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Cross My Hart
Clare Connelly


“Between now and dawn you’re all mine…” Jagger was a one hundred percent hot, hard-bodied distraction—everything I needed to forget about my ex getting married. What I didn't know was that he's one of the Harts, those notorious billionaire brothers, and my newest client! For the next three days, it's business all day and insatiable, hungry lust all night. Now Jagger Hart holds both my career and my body. But what happens when he steals my heart, too?







“Three days for business. And three nights for pleasure...”

Has she made a deal with a sexy devil...or a wicked god?

What I need is distraction. A temporary break from thinking about my ex-boyfriend (and business partner) getting married tomorrow. Then I see him. Jagger. A beautiful blond god who’s a 100 percent pure hot, hard-bodied distraction. Tonight, I’m forgetting my heartbreak and business woes with this gorgeous Zeus of a man, who fills me with heat, fire and delicious aching need...

That is, until I meet my new real estate client the next morning—the one who holds my future in his hands—and oh, God. It’s him.

Now I have three days to sell a luxury golf resort to billionaire Jagger Hart. And all I want is to get him out of his clothes and between my sheets! A feeling which Jagger shares. By day, we’re all business. But at night, it’s a tornado of ripped clothes and insatiable lust.

We just have to keep our two worlds separate.

Only, now I’m in danger of falling for the one man I definitely cannot have.

Because Jagger doesn’t believe in love—ever—and he’s a man of his word. Cross his heart.

Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

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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 & Boon novels 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 (https://www.facebook.com/clarewriteslove/) page.


Cross My Hart

Clare Connelly






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


ISBN: 978-1-474-08711-7

CROSS MY HART

© 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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For Jagger—who completely stole my heart at first sight

and whose smile lights up the world.


Contents

Cover (#u04655c41-c2c1-5415-9099-05fda55d9431)

Back Cover Text (#u570a14d2-87eb-54be-8b8f-d95fc87ffdc6)

About the Author (#uba703602-db94-5d66-b585-89b8dbd4db27)

Title Page (#u5b812ab2-1599-5836-a4b2-f4f8e72ee13f)

Copyright (#u3f7b2468-50fd-59d7-baab-592de7df1502)

Note to Readers

Dedication (#u544ddb27-465a-5bd3-9afd-3cf971bb11d8)

CHAPTER ONE (#u426df193-55c6-52e7-974c-9fe3cae0baec)

CHAPTER TWO (#ua25b06da-5b80-58a9-8774-2f5c8b186ba0)

CHAPTER THREE (#u8867d84e-4824-54ca-9514-c744ee848145)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u937aad6d-bfcc-57cc-bd98-d5eed2f3b8a3)

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)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ucf14da31-5283-5269-a913-fe1ae66de780)


‘YOU KNOW WHAT you need to put the wedding out of your mind? That. That guy right there.’

Penny points across the restaurant and my eyes follow the direction of her finger. I presume she’s not talking about the high-powered businessmen sitting one table over. After Gareth, I’m giving suits a wide berth. Suits make me sick. I look beyond them, none the wiser. A family, an older couple with greying hair and three well-dressed younger people; two of them look to be a couple, one a sibling. My gaze lingers on them for a moment and a familiar pang of sadness sparks inside of me.

I miss my family.

Swallowing to clear my suddenly thick throat, I shift my gaze onwards, skating over the figure of a man standing at the bar, his back to me. Every fibre of my being goes on high alert.

Nothing about this man says ‘suit.’

He’s wearing low-cut denims, dark, scuffed at the arse in an ‘I’ve worn them to death’ rather than an ‘I paid hundreds of bucks for them’ kind of way, and a fitted white shirt that shows off the contours of a back that is muscular and sinewy. His arms are tanned, his neck thick, and beneath the white stretch cotton of the shirt I can make out the ghost of writing running across his centre—a tattoo?

My pulse leaps, pounding faster, and there’s a twisting low down in my abdomen. His hair is thick and pale, blond, close-cropped.

I want to stare at him. I want to stare at him all night, ideally as he strips his clothes from his body.

All the more reason not to. I jerk my gaze back to Penny, a sardonic smile touching my lips. ‘I don’t think a one-night stand is going to make me forget that my ex is getting married tomorrow.’

‘I don’t know,’ she coos, unashamedly watching the man in a way that makes envy spurt, unwelcome, in my gut. ‘I think that guy could drive Gareth out of your head for a while.’

I look down at my drink, stirring the paper straw—half-disintegrated—in clockwise circles, watching as the ice chips against the edge. ‘I think this is the only way I’m going to forget.’

‘To this, then,’ Penny agrees, chinking her glass to mine, lifting it to her lips and throwing it back in one fell swoop. ‘Another?’

I laugh, despite myself. We’ve been best friends since primary school, when Marcia Adams called me fat and pushed me into the tennis nets, and Penny came running over and shoved Marcia—three years older than us—so hard she fell backwards and landed in a delightfully placed puddle. ‘I can’t have a big night, Pen. I’ve got that gazillionaire flying in tomorrow to inspect the golf course. And you know how much I need to sell it. That commission is... I need it.’

‘You don’t have to tell me how much you need it,’ she says, crossing her arms over her chest. Her anger and hatred for Gareth know no bounds.

‘I’m giving you until midnight,’ I say, ‘and then I want to be back in my own bed.’

‘It’s only six o’clock!’ She laughs.

‘Yeah, but I also need to not be hungover!’

‘Babe—’ she leans closer, pressing her forehead to mine ‘—do you trust me?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Then let me help you put that fuckwit where he belongs—that is to say nowhere. He doesn’t deserve even one minute of your attention. Got it?’

‘I know that. I’m not... I don’t still think about him.’

‘Sure you don’t.’ Penny rolls her eyes. ‘You’re doing a great job of moving on, but, unfortunately for you, you still co-own the same bloody real estate agency.’

‘More to the point—why I need this sale tomorrow!’

‘Yeah, I get it.’ She sighs. ‘It’s early. Whatever happens tonight, I promise I’ll get you home by midnight. Okay?’

I bite down on my lip, nodding slowly.

‘The same again?’ She slips her slender body out of our booth, her eyes falling to my still half-full glass with disapproval.

I lift the glass and throw it back, slamming it on the tabletop before meeting her eyes. ‘You betcha.’

