelly.com) or her Facebook page.


His Innocent Seduction

Clare Connelly






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-08702-5

HIS INNOCENT SEDUCTION

© 2019 Clare Connelly

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




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To mothers everywhere, and mine in particular, who

taught me to dream big, work hard, live passionately

and to love completely.

And also to cook—for which my family is eternally

grateful.


Contents

Cover (#u5fe232a4-0c13-5a9d-b1a7-773c4fdf9989)

Back Cover Text (#u79568271-ce0e-5e46-9882-d9062d96760d)

About the Author (#udac03a86-0f76-5825-9529-71cfb63dab70)

Title Page (#ud8c9b1b4-4a61-5e73-815d-25951de61086)

Copyright (#u235b2d72-44c7-5ed7-8b3d-35fbd260799d)

Note to Readers

Dedication (#uc8393c53-7a9d-5e5b-a899-71aefe1ca186)

PROLOGUE (#ue2793b58-06e7-5643-bff8-1a24a86a94d3)

CHAPTER ONE (#u1671bf28-906a-5c8b-a9b4-9b3cefcef9f3)

CHAPTER TWO (#ub454da56-36fd-5fab-874d-b71fb142d649)

CHAPTER THREE (#u0e437b0c-6a67-5ed0-ae23-e55887090c3d)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




PROLOGUE (#u03716890-b4c0-5ffc-93e5-6857f25c965d)


HE ALWAYS COMES in alone, and more often than not leaves with a different woman. The first few weeks I worked at O’Leary’s bar, a little subterranean speakeasy in Dublin’s finance district, just a stone’s throw from Trinity College, I simply watched him.

I don’t really know why, but I went out of my way not to serve him.

There was something about him that told me to steer clear. That warned me off.

At first I told myself that it was his easy arrogance—I don’t like anyone who has that air of complete self-confidence. I mistrust it.

But as the days trickled into weeks and I became more and more accustomed to it, I’m still keeping my distance.

Then I thought, maybe it’s his appearance? I mean, there’s hot and then there’s walking-on-the-surface-of-the-sun hot. This man is easily over six feet tall, muscled through his shoulders yet slim at his waist, with skin the colour of caramel, eyes that glow like the sky on a bright, starlit night, hair that’s thick and dark, and a square jaw that is always devoid of stubble, as though he insists on controlling every element of his life, even the hair on his face.

He wears suits. Always suits, and expensive ones, I’d guess, if the gleaming gold watch at his wrist and the hand-stitched leather shoes are any indication.

It’s been two months since I started working at O’Leary’s, two months since I first saw him, and in almost three weeks I’ll be leaving Ireland and moving on to the next stop in this ‘experience of a lifetime’ trip of mine. This tribute trip to mum—for mum, who never got a chance to do any of this.

It’s been one month since I first served him a drink.

He ordered a Desert Ray, the most expensive whiskey we have in stock—which is saying something, as this bar is seriously high-end. He ordered it neat, with an iced water back, and he spoke in a thick Irish brogue and looked at me as though we’d met before and were sharing an old secret joke. He looked at me in a way that made my blood heat up and my throat dry out, that made my heart pound so much harder than is wise, and I realised then why I’ve really been avoiding him.

This man is not just the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, he’s also the most sensually distracting human on the face of the planet, and I am definitely no match for him.

I have no skills in that department and even less experience. I’m a twenty-three-year-old virgin and one look from him makes me wonder what it would be like to be kissed by him. Held by him. To have him strip my clothes from my body and...

I can’t think like that while I’m at work.

One month since that first look that spoke of secrets shared and intrigues to enjoy, and I have just about learned to control my outward appearance of temptation, if not the cacophony of my pounding blood. The instincts are there, but not the indications of them.

I have learned that he is a lawyer—and a very good one too. He has his own firm and is renowned across Europe for the cases he wins.

I can see he’s wealthy, in that very rare way. A one percenter. When he pays for his drinks, he slides a crisp note from a folded selection of euros that would easily value in the thousands.

I gather that he is whip-smart, arrogant, and has a dry wit. He knows anyone worth knowing in Ireland. Politicians, celebrities, tycoons. And when he is drinking alone he reads the broadsheets on his tablet, one leg crossed over the other, his pose relaxed, mind absorbing all of the facts contained within the articles.

And I can only imagine that he is an incredibly skilled lover. He simply has to look at a woman to have her stroll to his table and take the seat opposite, to lean forward and smile, laugh at something he’s said, and then stand when he’s ready to leave, curve her body into his side and exit the bar with obvious plans for a night in his bed on her mind...

Yes, he must be quite something in bed, if experience translates to skill, which I suppose it doesn’t necessarily. And yet even just his smile is sensual and I know, in a way that makes no sense at all, that his body would be an absolute gift.

I have learned all these things about him in the last two months, and I still haven’t learned how to handle the growing certainty that I want him.

All of him.

For one night only.

In less than three weeks I’m leaving Ireland. Nothing is going to come between me and this trip—the date of my departure is set in stone. In just under three weeks I’m leaving Dublin, this pub, this man, this opportunity behind. The nights I have left to turn fantasy into reality are dwindling. It’s time to act.

His name, I have learned, is Michael Brophy, and I want him to be my first lover.




CHAPTER ONE (#u03716890-b4c0-5ffc-93e5-6857f25c965d)


WHAT A FUCKING DAY.

I will never say I crave a drink—watching my father obliterate himself with alcohol and turn into the kind of man who wears cruelty like a skin and indulges violence as a habit has taught me a lesson I’ll never forget about liquor and its ability to remove any veneer of civility and control. But today, this day, I have been pushed almost to breaking point.

Both my secretaries called in sick and the temp I got sent could barely spell her own name, then the key witness in my case went missing and God knows, without him, the defence is almost impossible to make.

Not impossible, but a lot fucking harder.

How the hell didn’t I see this coming? It’s my job to be three steps ahead; I’m renowned for that.

Perhaps something of my day expresses itself in my bearing because when I approach the bar, the blonde waitress’s eyes widen and for a moment I am reminded of the ocean on the clearest day imaginable. They shimmer with shades of turquoise and aquamarine, slices of colour punctuated with a shimmering black pupil and surrounded with lashes so thick and long they are like feathers.

It’s just gone six and this place is at its busiest. Within two hours it will have thinned out, but for now there are people everywhere, lined up along the bar, leaning forward, waiting to catch the attention of one of the four staff members who circulate across the tiled floor.

Her eyes hold mine for a moment and then her gaze slides sideways, to a woman at my left.

‘What’ll it be, ma’am?’ Her Australian accent is like butter and my lips twist into a curl that I think might be described as disdainful. I don’t mean to be, only the way she ignores me has gone from amusing to annoying—particularly tonight when I really could murder a fucking Scotch.