She winks her approval and then sashays away, oblivious to the way the table of businessmen watch her as she goes. But then, that’s Penny. Stunning, sexy, unselfconscious, smart, and totally uninterested in flattery and praise. She’s just happy going about her own business.

I’m not still hung up on Gareth. I couldn’t care less that he’s getting married.

Okay, that’s a lie. I care, but that’s normal. We were together two years—not that long in the scheme of a whole life, I suppose, but two years. We started a business together and were talking about moving in together, and yet he always said to me, from the first date, ‘I’m not the marrying kind.’ And I accepted that, I got used to it, because I wasn’t even sure if I was the marrying kind—so why would I die on that hill?

And then we got more serious and our friends started getting married and I had this vision of our future, and suddenly it seemed strange to say we’d never get married.

Stranger still when he broke up with me. Ugh. I try to push that memory way, way back in my mind. The words he used I’ll never forget.

‘I love you, Gracie, but just not enough. Not in the way a guy should love a woman. I’m sorry.’

And he cried, because he’s a good person and I think he felt like absolute shit to be pulling the rug out from under me.

‘Everyone says they want to stay friends, but I mean it, Grace. Look at what we did together.’

He waved his hand around our office, and my stomach twisted because so much of who we were was in that place.

I agreed with him—we couldn’t let anything destroy the business our blood, sweat and tears had turned into a multimillion-dollar real estate agency specialising in high-end property. Sydney was a tight market but we’d forced our way in and never looked back. We owed it to ourselves, each other, our clients and our reputation to get over this speed bump.

That seemed a lot easier to do before he hit me with ‘part two’ of the break-up.

‘I’ve met someone.’

Those words! God, I’d heard them in movies and read them in books and they’re just an innocuous collection of syllables, but when they were spoken to me I felt like my ears had been jammed with crickets. Everything hummed and buzzed and suddenly the guy I’d spent two years with, who’d seemed happy and content, was a part of someone else, something else, and I was on the outside of him and that, strangely adrift, as though whatever had anchored me to my place in this life no longer existed.

‘His name—’ Penny pushes a drink across the tabletop to me ‘—is Jagger.’ She rolls the ‘r’ like a tiger, and I laugh.

‘Of course it is.’

‘He’s only in town for tonight,’ she continues, sliding in beside me. ‘And he’d like to meet you.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ I roll my eyes, sure now that she’s making it up, and look towards the bar. But he’s facing us and my heart jolts in my chest. His elbows are lifted onto the bar so that he can recline casually, and he’s watching me with a curiosity that sparks flames in my blood.

My lips part involuntarily and, even though I desperately want to look away, to blink, to anything, it’s weirdly impossible. I am staring at him and he’s watching me and no one else in the bar seems to exist.

His eyes are green, with thick black lashes, and he’s tanned, a deep caramel colour, as though he’s spent a heap of time at the beach lately. I wonder if he’s brown all over? My eyes drift downwards and, holy crap, he’s got a very, very nice body. Pecs clearly defined by that white shirt, toned forearms, lean hips.

Shit.

Pants that show a promising bulge. His hands are what really grab my attention, though. I like nice hands and his are...perfect. Neat nails, long-fingered with coarse hair on the knuckles, tanned, and he wears a scuffed gold ring on his middle finger and some loose leather strings around his wrist. He’s a sort of devil-may-care surfer kind of guy. He’s very, very easy on the eyes.

Heat stains my cheeks and now I jerk my gaze back to Penny, my expression one of mutiny. ‘What did you say to him?’

‘That you’re looking to be distracted for the night,’ she grins impishly.

‘Penny!’ I reach for the drink, taking a gulp to cool my flaming insides. ‘How do you know he’s not...?’

‘What?’ She leans towards me conspiratorially. ‘It’s a one-night stand, Gracie. What do you care about, beyond the fact he’s hotter than Hades and undoubtedly great in bed?’

‘Okay, for a start, how can you possibly know that?’

‘I can tell. I’m good at this.’

‘What, like some kind of sexual psychic?’

‘Exactly.’

I purse my lips. ‘Pen,’ I sigh softly. ‘He could be God’s every gift to women and I still wouldn’t knee-jerk my way into his bed.’

‘That’s a shame because, like I said, he’s interested.’

Against my will, my eyes drag back to him. He’s finishing his drink, but his eyes are still on Penny and me. My pulse ratchets up a gear and out of nowhere I imagine him naked, that shirt thrown across some hotel room somewhere.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ she purrs. ‘I’m going to go talk to that guy.’ She jacks her thumb towards a group of men further down the bar and I can guess which one she means. Silver fox at the head of the group—Penny’s got a thing for older guys, always has. Our take-it-to-the-grave secret is the fact she slept with our high school science teacher on grad night.

‘And I’ll come back in twenty minutes to check on you.’

‘Pennyyyy...’ I groan, shaking my head in exasperation.

‘Six months ago, the bottom dropped out of your world. Gareth fell in love with someone else while you were busy building your business and planning a future with him. He went and fucked some bar girl.’

My heart spins at this frank assessment of our break-up. ‘Yeah?’

‘So at least have a drink with the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. Take a step towards remembering who you are. The you you were before Gareth, the you who built a multimillion-dollar business and is smart and funny and curious and loves to meet new people. He’s from overseas; just chat to him. Have fun. I beg you!’

And not because she’s right, and he’s hot in a way you never see outside of Hollywood, but because she’s my best friend and has never once steered me wrong, just as I have never counselled her badly. The science teacher would never have happened if I’d known about it in advance. I trust her. I believe she’s right and somehow the timing of this, of at least opening myself up to the possibility of flirting with another guy on the eve of Gareth’s marriage, would be strangely meaningful and important and...cathartic.

She’s right. Pre-Gareth, I used to have fun, I used to flirt with guys, hook up. I’m in my twenties—why am I acting like someone’s grandma?

I expel a breath and look towards him once more. He’s turned away and if I have any doubt about whether or not I want to talk to him, the surge of disappointment to see his back answers that.

I stare at his tattooed spine with a frown on my face, but a second later he’s spun back around, two drinks in his hands, and our eyes lock and certainty locks in my chest.

‘That’s my cue,’ I say. Penny grins and I shoot her one last look of bemusement before I’m alone at the table. I have seconds to run my tongue over my teeth, making sure no trace of the beer nuts we shared earlier remains, to wipe my hands on a napkin beneath the table, and then he’s standing on the edge of the booth, his green eyes—aquamarine, up close—boring into me.

‘May I?’ He nods to the seat beside me and I nod, grabbing my hair and pulling it over my shoulder.

‘Grace?’ he prompts, passing a drink towards me.

I smile belatedly, holding a hand out towards him. Our eyes meet as his fingers curve around mine and warmth spears through me. It’s a handshake, the kind of thing I do all the time, but the way he’s staring at me layers an intensity over it that changes everything.

‘Yeah.’

‘Jagger,’ he says, the name on his lips so much sexier than when Penny purred it like some kind of wild animal.

‘Jagger.’ I’m unable to resist the feel of his name in my mouth.

He smiles when I say it.

‘American?’

‘Yeah.’ His grin’s completely disarming. He braces an arm on the edge of the booth behind me and, even though he’s not touching me, I kind of feel like he is. I feel enveloped by his warmth and nearness.

‘Whereabouts?’ I prompt, lifting my drink towards his in salute.

He chinks it back. ‘New York.’

‘Nice.’

‘You ever been?’

I tilt my head to the side a little, considering. ‘Once.’

‘Did you like it?’

‘What’s not to like?’

He lifts a brow. ‘The traffic. The weather. The noise. The pollution...’

‘Resident problems,’ I say, deliberately moving forward a little so our knees brush under the table. I’m thrilled by the sense of power that gives me—the idea that this is all on my terms. That I know what I’m doing, where we’re going.

‘Not tourists’?’ He doesn’t miss a beat.

‘Nope. Not this tourist. I love the snow.’

‘And you don’t get a lot of that here, right?’

‘Not for long, and not in Sydney.’ I sip my drink thoughtfully. ‘I would have loved to move to New York. I used to think I would.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

I pull a face. ‘It’s not that easy. Life...can get in the way sometimes.’

‘Sure it can.’

I appraise him, my heart racing, blood pounding through my body. ‘Penny says you’re only here for a night?’

He nods. ‘Yeah. Had meetings today and I fly out tomorrow.’

I nod slowly.

‘And you live here?’

‘I moved here for uni,’ I agree. ‘But I grew up farther north.’

‘How far north?’ he asks with curiosity.

‘A little town in Queensland. You know, the kind of place where everyone knows everything about one another, with one main street and not much to do at any time, even less when you’re a teenager.’

‘Sounds like heaven.’ He grins.

‘Yeah, it kind of does.’

‘Your friend says you’re looking for someone to distract you for the night,’ he murmurs, taking a slug of his beer, his eyes holding mine over the bottle.

I nod slowly. ‘I guess I am.’

‘Why?’

I didn’t expect the question, even though it makes perfect, absolute sense. Only a monkey wouldn’t ask. ‘My ex—who happens to be my business partner as well—is getting married tomorrow.’ Somehow, saying those words feels cathartic. So I say more. ‘It was sudden. He’s in love.’ I spit the word with some distaste, earning a wry smile from my companion.

His teeth are so white, his face stubbled in a way that makes me imagine running my fingers over it.

‘And you still love him?’

The question is a good one, one I haven’t asked myself. I shake my head slowly from side to side. It feels good to admit that. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Then you don’t believe in love?’

I gnaw on my lower lip. ‘No. I mean yes, I do.’

‘You sounded angry a moment ago.’

‘Did I?’

He nods slowly. ‘You sounded like someone who wants to fuck someone else out of their mind.’

‘He’s not on my mind,’ I say, determined on this point. I’m not turning my first one-night stand in for ever into petty revenge sex. This wouldn’t be about hurting Gareth so much as rediscovering myself, my agency, my right to think of myself as ‘single,’ just like he did—only we were together.

‘It’s...symbolic,’ I say finally. ‘Like a way to mark the date or something.’ I shrug. And then, with bald honesty, ‘Also, I don’t particularly like the idea of him being the last guy I slept with when he’s off on his honeymoon.’

He lifts a brow at my truthfulness. ‘That’s valid.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’ I wrinkle my nose. ‘I’m not sure it’s not a little bit fucked up.’

Beneath the table, his hand curves over my knee. ‘It’s not.’ Desire jolts directly up to my thighs, and higher still. Heat pulses between my legs.

‘Really? Speaking from experience?’

His expression is guarded. ‘You could say that.’ His fingers trace a little higher, to the flesh of my thighs. I grab my breath, hold it in my lungs a second, waiting for it to infiltrate my body.

‘How long were you together?’

I can hardly think straight. His fingers creep a little higher and I stare at him beseechingly. It’s not late enough in the night for this—people are still having civilised conversations at nearby tables. I am beyond grateful for the tablecloth that offers some discretion, but if he moves his hand any higher I think I’m going to make some kind of noise to show exactly what he’s doing to me.

He moves his body closer and the arm around the back of the booth curves over my shoulders. Holy crap, this feels good. Better than good. Ah-mazing.

His hand stops mid-thigh.

He’s waiting for me to answer.

‘Two years.’

He nods.

‘And you broke up when?’

‘Six months ago.’

He lets out a low whistle.

‘So this wedding—whirlwind? Or was he with her the whole time he was seeing you?’

‘No!’ I shake my head, the idea sharper and harder than the truth. ‘Just at the end. He met her a week before he broke up with me. Love at first sight.’ Again, my words are derisive.

‘Love at first sight is a juvenile concept.’

I agree with him completely. I hate that I do, that the girl who stared her sensible, conservative parents in the face and told them she’d rather be penniless and happy, chasing her dreams, than to give up on them because they seemed so unobtainable—that girl would never condemn ‘love at first sight’ as juvenile.

But he’s right.

Love at first sight is a construct. Maybe love is in general. Desire isn’t, though. It’s real and it’s flooding my limbs, bringing parts of me I didn’t realise were dormant back to life.

I drop my hand to his beneath the table and I fix him with a determined stare. ‘You know what?’

He moves his head closer. ‘What, Grace?’

‘I really—’ I drag his hand higher ‘—really—’ higher ‘—really—’ I place it between my legs, at the apex of my thighs, my eyes challenging him ‘—don’t want to talk about him.’

‘No?’ He moves his thumb just a tiny bit, but enough for it to brush my clit through the flimsy lace of my thong, and my breath escapes in a shuddered, tortured exhalation.

‘No.’ I shake my head from side to side, burying my face in his shoulder for a second. Fuck. He smells like...heaven. Sunscreen, sweat, strength. I lift a hand to his side, digging my nails into his toned hip.