The woman orders a cocktail and the blonde smiles in acceptance but her eyes jerk to me again and something like fascination flares inside me.

She’s young; I presume she’s a student at Trinity, working here to pay the fees.

She slices a lime, her fingers confident and deft as they squeeze it into a stainless steel container. She adds mint, then ice, a sugar liquid and finally alcohol, before placing the lid on and shaking the drink. She doesn’t look at me again, but it’s too purposeful, like she’s fighting herself to ignore me.

When the drink is mixed, she tips it into a cocktail glass, adds a straw and some garnish then delivers it to the woman. I think I vaguely recognise her—she might work in the same building as me. She’s attractive, with shining brown hair, pink lips and a dimple in her cheek when she smiles.

But it’s the blonde that has all my attention.

She finishes the transaction and then moves down the bar, away from me, choosing another customer. Still I watch her.

‘What can I get ye, Michael?’ Duncan, the owner of the bar, appears in front of me and, despite the obsessive thirst for Scotch I had when I walked in, I shake my head now, declining his service.

He shrugs and moves on to someone else.

I continue to watch her. Once, her eyes find mine and a hint of pink spreads through her cheeks. It is a simple response and yet it’s been so long since I’ve been with a woman who blushes that I’m temporarily blindsided.

She serves a guy at the end of the bar who seems to be watching her with the same kind of thoughts I’m having—his significantly less well-concealed, and finally, as though she’s being dragged through wet cement, she approaches me.

‘What’re you having?’ she asks, her eyes hovering on my lips instead of my eyes, so I smile slowly, and then panic flares in her gaze but she does look at me.

‘You’ve served me before. Don’t you remember?’

‘I serve hundreds of people in a shift,’ she says with a shrug. It’s obvious she’s lying.

‘Where are you from?’ I’m somewhat surprised by my own question. I’ve noticed her before—more than noticed her. I’ve been fascinated by her, but I’m not generally interested in chasing women. Why would I be, when they fall into my lap with satisfying regularity? Different women, rarely the same for long, never a relationship. Perhaps if I’d had a better example of marriage, of domestic happiness, I might have been eager to attempt to recreate it? Maybe to date someone, settle down, even get married. But seeing my father destroy my mother, piece by piece, has left me with very little interest in having a partner in my life—beyond sexual, or business.

‘Australia,’ she murmurs. ‘Are you ready to order? If not, I can go serve someone else while you make up your mind.’

People rarely challenge me. It’s a new experience and I can’t say if I like it or not.

‘Where in Australia?’

She expels a sigh of impatience and now it’s my turn to look at her lips. They’re beautiful. A work of art, full, and shaped like Cupid’s bow, pillowy and soft. It’s a mouth that is kind and sweet, and yet I am imagining it in ways that are far from that now.

‘Tasmania.’ She turns away from me, towards the mirror at the back of the bar, and lifts up onto the tips of her toes so she can reach the bottle of Foords. Her recollection of my drink amuses me, particularly in the face of her suggestion that she serves too many patrons to recall each person’s tipple, but then I see the way an inch or so of her midriff is exposed by the lift of her arms and I’m instantly sobered.

My body springs tight with awareness; desire flushes my system. I ignore it. Desire is an instinct and, like any other, it can be tamed.

She pours a generous measure of whiskey into a tumbler.

Without my asking, she grabs another glass and fills it with water and ice.

‘I thought you didn’t remember my drink?’ I murmur, and her eyes lift to mine.

‘Have you ever been?’

I blank a smile at her attempt to ignore my remark, but I roll with it. ‘To Tasmania? No.’

‘Australia?’

It’s the most we’ve spoken and each question spins around me like a spider’s web. I stay where I am, feet planted to the ground.

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’ She leans forward a little, despite the fact the bar is humming with customers. For a moment, time has ceased to move, people have ceased to exist.

‘The east coast. From Melbourne up to The Great Barrier Reef.’

Her smile is derisive. ‘Tasmania is the best Australia has to offer and you missed it because you bought the tourism myth.’

‘What’s the tourism myth?’ I can’t help asking, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the cash I use. When I’m drinking it’s always cash. It’s nice to have a visual reminder of what I’m spending and what’s at stake. I’m not my father—nothing like him.

‘That Sydney is about all we have to offer,’ she says with a soft smile and a roll of her eyes that is endlessly fascinating.

‘I don’t think that’s the case.’ I hand her a hundred. She ignores it.

‘Why don’t you start a tab?’

Because I’m not my father. Clint Brophy is nothing I’ll ever be. ‘I prefer to settle my debts up front.’

She wrinkles her nose. ‘You’re in here what, three times a week, and you’re carrying at least two grand in your wallet. I think you’re good for it.’

I lift a brow at these two facts she drops at my feet. Small details that she’s noticed—she’s attentive. Observant.

‘Settle up later,’ she murmurs and then shifts sideways down the bar. I watch her for a moment, a frown scored on my face, and then I pick up my drinks, leaving the hundred euro note where it was.

I choose a table at the edge of the room. Along with St Michan’s, these are the only catacombs in Ireland. Dug deep into the ground, they once housed human remains, but these were cleared out in the early nineteenth century and a private investor in the first half of the twentieth century bought the ancient network of tunnels and converted this section into a bar. Despite the lack of windows and the morbid associations, I like it here. Or maybe I like it because of those associations rather than in spite of them.

I am tempted to throw the Scotch back, to drink it fast and feel that burn of warmth and spice all the way down, but I don’t—my thirst is something I will control, always. I touch the glass to my lips, breathing it in first and then pouring just a hint into my mouth. I close my eyes and savour the taste. Strong and peppery.

My phone buzzes and I lift it from the pocket of my suit jacket. It’s Digbey, one of our firm’s investigators.

Witness bought ticket to London. Met in pursuit.

My scowl is reflexive. For fuck’s sake. I knew it was a wildcard but I thought I’d sold him on testifying.

An untrustworthy witness is already less than ideal, let alone when the witness is reluctant. I’ll have to paint this to the jury somehow. Explain it away.

Slowly, I drink the Scotch, watching the activity of the bar spin around me.

But I’m not left to my own devices for long.

Ten or so minutes after I’ve sat down, she moves to the table. The blonde. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen her out from behind the bar and I take a moment to look at her properly. Black jeans with one knee fashionably ripped and the white T-shirt that is part of the O’Leary’s uniform, with an apron that comes only halfway down her thighs.

‘You forgot this.’ She places a stainless steel plate with eighty euros on it down on the table.

‘Thanks.’

‘Did you want anything to eat?’

She’s been here a while. A couple of months, I guess. And we’ve barely spoken. Why do I get the feeling that she’s trying to talk to me tonight? That she needs to talk to me?

‘No, thanks.’