I don’t know anything about him besides the fact he looks like a god and smells even better. His name. His country of origin. And the fact he’s blowing out of town in twenty-four hours.

It’s perfect.

‘What I want,’ I say into his shoulder before lifting my face and forcing my eyes to meet his, ‘is to get out of here. Right now.’




CHAPTER TWO (#ucf14da31-5283-5269-a913-fe1ae66de780)


I WATCH AS she walks into the hotel room, wondering what she thinks of this place. I think you can tell a lot about a person by the way they appraise hotels, and her eyes skim the simple, small room. A comfortable king-size bed—a prerequisite—a small en suite bathroom, a view of another city high-rise. The harbour is down at the rocks and I’m up near the park.

I remind myself she has no reason to be surprised by the somewhat meagre accommodation.

She doesn’t know who I am.

She doesn’t know what my bank balance is.

She knows nothing about me.

Except that she wants me.

And, God knows, I want her.

I’ve been with precisely three women since my marriage ended. An ex-girlfriend in Berlin for old times’ sake—even though the old times weren’t actually that great—a lawyer from Stockholm, and Katrina, who lives in the subpenthouse beneath me. That was a dick move, because every time I see her in the lift it’s like she’s angling for an invitation back to my place and nothing fills my veins with ice more than the idea of a relationship right now.

The ink on my divorce papers is barely dry—I got the notification from my lawyer last week—and I plan on staying single a goodly while. Possibly for ever.

This kind of thing—casual sex with fascinating and enchanting women—is all I need. Companionship, satisfaction and no strings—or iron chains, as was the case with Lorena. And this can’t be more than it is—one night. I’m leaving in the morning, flying north to check out a golf course I’m toying with buying before heading home to the States.

This is my one night in Sydney.

One night with Grace.

I don’t even know her last name, and I want to keep it that way. Last names lead to expectations and I expect nothing of women now. I expect nothing at all. I thought I was different, that my marriage was different, but here I am, twenty-nine with a divorce under my belt. Who knows how many I could rack up if I wasn’t determined to not become Adrian Hart?

My father screwed up in a billion ways—but by far the worst, the one I run from every day of my life, was his ability to suck people in, chew them up and spit them out. Time and time again I saw him make women love him, but he never loved anyone. Not even us, I think. He was proud of his sons, proud that he had three boys to raise and carry on the Hart name.

But he didn’t love us.

He didn’t love anyone.

How else could you explain what he did to Holden? I think of my brother and the news he learned only a month ago—that Hart blood does not run through his veins—and anger slams into me. Our father was a bastard, but keeping the truth of Holden’s parentage from him was the cruellest, strangest decision he made.

Grace’s eyes have stopped inspecting the room and now she’s looking at me with a mix of curiosity and desire. I like the latter.

‘Would you like a drink?’ I offer, moving to the minibar and scanning it.

‘God, no, those things cost a fortune. Don’t waste your money.’

My lips twitch involuntarily, imagining how my brothers would react to that comment. With over thirty billion apiece, it’s been a long time since any of us has worried about the overinflated cost of the minibar. Then again, isn’t that part of why I choose to stay in places like this? Because I hate the assumptions people make when they know who I am. I hate everything people think about me when they know who I am.

‘It’s fine,’ I assure her. ‘Champagne?’

She moves towards me, the skirt she’s wearing kicking a little as she walks, so my eyes drop to her legs of their own accord.

‘I don’t need a drink.’ She presses a hand to my chest and then pushes me backwards, towards the bed.

I laugh, a husky sound from low in my throat. Her forwardness is different but, fuck me, I like it. She pushes again, her eyes holding mine, and I fall onto the bed, pushing up it until I’m in the middle. I watch as she stands at my feet, her fingers moving to the bottom of her shirt. For a second she hesitates, and then she lifts it up, over her sides, towards her head and she drops it to her side. I don’t see more than the swish of the fabric, though, because my eyes are locked to her breasts as though they’re some kind of glue or magnet in effect.

They are nice breasts.

My hands tingle with a need to touch them, to feel their weight in my palms. She reaches around behind herself for the bra strap, and I hold my breath, watching as she undoes it, her eyes still on mine. There is challenge in them and pride, a mutinous look of sheer determination, as she does something that perhaps she thought she might chicken out of.

Grace’s hands drop to her skirt, and my cock is like granite in my pants. I am desperate to touch her, for my hands to be doing what her hands are, but somehow I feel like this matters to her. That taking charge of this is a big part of what she needs, and so I stay where she’s pushed me, I lie there and I watch her and I tell myself, soon. Soon I will touch her and taste her and kiss her and drive myself deep into her body, burying myself balls-deep in her wetness, making her cry my name again and again into this tiny room.

She moves slowly, too slowly. I want to see her, I want to see her naked, but she teases the skirt over her narrow hips, her eyes almost laughing as they watch me, and then, realising she’s enjoying this, I hiss out a breath, but still don’t move. Finally, finally, she’s wearing just about the most delicious scrap of lace I’ve ever seen. It’s barely anything—fine and delicate, it covers her vagina but at the hips it’s just lace, narrow bands that wrap around to the back.

‘Turn around,’ I command, my voice throaty.

Her eyes hitch to mine and she bites down on her lip again, drawing my attention to the full pillow of her lower lip. It was one of the first things I noticed about her. That, and the long blond hair that tumbled over one shoulder. And the way she kept stirring her drink and darting her eyes around the bar.

With the same speed, or lack thereof, she used to remove her skirt, she begins to spin, turning her back on me, and I can’t help the groan that escapes me. ‘Fuck me,’ I mutter, because the lace is just a T between two perfect peach-like arse cheeks.

She tosses a glance over her shoulder. ‘Isn’t that the plan?’

Okay. I get that she wants to be in control here, but suddenly my dick is like a torture device in my pants. I move my hands to my belt but she turns back to me and I’m hit with the realisation of her beautiful rounded breasts and I don’t know if I’m an arse or tit man any more, but just that Grace is whatever I need and want.

She straddles me, her hands on mine. ‘Let me.’

She’s really doing the whole ‘take charge’ thing, but I lie back, not caring if it’s her or me who gets my clothes off, just caring that somehow we’re naked together, soon.