She nods but stays where she’s standing, her teeth digging into her lip. It’s like she’s on the edge of a cliff, words locked inside her. I’ve done enough interviews to know when someone’s sitting on something.

‘What’s your name?’

The question unsettles her more than it should. Her gaze slips back to the bar and then she breathes out, as if she’s forcing herself to inflate and deflate her lungs. She’s nervous.

I do have that effect on people—not intentionally but, more often than not, my reputation precedes me. I’m known for being ruthless, determined, cold-hearted, cynical, power-hungry. All adjectives that do describe me but they make me laugh for the image they create, like I’m some kind of dragon. Still, I rarely disabuse anyone of that idea, because it serves me well to have people intimidated by me.

‘Camille Davis,’ she says softly, the pretty name catching in her throat. ‘But everyone calls me Millie.’

Both names suit her. She is elegant and gracious—Camille. But youthful and kind of sweet-seeming, with a constellation of freckles dancing across the bridge of her nose—Millie.

‘Well, Millie, why don’t you join me for a drink?’

Her eyes flare wide and her pulse begins to hammer hard in her throat. I can see it, the rapid beating beneath her fragile skin.

‘I—’ Her tongue darts out, tracing the line of her lower lip. ‘I’m working.’ The words are practically mumbled and then she hastens away, leaving me with a brooding frown and a sense of confusion at what just happened.

I have a standing reservation at Petit Pois, but I’m in no rush to leave the bar. I sit back in the chair and tell myself my reluctance has nothing to do with the pretty Australian, and everything to do with the sharp left turn my case has just taken.

* * *

Most of the after-work crowd has cleared, though there are enough people to keep us busy. I continue serving, pretending I’m ignoring him. But Michael Brophy sits with his back to me and I find I can’t stop watching him.

Am I really going to proposition a man I don’t know for sex?

This whole trip is supposed to be about adventure. New experiences. The last promise I made to my mother was that I would live a little before settling down. We plotted this together, planning where I’d go, what I’d see.

Don’t make my mistakes, Millie. There’s so much more to life than work—go. See it for yourself. Have fun. Be careless. Be silly. Then come home and do the sensible thing.

Between my medical degree and caring for a terminally ill mother, I really hadn’t made a conscious decision to be sensible. I’d simply put my head down and done what needed to be done. But, within months of graduating, my mother had died and I was left with that promise I’d made her and enough of an inheritance to make her dreams for me come true.

So here I am in Dublin, the first stop in what I’ve loosely planned to be a two-year adventure. And after six years of study, five of those simultaneously nursing Mum, I’ve woken up and realised that I am actually a woman. With normal impulses and needs, and suddenly they’re blaring inside me, demanding indulgence.

Before I can second-guess myself, I move out from behind the bar, heading to his table, fuelled only by instinct and adrenalin.

His lips curve into a half-smile when I approach.

‘Millie,’ he says slowly, his voice throaty and my name like magic in his mouth.

‘Would you like anything else?’

He lifts his eyes to mine and the very air between us seems to spark. A frisson dances down my spine. He holds the tumbler in the palm of his hand, cradling it, and his manner is contemplative. Thoughtful.

‘I’ll have another, if you’ll join me.’

‘I’m...still working,’ I say softly.

He shifts in his seat, looking over his shoulder, then turns back to me. ‘It’s not busy. Take a break.’

Such command! Such confidence. My first instinct, that I didn’t like his arrogance, reasserts itself, but it is quickly subsumed by other more immediate considerations.

I could take a break—Duncan wouldn’t care. But I’m not sure I want to concede to this man—not yet. So I stay standing, and eye him with some of the wariness I’m feeling. ‘This won’t take long.’

I’ve piqued his interest. I search for something to say to get me out of this but draw a blank. Besides, I want this.

Life’s too short for timidity.

‘Go on.’ He reclines in the chair, his large frame relaxed, his eyes intense.

‘It’s simple,’ I say, telling myself it really is simple. He hooks up with enough women for me to know that sex means very little to him. And I want this to be meaningless. A transaction. My virginity, for his experience. A first time that is pleasurable, that means nothing. A memory, for the album I’m collecting on this trip of a lifetime.

‘What’s simple?’ he asks, leaning forward a little, so that I catch a hint of his masculine fragrance, earthy and spiced, and my insides kick in immediate response. His legs are long, his thighs muscular. His pants strain across them and I force myself to hold his gaze. If he agrees to this, I’ll have time to admire his body later.

Be brave.

Be brave.

Be brave.

‘I want to go home with you. Tonight.’

One thick brow lifts, sardonic amusement the only emotion I can detect on his handsome, rock-hard features.

‘I see.’ He runs a finger around the top of his glass, a smile flickering on his lips.

‘I’m serious,’ I say with a shake of my head, swallowing past the sense of panic, ignoring a desire to wrench the words back into my mouth.

Suddenly the itch to fast forward three weeks and leave immediately for Paris wraps around me. The mortification is intense.

Heat stains my cheeks. ‘But maybe that’s a stupid idea. Forget about it.’

I take a step towards the bar but his hand reaches out, catching my wrist. It’s the first time we’ve touched and I think the feeling will stay with me for ever. Sensation zaps under my skin, setting miniature explosions raging in every cell. I’m electrified.

‘I didn’t say no,’ he growls and my stomach squeezes. His eyes latch onto mine, and I imagine what he’s like in court—formidable, intimidating, inquiring. And whip-smart. ‘Why?’

I swallow, knowing this is kind of the point of no return. I want this. I’m actually surprised by how much I want this. Now I just have to own that.

‘Because I’m a virgin, and I want you to be my first.’




CHAPTER TWO (#u03716890-b4c0-5ffc-93e5-6857f25c965d)


HER WORDS ARE drumming through my head. I wait until we’re in the car and it’s moving and then turn to face her, the screen up between my driver and us.

‘You’re a virgin.’

It’s not a question, but I feel like I have to say it again just to try to unravel it.

She nods, her eyes shuttered. Her cheeks are stained a pale pink and her long blonde hair falls disarmingly over one shoulder, half covering her face from me.

‘Yes.’ There’s strength in the response. Defiance.

‘Why?’

Her lips twist in a half-smile. ‘Does it matter?’

My pulse is hammering me from the inside out. ‘Yes.’

She blinks, even that simple gesture distracting. ‘Why?’

Great question. Why do I care? I turn away from her a little, staring out at Dublin as it passes in a brightly lit blur.

There’s uneasiness inside me. Something I can’t put my finger on. A hesitation I don’t understand, and I tell myself it’s because none of this makes sense. I’m someone who likes to comprehend people, what makes them tick, why they act the way they do. My job and life are predicated on my abilities there. But with this woman, I can’t make sense of it.

She’s surprised me. I’m not often surprised. ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-three.’ More defiance.

I barely register it though. I turn back to face her and my scepticism must show, because she regards me with a look of defensiveness.

‘A twenty-three-year-old virgin.’ I drawl the words, while my mind rushes furiously, trying to comprehend this.

‘So?’ She moves a little closer, her eyes sparking to mine, a hint of her vanilla fragrance catching my nostrils. ‘What does that matter?’

‘I’m not interested in being your first.’ That’s obviously not completely true. My dick is hard, my body’s surging with adrenaline and desire.

‘Liar.’ She calls me on it with a soft laugh and, to my surprise, unbuckles her seat belt and slides across the leather seat, right to my side. ‘I’ve seen the way you look at me.’

I fix her with a level stare; my cock throbs. ‘And how’s that?’

‘Like you’re undressing me with your eyes.’

She’s right. That’s exactly how I’ve been looking at her since she first started working at the bar. ‘Is that right?’

She nods slowly, her eyes not leaving my face. ‘I think you want to fuck me.’

She’s brazen, I’ll give her that. ‘Yeah.’ It’s a gruff admission. But then... Jesus. A virgin. ‘I don’t do relationships.’

Her brows arch and then she laughs. ‘Good. I don’t want that.’

Relief washes over me, followed quickly by uncertainty. ‘Why not?’

‘For one—’ she presses a hand to my chest, her gaze following its path ‘—I’m only in Ireland another few weeks. Second, I don’t “do” relationships either. At least, not now. I’m not looking for any kind of emotional complication.’

‘You say that now...’

She laughs then, a sound so sweet it’s unbelievably sexy. I wonder if she knows how she’s driving me crazy. ‘You think you’re so good in bed I’m going to forget my travel plans and beg to stay here with you?’

I realise how arrogant that sounds and my own husky laugh fills the limo. ‘You never know.’

She sobers, her eyes narrowing. ‘I do know.’ Steel crosses her expression. ‘I will be leaving Dublin in less than three weeks.’ The words are vice-like. ‘Nothing and no one will change that.’ Her fingers creep higher, to the button of my shirt. She flicks it, her tongue darting to the corner of her lips as she concentrates on pushing it through the shirt hole.

‘But, before I go, I want to do this.’ Her fingers creep inside my open shirt and my gut clenches. Desire pounds through me, thick and fast. ‘With you.’

Her gaze has dropped to my mouth. Her lips separate. My body rushes with need.

Fuck, I want her. I want her even more than I did when I thought she was just a hot bargirl.

But she’s a virgin. She has no idea what she’s asking of me. No idea what she might feel once we’ve slept together. It takes practice to be able to fuck someone and forget them almost instantly. I’ve acquired that skill over the years. Or maybe I always had it. Maybe that’s something to do with growing up the way I did; you learn to get good at cutting people off.

Despite what Millie’s saying, I’m not sure I believe her.

‘I don’t do virgins.’

Her eyes are slightly mocking when they lift to mine. ‘Is that a rule you’ve got, Michael?’

Her Australian accent is broader when she says my name. It’s hot. I like it. More than I want to.

‘So you don’t do relationships.’ She moves her fingers to the next button down, undoing it, her expression lightly teasing. ‘You don’t do virgins.’ She bites down on her lower lip. ‘But will you do me, Michael?’

I catch her hand at the wrist, pulling it away from my chest, moving it to her lap. It’s a mistake. At least it’s a mistake if my goal is to put some distance between us. Because her skin is so soft beneath my fingers, and our bodies are closer now. She’s warm. She’s beautiful. She wants me.

Shit.

I have never slept with a virgin—not even when I was one. The thought of being someone’s first has never really appealed to me. It’s too emotional. Too...something.

‘It wouldn’t mean anything,’ she murmurs, and that shimmers inside me, giving me hope but also pause for thought.

‘And don’t you think it should?’ Hypocrite, my cock screams, reminding me of how little sex means to me, generally.

She shrugs. ‘I think...that’s a judgement call.’

I like her. At least I like the way she thinks. ‘And your judgement’s telling you this is what you want?’

She nods slowly, and then her hand creeps away from mine, from her lap, to my dick. My breath hisses out of my mouth as she runs her fingertips over it briefly, testing its hardness, her smile just a ghost on her beautiful face.

‘And my judgement is that I’m a twenty-three-year-old virgin who doesn’t want to be.’ She bites down on her pillowy lower lip and I groan. ‘Will you help me?’

What’s wrong with me? Why the hell am I not just pulling her into my arms and fucking her right here? It wouldn’t be anything I haven’t done before, I think with a grimace. Is that it? Is there some kind of bullshit part of me that feels...undeserving...to be her first? Because my attitude to sex is generally so cavalier that I don’t want her virginity?

That’s madness, and it’s not me. Is it?

I have no idea why I’m hesitating.

I shake my head, as if I can mute my doubts that way.

‘Don’t,’ she murmurs, her hand lifting back to my throat. She smiles as she slides her fingers into the fabric, running them over my chest, to my shoulder. She lifts her legs, curling them over my lap, and I realise—belatedly—that she’s not wearing a seat belt.

I reach behind her, my arm brushing her breasts. ‘Buckle in.’ The words are gruff, like an order.

She doesn’t move, so I slide the seat belt around her, hooking it into the clasp. When I lift my head, her face is right there. And she’s smiling. A knowing smile. Because, for all I’m saying ‘no,’ I think she feels my body, she feels my desire, she knows what I want. And it’s exactly what she’s suggesting.

‘Millie...’ The word is a warning. ‘You’re playing with fire.’

‘Mmm...’ A throaty noise of agreement. ‘And I badly want to get burned.’

I pull a face. ‘You’ve just got all the answers, haven’t you?’

She shrugs, her slender shoulders dragging my eyes lower, to the curve of her breasts. Desire whips me from the inside out.

‘Sometimes.’

‘So, answer me this. Why haven’t you slept with anyone?’

She shakes her head from side to side, her eyes teasing. ‘I thought we decided that didn’t matter?’

‘It matters to me.’

‘Why?’

‘I thought I was asking the questions?’

‘Indulge me.’

‘I like to understand people. So?’

She arches a single brow, studying me for a moment, and then she smiles, a dazzling smile. ‘I’ve just never had the chance.’

My eyes are locked to her smile, but my voice is pleasingly dismissive when I speak. ‘That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.’

Something shimmers in the depths of her eyes, but then she shrugs. ‘If you don’t want to do this,’ she says, bringing her head closer to mine, her lips almost brushing against my mouth; I catch a groan in my throat, ‘you can get your driver to let me out just over there.’ She points her thumb to a strip of restaurants and bars. ‘I’m sure I’ll find someone else who’ll be only too happy to be my first...’

Christ.

I’m not sure I should fuck her, but I know I absolutely don’t want anyone else to.

‘Let’s talk about it at my place.’