But, instead of unbuttoning my jeans, she leans up to my shirt, which means wriggling her body higher up my frame, so suddenly her G-string-clad body is pressed right over my dick.

She moves her hips provocatively and I am done with the passive lie-still thing. I grab her hips, holding her on my cock, staring at her while I move my hips, as though I really were inside of her and she were naked, her legs spread, taking me into her wet core.

Her eyes flare wide and I grunt as I move her body up and down my length, through my jeans, and she’s not passive here, either; she begins to grind her hips, using me to get off, her hands balling in my shirt front before pushing it up my body, and I lift my head so she can get it off completely and then she’s dropping her body forward so her breasts, her soft, round breasts, run over my hair-roughened chest and she moans, low in her throat. Her nipples are puckered and hard and I thrust against her and she whimpers, her fingers digging into my shoulders as she cries out and trembles, pleasure filling her in a way that is more erotic than just about anything I’ve ever known.

Fuck me sideways, she’s hot.

Her breathing is loud, tortured. Her mouth is hot, and she drops it to my shoulder first, nipping the flesh there with her teeth before dragging it lower, to my chest. She finds a nipple and flicks it; my dick jerks in my pants.

I bring my hands around and cup her arse, pressing her against me, and then slide a hand in front of her, finding her clit, and then her seam, pushing inside her, rejoicing at the feel of her muscles, so tight, so wet, so hot. I swirl my finger around her and she whimpers and then her hands are on my belt and she’s moving away from me, she’s looking at me with white-hot hunger as she pushes her thong down her thighs and steps out of it, then rips my jeans apart, pushing them.

She works fast, but not fast enough. The second I’m naked I feel like it’s taken ten years to reach this stage, but hell, it was worth it.

I’m desperate to roll her onto her back, to take over, but there’s that look in her eyes that speaks of a desperation, as though she’s proving something to herself, and far be it from me to stand in the way of whatever challenge she’s facing.

We’ve only got one night, but I plan on using the whole night, every goddamned minute, to enjoy Grace as much as I can before I leave. This first time, though, it’s like slaking a ghost. There’s a need humming through her that’s more than just physical.

‘Condom?’ she asks, panting, her eyes sheened with the haze of her desperation. For a second I’m jarred out of this sexual fog and into reality because I was very close to forgetting to use protection and I would have said, until two minutes ago, that safe sex is reflexive for me—as much so as brushing my teeth or walking my dog.

‘Yeah.’ I push out of bed, using the chance to get rid of my jocks, and reach for my wallet. I always travel prepared, even though I didn’t come here expecting this. Seeing those divorce papers made me contemplate celibacy.

Briefly.

Her eyes are devouring me, my ink, my muscles. I watch her watching me and wonder what her ex was like. It’s a thought out of nowhere; it doesn’t belong. I shove it aside, using my mouth to tear open the wrapper, and then unfurl the rubber over my length. Slowly, so slowly it’s almost agonising, but I want to pay her back a little for her own sensual tease. I cover my dick and keep my palm wrapped around the base of my cock.

Her breath is the only sound in the room, hot little rasps that make me feel like I could come any minute. And then she’s moving towards me, around the bed, her beautiful naked body something I’d love to just stare at, but, instead, she barrels against me and her mouth finds mine, hot and insistent, determined. Sweet Jesus, we haven’t kissed before and this is all so backwards that only now, after I’ve had my finger inside of her, do I realise she’s a great fucking kisser.

If we’d kissed in the bar I would have known this would happen—you can tell a lot about your chemistry with someone from the way you kiss, and this kiss is burning me up. Or maybe it’s the feel of her generous, soft breasts pressed against my chest, or the little moaning noises she’s making.

Fuck me.

I lift her arm, needing more of her, all of her, and wrap her legs around my waist, just needing to be as close as possible to her, and spin her so her back is against the wall. My desperate, hungry cock nudges at her rear without design and she arches her back, breaking our kiss for a second but giving me access to her breasts. My mouth, my ravenous, seeking mouth, drops to her nipple and sucks it inwards. Rolling my tongue over her swollen nipple, tracing it, sucking it, my hand seeks the pleasure of the weight of her other breast.

I feel it in my palm, my fingers brushing over her nipple, and she’s crying my name and it feels so good to hear her say it I am bursting inside. Fuck this, I need her. No. I have a ravenous need for all of her; all she offers I will take and take again.

But there’s heartbreak in the room, too, and as I pull away from her, kissing my way up her chest towards her throat, where I flick her pulse with my tongue, I ask, ‘You’re sure?’

Because I’m not a total arse, and she’s mourning her ex and using sex to deal with that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to be used, but I want to hear that she’s sure before we do this. I’m not my father—I’m not someone who exists in a bubble, not caring who he hurts.

Her eyes latch to mine and I don’t think her ex is anywhere in her mind right now. This is her and me and the tornado of desire that’s swallowing us up whole.

In answer, she digs her heels into my back so she can push up my body a bit, and rearranges herself, moving over my length. Her eyes are wide as she takes my tip inside herself and every bone in my body wants me to push inside of her all the way, but I don’t. I wait, letting her get used to this, to the size of me, the feel of me.

She digs her nails into my shoulders as she goes down lower, and my hands cup her arse, holding her there, supporting her, and just feeling her beautiful roundness. Lower, and my cock is half-buried in her and she feels so tight, she’s squeezing me in a way that is insanity inducing. Lower, and I see stars at how good this feels. She moans, tips her hips, rocking forward a little, and heat stains her cheeks. She’s riding a wave and I still, watching her pleasure herself on my body for the second time that night.

Her responsiveness is some kind of catnip.

Lower still, until finally all of me is deep inside her, so deep, and we are melded together completely. And now, only now, do I thrust, lifting my head to watch her as I hold her hips still and push, deeper, harder, and she cries out, biting down on her lip, moaning, and begging me for more, please, more.

‘Your wish is my command, baby.’ I laugh, but it’s husky because I haven’t felt this turned on since I was in school and sex was still new and illicit. I thrust into her again and again and her back hits the wall and her legs stay tight around me so our bodies are like one, and my hands hold her arse, her beautiful butt, and I ache for everything, for this and so much more. I find her nipple again, the other breast this time, and I take it in my mouth, rolling her with my tongue, then clamping my teeth down so she cries my name into the room and I laugh, but it comes out strained because my own wave is lifting me up and I feel like I’m losing any grip I have on my control.