Her laugh is throaty. ‘I don’t need to talk about anything, least of all this.’

‘You should be sure...’

‘I’ve had weeks to make sure I’m sure.’ Her eyes run over my face, then drop to my body. ‘I want it to be you.’

Her confidence is a turn-on, so too is her professed desire for me. But she has no idea what this would be like between us. I told her she’s playing with fire; doesn’t she see that?

Without any sign of my intent, I drop my head and kiss her. I crush my lips to hers, curving my hand around the nape of her neck, tangling my fingers in her hair as I hold her there, exposed to my kiss, utterly mine.

I feel her moan and smile against her lips. There’s heat in this kiss. So much heat. At first she’s timid but, as desire takes over and instincts overrule any thinking she might be doing—any thinking I’m doing—we’re just two people who want to fuck each other, in the back of the blackened limo.

I’m not in the business of sleeping with virgins, but maybe it’s time I re-evaluated that. Maybe for Millie I can make an exception.

Maybe it’ll even be more fun than I’ve had in a long while.

‘Come up and talk,’ I breathe into her mouth, breaking the kiss with true regret. And then, bringing my hand between her legs, brushing my thumb over the seam of her jeans, ‘I promise I’ll make it worth your while.’

* * *

I was nervous in the bar but ever since I got into his limo—seriously, how rich is this guy?—I’ve been overtaken by some weird shot of power. I know what I want, and I know he’s going to give it to me. To be honest, I’m kind of glad he didn’t just acquiesce to my request. I love that he’s making me fight for this. It’s hot. Really hot.

The car pulls up in a high-rise basement. His parking space is the closest to the lifts and I know that’s not an accident—these things are always allocated by the value of apartments. This prime car parking space must mean he’s got the best apartment in the place, presumably a penthouse.

We haven’t spoken since he told me he’d make this worth my while. His hand rested between my legs, and I feel so hot and very, very wet. I feel... I’m so ready for this. It’s funny how I put all this on hold while Mum was sick, how I shelved so many parts of myself, how I gave all of myself to her, to her recovery and, when her cancer was terminal, to her comfort.

I cannot believe she’s dead. Some days I wake up sure it’s all just a bad dream. But she died, and it’s like losing her has pushed me off the ledge, dropping me into the real world. The waters are moving fast and I have to keep paddling to keep up.

I’m a sexual person. I thought I wasn’t. But the way I feel when Michael walks into the bar is... I know I want this. It’s just been stress that’s kept this part of me at bay for the last few years.

‘I want to fuck you,’ I say for good measure.

His eyes link to mine and something passes between us. A silent promise. A something that sets my pulse racing even as it relaxes me.

‘Come upstairs.’ It’s gruff. I’m glad. I like that I’m getting under his skin. I’ve only ever seen him be cool and in control, debonair and so sexy. But this is sexier still. Impatient and a little shitty.

The door opens, his driver holding it for us. I step out, shooting a cursory glance around myself. It’s all high-end vehicles, as far as the eye can see. I haven’t paid attention to where we are. I probably should have.

‘This way.’ He nods to the lifts. I walk beside him, my insides reverberating with absolute need. He presses a button for the lift. My heart is racing. I wait, watching the illuminated numbers count downwards. Waiting. Waiting. Each second drags.

Finally, the doors ping open and we step inside. When the lift shuts, I feel every single movement he makes, every exhalation, every inhalation. I turn to face him, watching him, and he’s looking at me, appraising me, wanting me, needing me. Desire flushes my body.

I need him.

‘Sex is...’

But I don’t let him finish. I don’t want to hear what he has to say. I’m done talking. I launch myself at him, smiling as our lips connect because I glimpse surprise on his face before I’m too close to see anything else.

And then his hands are on my body, pushing me back onto the wood-panelled wall, his own frame so big and strong, glued to mine, imprisoning me where I am. His leg slides between mine, separating my legs, and I break the kiss only so I can moan properly, swearing into the silence of the lift.

I honestly feel, in this moment, like if he doesn’t get his cock inside me right now I might die.

‘Please,’ I groan, need making the word strangled.

‘Please, what?’

I have no idea what he means.

‘Please fuck me, Michael.’

‘Here? Now?’ he asks, and I vaguely register, in the back of my mind, that he’s teasing me.

How dare he? I tilt my head back, glaring at him, and then reach sideways, pressing the emergency stop button on the lift. Okay, it’s dramatic and—for the briefest of seconds—I hope not illegal, but hell, if he’s not going to take this seriously then I’m going to damned well make him.

And the impulsive gesture does have him straightening, his expression tightening, his eyes locking to mine.

‘Yeah. Fuck me. Here. Now.’

A muscle jerks in his jaw.

He looks around the lift, then back at me. His breath is forced, rushed, tortured. Good.

I shouldn’t be the only one struggling for air.

‘See that camera up there?’ he mutters, jerking his head over his shoulder.

Belatedly, I realise that there’s a familiar little globe in the lift. I blush. So maybe this wasn’t my best thought-out plan. Not the sex, just the stopping the lift part of it.

But then he angles my body, pushing me into the corner of the lift, his large frame concealing me from the camera’s view.

And his hand slides into my pants, his eyes watching mine as he pushes his fingers past the elastic waistband of my underwear. He touches my clit and I whimper. He drops his head, sucking my lower lip into his mouth, between his teeth. I whimper louder. His fingers move faster.

‘You’re wetter than the ocean, baby.’

I am. For him, I am. ‘Please.’ I say it again, simply but desperately.

He kisses me then, his head pinning mine to the wall of the lift as his fingers move over me. I thrust my chest forward, my nipples throbbing inside the lace of my bra, my whole body trembling. He slides a finger inside my pulsing core and I cry his name, breaking the kiss and moving my head over his shoulder. But he turns his head, catching my mouth in his, obscuring me from the camera’s view once again.

The lift beeps and then begins to move.

We’re going upwards but I don’t care. I’m flying up into the sky, like a bird or a meteor. I am on fire.

I dig my nails into his shirtfront, clinging on for dear life. I grind my hips down, needing more, needing so much more. His tongue duels with mine. The doors ping open. Neither of us makes a move to leave. He pulls his finger out of me and then runs his hand over my clit again, faster, harder, and my knees buckle. If it weren’t for his weight against me I think I’d collapse to the floor in a muddle.

I explode.

There’s no other way to explain it. I feel like my every cell has become a bolt of lightning, searing through my skin and zapping out into the world. I feel like I am a goddess. Eternal and all-powerful. I don’t realise I’m screaming his name until he grins and kisses me, swallowing the cries into his mouth and soul.

I smile against his mouth, weak now, and strong too.

‘Come inside, Millie.’ He pulls away from me, standing straighter, holding an arm out to stop the lift doors from pinging shut.

‘And you’ll fuck me?’