I take a breath, keeping my mouth on her breast, listening—feeling—the fast rushing of her heart, the beating that’s like a cacophony of wild horses, pounding hard, and I know I’m the cause for that. Male pride swells inside of me, but I want more. I want to make her come again. And again and again and again. I want to give her so many orgasms that she can’t even remember her ex’s name. Or maybe it’s that I want to give her so many orgasms I forget what a lying bitch my ex-wife was, I forget how much of our relationship was a fake.

Nothing about this is fake.

Grace is giving me everything, all of herself, and this moment, even though it’s just physical, is the most intimate I’ve been with anyone in a long time.

Fuck. Stop thinking so much and just enjoy this!

I pull her away from the wall and cross to the bed; my legs are shaking, desire and adrenaline pumping through them. I drop her onto her back, falling with her so we don’t have to come apart at all, and the second she connects with the mattress I push into her again. She stares up at me, her eyes huge in her face as she looks at me, as though she’s high or drugged or completely blissed out.

I pull out of her so just my tip is teasing her clit and she pushes onto her elbows, her blonde hair falling over her face. ‘Don’t you dare stop,’ she demands, fixing me with a look that is at once frantic and totally desperate.

The fact she doesn’t mind showing how turned on she feels is another form of catnip.

‘Wasn’t going to,’ I promise, not sure I could, even if a thousand wild horses tried to drag me away from her.

‘I’m so close,’ she says, and her cheeks flush pink and her beautiful, full lower lip gets dragged between her teeth. The thing is, I don’t want this to be over yet, not even for a moment, and I think I’m at the edge of my control myself.

I keep my tip at her seam and she writhes beneath me, desperately trying to pull me back inside of her, the keening noises she’s making something my mind will replay often. My mouth drags down her body, finding the underside of her breast and flicking at it. She’s salty and sweet and my gut clenches with a wave of desire—more like a tsunami. Down I go, all the way, crouching off the edge of the bed and pulling on her legs, pulling her lower. I kiss her thighs, the skin there so soft and pale, creamy and raw.

She isn’t moaning now, but her breathing punctures the stillness of the night. She’s waiting. Waiting quietly, uncertainly.

I smile to myself as my hands curve over her thighs and separate her legs a little wider, clamping them where they are, and her beautiful sex is right there before me.

‘Jagger...’ My name falls out of her mouth—a plea, a question.

‘You’re close?’ I ask, my tongue running up her seam.

Her harsh intake of breath is loud and primal.

Her hands scrape as they run over the duvet, digging into it.

‘Uh huh,’ she exhales. I find her clit and suck it into my mouth and she cries out louder now, and I laugh—despite the fact I’m as hard as I can get, the fact we’re surrounded by thin walls and God knows who else on the other side of them doesn’t seem to have entered her head and I’m glad. I love her lack of self-consciousness.

I flick my tongue over her and she trembles beneath me—I kiss her harder, faster, my tongue tasting her until she explodes and I keep her legs right where they are, when she might have pulled herself away, because I want to enjoy every damned thing about her release. As she rides that wave, I push a finger inside of her and she bucks hard, her muscles squeezing me, and I groan then because my cock is more than a little jealous to be missing this party.

But there’s time. We’ve got all night. Just this one night...and I’m going to make it count.




CHAPTER THREE (#ucf14da31-5283-5269-a913-fe1ae66de780)


HE IS SOME kind of sex god. Some kind of kinky, wild sex god. I can barely breathe. I think pleasure has taken up every square inch of my body, leaving little room for other optional extras such as oxygen and blood. No, the blood is there. It’s rushing through me, reaching every tiny little cell, filling me up with heat and fire and flame and need.

More need—how is that possible? It’s like I’m one of those stock market charts and every bloody release I get just pushes me down for a second before a new need swiftly kicks in and takes over.

I scramble onto my elbows so I can look at his dark blond head—between my legs—and I moan again because the sight of him like that should make me feel...squeamish or embarrassed, but it doesn’t.

‘You can just stay there all night,’ I joke, smiling like the cat who got the cream—the girl who got the best head in the world, at any rate.

He looks up my body, over the curves of my breast to my eyes, and he grins then drops his mouth to my clit while he’s watching me and I watch him as he lashes me again with his clever, clever tongue.

And I jerk because I’m so sensitive that the slightest touch feels like he’s attached live wires to me.

He eases up, kissing me instead, just a gentle, soft kiss, and then he stands.

His cock is so hard, so beautiful, and I stare at it, wanting him inside me even when my body is still burning up from what we’ve just done.

‘I want you,’ I say simply, because what’s the point in lying to a one-night stand? I don’t care if he thinks I’m some wanton, sex-addicted hussy. I’m never going to see him again and hell, I do want him.

I’m already kind of high on the fact I’ve pushed my idiot ex way out of my mind, or at least erased his touch from my body. It feels kind of ceremonial—especially the timing.

‘Stand up.’ The command is gruff. I swallow, doing as he says, my eyes holding his as he takes my hand in his and pulls me towards the window.

‘I like this city.’ He positions me so I’m looking out of the glass.

‘Me, too,’ I say, my pulse thready as he spreads my legs from behind, my temperature skyrocketing. His hands on my hips steady me as he thrusts into me from behind, and I groan because I have missed him, the feeling of him buried inside me. He’s so big—my muscles had to stretch to accommodate him at first but now I feel like I’m made for this. I brace my arms on the glass, thankful for the heavy tint and the fact we’re high up above the city.

He thrusts into me hard and then one of his hands comes around to my breast, cupping it, and I call out because my nipples feel like they’ve been coated in extra nerve endings or something, so sensitive are they to his touch.

From this angle he reaches so deep inside me, my body is burning up with this.

‘I want to feel all of you,’ he says simply, as he pushes into me and his other hand comes around to my clit, brushing over it, as his cock pushes deeper and harder and I moan.

‘I am all yours.’

He stills for a second, and then the hand that was on my breast drops to my hips and comes to my arse, curving around it, his fingers digging in slightly, and I whimper because the pressure feels so damned good.

His thumb inches closer to the middle of my backside and I hold my breath as he brushes over my butt.

Fuck.

Desire surges inside of me and I push backwards a little, encouraging him, not even wondering what the hell has gone on in my mind that I’m contemplating this.

He moves his fingers faster over my clit and I cry out as pleasure begins to break against me again and just the tip of his thumb pushes into me as he thrusts and I am losing all of myself in this moment, and gaining myself right back too. I look out at Sydney as I crest high above the earth and I lose my breath and my all.

I don’t know what words tumble from my mouth, only that I am saying things over and over again, sounds and syllables, and then the hand that was on my clit clamps around my belly, holding me tight to him and, with his thumb pressed to my arse and his dick deep inside me, he comes, a fast, guttural thrust and a noise—low and so impossibly sexy. He throbs inside me and my muscles squeeze him tight, their euphoria undiminished, undaunted and, yes—even now—terrifyingly insatiable.

He is strong and moves me easily, angling my body so I can see our reflection in the mirror across the room. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes hold mine and something surges inside of me because this is so, so intimate.

I am completely open to him, naked, wanton, wild and uncaring. My hair looks like it’s been teased in some kind of tribute to the eighties, my cheeks are stained pink, my mascara has run around my eyes and my lips are swollen and full from the way I’ve been biting them non-stop.

He straightens, pulling out of me, turning away, and something like fear slices through me, that he’s done with me, with this, but it’s only so he can dispose of the condom, and then he’s back, smiling, his eyes lined at the corners in a way that makes him seem so...nice.

I swallow, not sure I want to know anything more about my one-night stand.

‘Now, I need a drink,’ he says, moving to the bar fridge and pulling it open. He lifts out an ice-cold beer. ‘You?’

‘Yeah, thanks.’

He passes it to me then pulls out another, lifting his to mine in a gesture of salute, as he did in the bar.

I’m trying not to feel self-conscious, but what we’ve just done is...unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. There was some kind of whirlwind and it consumed me and spat me out and I’m a little unsure what to make of it. I sip the beer and then put it down on the bench top.

‘Mind if I use the bathroom?’

‘Go right ahead.’ He nods towards the en suite bathroom.

I smile at him as I pass and he grabs my wrist, holding me still, his eyes searching mine.

He drops his mouth to mine, kissing me gently this time, slowly, tasting me, and I surrender to that kiss, my body arching forward, my tongue tangling with his. He groans into my mouth and his hands lift to my hair, thus explaining why it’s such a bird’s nest, as he weaves his fingers against my scalp, locking me where I am, completely imprisoned by his delicious kiss.

My hands curve around him, finding his arse and then, out of curiosity, I move one hand to his dick, feeling it like I wanted to ever since he undressed. He’s semi-hard again and I am consumed by relief. Even as I know I need to unpack what just happened and how I feel about it, I know I want him again, too. I know I need him.

And the fact he obviously feels the same is reassuring and delicious.

I run my hand along his length, higher, my fingertips brushing over his tip, and his breath snags as he sucks it in and I smile against his mouth. I am totally here for whatever this night is going to be.

One night, no strings, and we’ll never see one another again. Or a few hours, I think with a hint of regret as my eyes shift quickly to the cheap bedside clock that proclaims it to be just after nine. Like some kind of sexual Cinderella, I have my midnight curfew in mind and I must remember it. I’ve worked too hard to let anything come between me and success—and this sale means freedom! Freedom from Gareth, my parents’ doubts over my ability to succeed—and their knowing nods that they were right. That I can’t do this, after all.

Midnight’s it—I’ll go home, have a good night’s sleep, ready to face the trip to the Whitsundays fresh, ready to wow this buyer.

And yet...for now...for the next few hours, there’s this, and I want to enjoy all of it.

With that in mind, I move my hips from side to side, tempting his hands lower, and he doesn’t disappoint, moving one palm from my hair, down my body, to my butt. I pull his cock in my hands, feeling its weight and strength as it grows harder, and his hand slaps down on my arse and I jerk and moan. It’s not hard; it doesn’t hurt, but hell, it makes my nerve endings fire with a heat I didn’t know possible.

I move my hips closer to him so his cock is close to me, and he laughs into my mouth, lifting his hand and slapping my arse cheeks again. I move my hands to his back and pull him closer and he lifts his head, breaking the kiss, his eyes piercing mine but with desire and need. ‘I thought you needed the bathroom.’

‘Nope. I just wanted to take stock.’

His eyes widen a little; perhaps my honesty surprises him.

‘And now?’

‘I want to take something else,’ I say simply, pulling at him, pulling him back towards the bed. He laughs again, but doesn’t demur. I push him onto his back and look around for his wallet, grabbing it up off the bedside table. Somewhere, in the periphery of my mind, I note the way he stills as I grab it, but it’s not until I open it and see dozens of one-hundred-dollar notes in there that I understand why.

I flick past them, grabbing out another condom and unfurling it over his length, my eyes on his. ‘You ever heard of credit cards?’

‘I like cash,’ he says simply.

Fair enough. His unique ways aren’t of interest to me—it doesn’t matter if he’s some kind of conspiracy theorist who doesn’t even believe in bank accounts. None of that matters.

I lift up and take him deep inside me again and it’s quick and desperate—how can it be after what we’ve just done? I have no idea, but I feel like I’ve gone ten years without sex and this man is my dying meal. I take him deep and my muscles scream out with delight and relief. He digs his fingers into my hips and drives his own upwards, thrusting into me as I push down on his length, his possession of me absolute, and absolutely intense.

We explode together, our bodies mingled and tied, and as my nerve endings quiver with the force of this pleasure, I drop forward, onto his body, surrendering to the tidal wave of absolute release, surrendering to this and him.

I lie there, listening to the drumming of his heart, hearing its echo within my own, hot and too full of physical sensations to even think about emotions, about the fact Gareth is getting married in the morning and I’m in some cheap hotel room with a guy I don’t know from Adam.

I don’t want to think about that.

I don’t want to think about the fact the last two and a half years of my life might as well have been erased, because I’m right back where I was as a twenty-one-year-old, with no commitments, no plans, no idea who I was.

He shifts a little beneath me, tumbling me off his chest and pulling out of me; I almost groan at his desertion.

But he pushes up on one elbow so he can look at me, and I feel like he’s really looking at me. As though he’s looking deep within my soul, into my very core, as though he’s pulling me apart in a way that is...unwelcome.

I drift my eyes shut, like that might help a little, but his fingers curve around my cheek, stroking my skin gently, and I blink open reflexively. His eyes pierce me, to the depths of my soul. But he smiles and it’s casual and easy-going so I tell myself I’m being pedantic or paranoid or both.