He laughs gruffly. ‘We’ll see.’

* * *

I have no idea what’s holding me back. It’s new terrain in that she’s a virgin but sex, at the end of the day, is sex. So why? Why am I standing in my kitchen feeling like I’m the victim of some kind of abstinence torture, aching to possess her, feeling at the same time like I can’t? Like I shouldn’t.

Because there’s some kind of vulnerability to her. I feel like...there’s something. I can’t put my finger on it but there’s an air of sadness that lies just beneath the surface.

And while I have slept with more than my fair share of women, it’s never been out of anything other than mutual desire.

I’m not someone women regret. At least I don’t want to be.

Would she regret me?

Probably.

And there it is.

The reason I’m pouring us a wine instead of carrying her over my shoulder into my room and throwing her down on the bed like she’s been begging me to do.

She’s a twenty-three-year-old virgin and that makes no sense. There has to be a reason for it. A long-term relationship gone bad? Maybe she’s run away from a cult? Or she’s a member of a religious faction? In any event, something’s changed and, whatever that is, I’m pretty sure it’s something I definitely don’t want on my conscience.

She wants me to fuck her but it’s like she’s got a lion on her heels.

Why?

Does it matter? My dick is indignant.

My brain holds tight. It matters. A bit. Enough to stall me.

I carry two wine glasses through the apartment. She’s on the deck, her arms braced on the railing, her eyes glancing across the view. There’s a huge black void—the ocean—but you can hear and smell the sea, the boats coming and going, the water lapping, to know it’s there.

The city is to the other side, all shining lights and high-rises, old wars and ancient grudges.

I hand her a wine. She turns to face me. ‘To good old-fashioned sex.’

I laugh, despite my misgivings. ‘Not too old-fashioned, I hope.’

She shakes her head and her cheeks are still stained pink from how I made her come in the lift. God, that was hot. She was hot. She’s like a livewire, ready to blow.

‘Tell me why.’

It’s a challenge now and, before she can offer a whimsical demurral, I shake my head.

‘Tell me why.’

Her teeth massage her lower lip. I drop my hand to my side, perfectly still. Watchful.

‘Why what?’

‘Why are you a virgin?’

‘I haven’t had sex,’ she replies very literally.

I respect that—the quickness of her mind. ‘Why not?’

She swallows, her eyes flicking away. My brain surges, certain that I’m onto something. This isn’t just happenstance—what happenstance could explain this, anyway? There’s a reason. A mystery. Something behind her choice not to have sex—and now, something behind her choice to sleep with me.

‘I just haven’t.’

‘I don’t buy it.’

‘Tough.’

I laugh. ‘Now, now, don’t get all defensive. Don’t you think I have a right to know?’

She shakes her head. ‘It’s just sex. That doesn’t confer on you any right except to fuck me.’

‘Another excellent point, Millie.’ I move closer, my eyes locked to hers, sipping my wine. ‘And yet...’

‘And yet?’ She has to tilt her head to look up at me.

‘I don’t want to be something you wake up and regret.’

Relief fleetingly passes across her face. ‘I won’t.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I’m in my head.’

I laugh softly. ‘And I want to be in your body.’ I push my hips forward so she can feel my rock-hard dick against her flat stomach. Her breath catches in her throat. She shivers. ‘But I’m not some teenager without a degree of self-control. If we do this, I want to take precautions.’

Her eyes spark with mine and there’s a silent challenge in her steel-blue gaze. ‘You think you’ve got self-control?’ she murmurs, ducking down and sliding out from under my arm, moving down the balcony a little way.

I watch, without following. ‘Yeah. Enough to know I have to be sure my partner in bed is there because she really wants to be.’

‘Oh, I want to be there,’ she promises, sipping her wine before placing the glass down on a table.

‘You’re beautiful,’ I say honestly.

She shrugs. ‘You don’t need to flatter me. I’m not here for compliments.’

I bite back a laugh. She is unlike any woman I’ve ever known.

‘I just mean you could surely have had your pick of guys at any time before now.’

Even in the subdued lighting of the balcony, I see her face pale. Curiosity grows—and also the certainty that I’m right. There’s more to this than just an insanely hot proposition. I’m good at reading people and there’s something about Millie that speaks of a vulnerability, something she’s working her hardest to hide from me.

I think back to every encounter we’ve had. To the way she spent the first month she came to O’Leary’s avoiding my eyes, like she wasn’t even sure how to talk to me, let alone look at me.

And now, this. Why?

Nothing adds up.

‘Millie...’ I groan, and now I step closer. Her chin tilts at a defiant angle. ‘I want you,’ I say thickly. ‘I’m surprised by how much, to be completely honest. But I’m not the kind of guy who takes advantage of anyone.’ Out of nowhere, I think of my mum, and the way my dad made an art form of walking all over her. I am not Clint Brophy. I never will be. I soften my voice. ‘If this is because you’re hurting or sad or something has happened, I need to know that now.’

She reaches for her wine again, sips it, then replaces the glass.

‘My mother died.’ She says the words clinically, but that doesn’t matter. I hear the throb of grief as it bursts through her.

‘When?’ My own response is clinical too, like I’m in court, where I make it a necessary habit to keep my emotions at bay, even when I feel them deeply.

‘A while ago.’

‘I see.’ I don’t.

‘She died.’ Millie swallows, her throat jerking convulsively. ‘And after the funeral, after everything had calmed down, I packed up my life and came away. I’m travelling because she never got a chance to. I put my life on hold when she was sick, Michael. I put everything on hold because she needed me.’

Her fingers curl around the bottom of her shirt and, as I watch, she lifts it up slowly, painstakingly slowly, inching it over her flat stomach, to her breasts, then over her head. She looks at me as she drops it to the floor, at her feet.

‘But now... I want to make up for lost time. I want to do everything and see everything and I want to sleep with a guy. I want to be fucked by someone hot and who I’m really attracted to. I want to be fucked by someone who knows what they’re doing. I want to learn from a master.’ She wiggles her brows, but I’ve stopped looking at her face. Hell, I’ve practically stopped breathing.

How many times have I fantasised about her tits?

How many times have I imagined what they’d look like beneath the shirts she wears to work?

More than I can remember.

And the reality is so much blindingly better than my fantasies.

Full and round, pale cream in colour, barely contained by a scrap of lace fabric, her dainty peach nipples visible beneath the fabric.

My dick jerks in my pants.

I step closer.

Her breathing gets louder.

‘You want to learn from a master?’ I repeat, moving closer still.

She nods wordlessly.

‘You want to learn about sex?’

Another nod, her eyes burning through my soul. A soul I am on the precipice of selling to the devil...

‘Fine.’

She exhales with my simple declaration, her relief as evident as that which I feel in my chest. I close the distance between us, reaching behind her and unhooking her bra. She makes a noise from deep in her throat. ‘But I have rules.’

Her head jerks to mine. She’s so close I could drop just an inch and kiss her.

‘What rules?’ She’s thinking the same thing as me, her eyes chasing my mouth.

I roll my hips to show her how turned on I am. She groans.

‘You’ve missed out on so much.’

She still doesn’t speak.

‘It’s not just sex, Millie.’

I drop the bra down beside her then cup my hand over one of her full, round breasts. She makes a choking noise. Her innocence is captivating.

I keep my eyes on her as I take her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, lightly at first, rolling it a little, watching as pleasure darts through her, contorting her face, bringing her eyes shut.

Then I clamp my fingers on it more tightly, until her hips buck forward. I don’t let go. I keep my grip there and she whimpers, her eyes saucer-wide.

‘Sex isn’t just sex.’ The words are gruff. Suddenly, I release my grip and she moans, her own hand lifting to her breast, running over her nipple as though she can’t believe how sensitive they are.

I drop my head, taking her nipple in my mouth, and now my teeth clamp down on it, hard enough to make her body slam into mine and an expletive to drop from her full, pink lips.

‘I’ll fuck you, Millie, on two conditions.’

‘What are they?’ Breathy, saturated with pleasure, intense.

‘First, I get to show you everything that comes first. I want to go down on you until you’re exploding with pleasure. I want to tease and torment your body with every damned thing it can possibly feel and then—only then—will we have sex.’

‘Why?’ she whispers, but she’s wrapped her arms around my waist and she’s moving her hips, desperate to get my hard cock closer to her cunt.

‘Because it’s what you deserve.’

I move my mouth to her other breast, this one unused to my touch. I flick her nipple with my tongue and she cries out my name, tilting her head back towards the stars.

‘And second?’ She digs her nails into my hair and now she’s lifting her legs, trying to get them wrapped around me, trying to get closer still.

‘It doesn’t happen until I say so.’

At this she stills, her body rigid in my arms suddenly. No, not rigid. She’s trembling, desire an unstoppable force.

‘I can’t do this until I know you won’t regret it. It’s just how I’m wired. I’m not that kind of man.’

‘A man who fucks random women?’

‘You’re not a random woman now,’ I say seriously. ‘You’re a twenty-three-year-old virgin who just buried her mum, and you deserve your first time to be mind-blowing and one hundred percent guaranteed to be something you won’t wake up and wish didn’t happen.’

‘And you think that’s what you’ll give me? Mind-blowing sex?’

At that, the silent challenge in her words, I can’t help it. I drop to my knees in front of her, kneeling at her feet as I separate the button of her jeans and then push the zip down.

I hear her breath—so forced, so raspy.

I push her lace thong lower, just enough for my tongue to be able to reach her wet clit. I stroke it and she runs her hands through my hair, her needs a palpable force between us.

‘Agree,’ I demand, my fingers splayed on her hips, holding her steady. ‘Agree to do it how I want, and I’ll be the first man to fuck you, Millie.’

She doesn’t say anything. I move my tongue a little faster. Fuck, she tastes good. I ache for her. I ache for her to the point where I almost want to scrap my stupid rules and just make this happen now. Right here.

But she whispers, ‘Yes...’ and I know it’s the right choice—for both of us.

I stand up before she comes again, feeling like a right bastard but wanting her to ache for me as I am for her.

‘That’s enough for now.’

She stares at me like I’m the worst kind of asshole on earth.

‘No.’

I laugh softly, showing my torment. ‘I’ll have my driver take you home.’

She glares at me. ‘No.’

I laugh again. ‘Come back Friday.’

‘Friday?’ She looks at me with anger and then amusement. ‘You’re unbelievable.’

‘And you’re impatient.’

She nods. ‘Maybe. But only because I’ve waited a long time for this.’

My eyes spark with hers. ‘And a few more nights won’t kill you...’

She pulls a face, steps back from me and straightens her jeans. ‘I wouldn’t bank on that.’




CHAPTER THREE (#u03716890-b4c0-5ffc-93e5-6857f25c965d)


THREE NIGHTS LATER we are back in his penthouse, and I can say with certainty that he was abso-fucking-lutely wrong about one important thing. Waiting has almost killed me. Waiting, longing, yearning.

When he sent me home the other night, it was like I was a grenade with the pin pulled. I have been slowly exploding ever since, the slightest touch an agony. Bras are now my enemy and my salvation—the fabric against my nipples is a form of torture that I frankly love.

But it’s not enough. I need Michael. I don’t want to fuck around with endless foreplay. I’m twenty-three and I want to have sex.

The resolution I’ve formed since leaving his place the other night sits inside my chest like the first flash of a sparkler’s ignition. It hums and buzzes beneath my breast, fizzing life and light into my veins, demanding attention.

I’m not letting him put an end to this again.

I want him. He wants me. No more of this ‘be patient’ bullshit. This is the night I’m going to lose my virginity. He probably doesn’t realise that yet, though.

He loads the balls into the pool triangle with precision and experience, as though it’s an action he’s undertaken thousands of times, and I watch him unashamedly. He’s dressed for work, except he’s shrugged out of his suit jacket at some point and rolled his shirtsleeves up to expose tanned, toned forearms that are doing funny things to my tummy. I’m not sure there’s anything hotter than Michael Brophy in a state of casual undress.

He leans forward and his eyes flicker to mine. Something in his gaze arrests my breath and makes my head spin.

‘You’ve really never played?’

I shake my head.

‘You have missed out on a lot,’ he tsks, and my stomach clenches. He straightens, pushing away from the table and striding around to me slowly, almost sauntering, so I have a few moments to calm my fluttering pulse. It doesn’t help. Standing right in front of me, his eyes scan my face and then drop lower, to the hint of cleavage exposed by the silk camisole I slipped into. Teamed with jeans and stilettos, it felt like a good mix of casual and sexy when I left my house. I’m nothing like the women he usually takes home but he’s looking at me as though I’m the sexiest person he’s ever known.

‘You look...beautiful.’

My pulse races, but I level a droll stare at him. ‘I told you, I don’t need compliments.’

He runs his finger higher, to the base of my throat, his touch just a whisper where my pulse is raging. I want to pick up where we left off. I want him on his knees in front of me. And so much more.

I suck in a shallow, rasping breath. We’re so close that if I lean forward, my nipples will brush his chest and suddenly I ache for that touch. I sway, just enough, and at the moment of contact, sharp bolts of electricity fire through me, hot and pulsing. His eyes show amusement when they meet mine.

‘You’re going to break.’ He reaches behind me and in doing so traps me in a prison of his arms. My breath snags in my throat.

‘Break what?’ I don’t recognise my own voice.

He leans closer, dipping his head forward, buzzing his lips over my temple. I jerk with need. ‘The balls.’ He stands, his smile teasing.

Frustration unfurls inside me. ‘Look, Michael.’ I take his lead, standing up straighter, my stare unflinching. ‘I get that you have a whole thing going on here, but you know I just want to go straight to bed, right?’

His grin deepens; my stomach swoops. ‘You’re so impatient,’ he murmurs, appraising me.

‘So you’ve said,’ I murmur, then sigh. ‘It’s not like this is premature. I’m twenty-three. I’m curious.’

‘Naturally.’ He nods, but makes no effort to touch me. ‘I got this for you.’ He holds out a cue. It makes no sense.

‘Got what for me?’

‘A shorter cue. Mine are all for someone my height, which you’re not. This’ll be easier for you to play with.’

‘Oh.’ I frown, my forehead crinkling. ‘I don’t want to play pool.’

His laugh is throaty. ‘Sure you do. What’ll you drink?’

‘I—’

I’m on the brink of arguing, but he lifts a finger to my lips, staring at me as he holds it firmly in place.

‘Indulge me.’

My heart lurches. ‘Fine,’ I sigh, momentarily conceding to him—even when I know I won’t, for long. ‘How do I “break”?’

‘You’ve no idea?’ He sounds so Irish. I want to lick him all up. And later, I think I will.

‘No, I mean, I’ve seen it in movies, but I have literally never held a pool cue in my life.’

‘Show me what you’ve seen.’

I shoot him a look and then lean over the table, aiming the stick at the neat cluster of balls in the middle of the table. ‘And I’m aiming for the pockets?’

‘Sure.’ He nods, and then his body is close, his arm wrapped around me, his face right beside mine. ‘It’s hard to break and sink in one go. Really, you just want to scatter the balls as much as possible.’

‘Do I?’ I turn to face him and my lips are almost on his cheek. He doesn’t take his focus off the table.

‘So pull back the cue a little, like this, and stare straight down the length at the white ball.’

He smells so freaking good up close. Butterflies have taken over my body and batter my insides to mush.

‘It takes practice to know how hard you need to hit a ball to get it to sink. You’ll learn that.’

There is so much I want to learn.

‘Ready?’ And, out of nowhere, he looks at me. We’re so close. Our eyes lock and, at this distance, it’s with an intensity that seems to lurch me catastrophically sideways. Desire singes me.

‘Uh huh.’

His arm guides mine backwards, and it’s with his help that I drive the cue forward. It connects with the white ball, making a satisfying ‘clonk’ noise. The white ball rushes forward, careening into the triangle. Order becomes disarray as striped and solid coloured balls riot across the dark green surface.

Quite by accident, and to my utter surprise, a gleeful striped ball sprints towards a corner, dropping into a pocket with an unmistakable swoosh.

‘You’re going for stripes, then.’

He lifts away from me; I feel his absence like a rush of cold air, but I cover it, straightening, smiling. ‘Was that good?’

He nods slowly. ‘Very.’

‘Well—’ I lift a brow and curl my hand around the pool cue, as though I was born holding one ‘—I should warn you, I’m very competitive.’

‘I’m counting on it. Beer?’

‘Why not?’

I stare at him as he walks away, as I’ve been wanting to do since I arrived at his apartment. His body is the work of angels. Firm, toned, muscular yet somehow neat. If I didn’t know him to be a renowned lawyer, I’d think he had an outdoor job, something that required him to be on his feet a lot, using his body’s strength.

He returns with two beer bottles, holding them by the neck, and passes one to me when he’s close enough. ‘Your turn again.’

‘Sure.’ I sip the beer, its cool, familiar flavour welcome. I eye the table. ‘So I can only hit the white one?’

He nods. ‘Don’t worry too much about that in this round. While you’re learning, we can relax the rules.’

‘What if I like rules?’ I enquire archly, sipping the beer again, this time slowly, savouring the feeling of my lips on the bottle top, and his attention on my face.

‘You’ll learn not to.’

‘Now, now, Mr Brophy. You can’t tell me you’re not a rule follower from way back?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Your job, for one.’ I move around the table, eyeing the balls. I have no experience, but there doesn’t seem to be a single easy shot.

‘You don’t think being a defence barrister requires me to view rules with a level of flexibility?’

‘Sure.’ And flexibility is what I want. Flexibility with his rules, because I’m going to sleep with him tonight, to hell with whatever gradual seduction he’s got planned. I lean over the table, but knowing he’s watching me makes my fingers shake a little. I stand up straighter again. ‘Help me?’

His eyes hold mine as he rests his beer bottle on the lip of the pool table and moves back to me. He frames my body once more but I don’t line the cue up. I stay as I am, breathing him in, revelling in his proximity and perfection.

‘Don’t forget you can use the table’s edge to your advantage.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Bounce back. Look.’ Once more, he guides my hand and, with his help, I make the white ball connect with a striped ball. It flies across the table, hits the edge and comes close to rolling into the pocket. But not quite.

I make a sound of disappointment, but in truth I don’t care.

‘My turn.’ When he stands up, he lets his hand run down my back, just lightly and quickly, so it’s a second or two at most, but I shiver at the contact, yearning for more.

I don’t bother to hide my watchfulness as he crosses to the wall and pulls out a different length cue.

He strikes the ball and sinks two of his own in the pockets. I pull a face. ‘You’re not going to go easy on me, huh?’

He grins. ‘Would you want me to?’

I shake my head. My pulse pounds through me.

‘You might be inexperienced, Millie, but something tells me you’re a quick learner.’

My heart races at his double entendre. ‘Why do you say that?’

He moves around the table and frames his next shot. ‘Am I wrong?’

I watch as he leans forward, looking like a pro pool player. He taps the ball lightly this time and it saunters across the table top, convincing a solid colour to tip into the corner with a lazy nudge.

‘No.’

He smiles at me, and then comes around to my side. ‘Want to play my next shot?’

‘Sure.’

‘Which ball would you aim for?’

Two of his are near pockets. I choose one at random.

‘Let’s try it.’ He waits for me to take up a place on the edge of the table then hands me his cue. His body wraps around mine and we lean forward. The angle is difficult and, in order to get close, I have to flatten myself across the table. He matches me, his chest against my back, the pool table hard beneath me.

His weight on me is a pleasure and a distraction.

‘Ready?’

‘Uh huh.’ The sound emerges as a thick whisper.

‘Good.’ His hand curves around my butt cheek. ‘Just spread your legs a bit wider.’

I shoot him a look over my shoulder; he’s watching me intently.

‘It gives you better stability.’

I arch a brow.

‘I’m serious.’

‘Okay.’ I do as he suggested, stepping my feet out. His hand, on my butt, curves around to my front. I hold my breath, the cue unsteady in my fingertips now. He finds the top of my jeans and begins to unzip them, slowly.




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