He says nothing, but I feel a thousand and one questions swirling between us and, for lack of answers, or for lack of answers I care to frame, I smile curtly and stand up. He doesn’t stop me this time. I move to the beer I discarded a little while earlier and pick it up around the neck, drinking half of it with my eyes shut before replacing it quietly and moving into the bathroom. I click the door shut behind me and move to the sink, staring at myself in the mirror.

As I saw before, I am some kind of sexual being brought to life. I look like I exist for this and this alone. My chest is covered in a faint redness from where his stubbled face has dragged over my sensitive flesh. A quick inspection lower shows my thighs have undergone the same fate. I start the tap running and lather my hands in soap, then douse my face, washing off the relics of my make-up. It’s better to have no make-up than the trashed wasteland I was sporting. I look around for the standard issue hotel cosmetics, pulling open a cupboard and seeing, instead, a travel pack of luxurious toiletries.

With a slight frown, I skate my fingers over them, noting the brand names with mild interest and growing curiosity before reaching for the next door. The usual products have all been shoved in here. I grab out the hotel branded moisturiser and run it over my face, then return my thoughts to his toiletry bag.

I know luxury brands.

I’m in the business of knowing them, after all. We sell some of the most prestigious commercial real estate in Australia, Gareth and I. Our clients are multimillionaires, and our job is to speak their language.

I recognise that he’s carrying probably hundreds of dollars’ worth of miniature toiletries and frown, because he doesn’t strike me as vain, and he definitely doesn’t strike me as someone who’s got that kind of cash. And yet he literally does have a wallet bursting with cash, and now this?

But, no.

This room...his clothes...

Maybe they were gifts? I shrug; it’s the last thing that matters. You know how sometimes your mind throws up strange distractions to stop you from thinking about what you should really be focusing on? I think there’s an element of that going on.

Because I came here tonight wanting to erase him from my mind—Gareth. Wanting to push him out of my body, to replace him with someone else, and holy crap, did I achieve that! I don’t know at what point this became less about Gareth and more about a plain and simple desire for Jagger, but that’s what this is. I feel a surge of need and know what’s responsible.

It’s all him.

I lift my face to my reflection again, shaking my head. Smeared make-up is gone, but I still look like I’ve just done exactly what I have done. I finger-comb my hair, pulling it over one shoulder, then turn back to the door.

When I wrench it inwards I’m disappointed to see he’s pulled his jeans on. They sit low on his hips, undone.

He’s on the phone, his back to me, but when I enter he turns and his eyes lock to mine and then scan my face, as if he’s cataloguing the changes and simultaneously making sure I’m okay.

And I’m more than okay. I smile brightly because this—this one night—is exactly what I needed.

‘And a pizza. Large.’ He covers the mouthpiece. ‘Is there anything you don’t eat?’

It’s a perfectly normal question, but, given the context, heat stains my cheeks and he arches a brow, obviously understanding the direction of my thoughts. ‘Food-wise?’ he prompts again and I laugh, shaking my head.

‘And I’m starving.’

He grins, holding a hand out to me, and I walk to him without a moment’s hesitation. I put my hand in his and he squeezes it then pulls me closer to him, putting an arm around my body. ‘Some fruit, and a couple of salads. Maybe some pasta, too.’

He disconnects the call, replacing the handset, then turns to face me properly.

‘I’m so glad your friend picked me up for you,’ he says seriously, and I burst out laughing, dropping my forehead to his chest.

‘Penny’s always had great taste in men.’ I look up at him once more.

‘Better than you?’ His eyes scan my face in that intensely watchful way of his.

‘Oh, definitely,’ I agree. ‘I was looking to go home with the bartender.’ It’s a joke, a sarcastic rejoinder, and he smiles but says nothing, and the silence stretches between us so, after a moment, I say, ‘I’ve never been here before—to this hotel. It’s...nice.’

He laughs. ‘It’s three-star at best, but my secretary booked it last minute.’ He shrugs. ‘And there’s a bed, a bathroom, a good gym. What more do you need?’

‘What more, indeed?’ I lift my hand to his chest, running my fingers over his ridged muscles. ‘And you work out a lot, I’m guessing?’

His breath speeds up a little as my hands go lower. ‘I like to get my heart rate up.’

I arch a brow. ‘I can tell.’

‘I run ten miles, most mornings.’

‘I can’t even imagine running three miles,’ I say with a shake of my head, pulling away from him and moving to my beer. I sip it, then look around for my clothes. He’s picked them up and placed them neatly on the chair. It’s such a small gesture but it does something strange inside of me. I move to them but he forestalls me, handing me a white fluffy robe instead.

‘Don’t bother getting dressed,’ he says simply, but with a deep, husky promise in the words that makes my pulse quiver.

Shit.

I bite down on my lip and his eyes drop to my mouth, and desire is sparking around the room once more.

‘Running is a habit, and one that gets easier the more you practice it,’ he says, the words incongruous in the heat of our lust.

I swallow, trying to tamp down on my sexual heat, to keep my feelings at bay for a moment. ‘I don’t know,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘It’s not my thing.’

‘What is your “thing”?’ he asks seriously.

My eyes skim his face, noting now that he has a slight bump in the middle of his nose, suggesting it has been broken at some point. ‘For exercise?’

‘Yeah. Or letting your hair down. Blowing off steam. You know, that kind of thing.’

I hesitate for only a moment and then speak with confidence and defiance. ‘Pole dancing.’ That defiance is hard fought for. My parents, my then boyfriend, everyone was askance when Penny and I took up the disreputable hobby. It’s amazing for your fitness,Penny cooed and, as always, she was right.

He regards me cynically, as though I might be lying.

‘Really?’

‘Yep.’

I can feel his curiosity and turned-on-ness pulsing towards me. He moves to the narrow wooden desk and props his hips against it. ‘Care to give me a demonstration?’

I eye the room and shake my head. ‘I don’t think anything in here would be strong enough.’

His disappointment is palpable. ‘You can’t pretend?’

I laugh. ‘Not easily.’ The robe is soft around me. I cinch the belt at the waist and move to sit on the edge of the bed, watching him.

‘How’d you get into it?’

‘The same way I get into most unorthodox parts of my life.’

‘Penny?’ he prompts, smiling.

I nod. ‘Oh, yeah, you betcha. I suggested we join a ballroom dancing club—I wanted a hobby, and to move my body, to feel limber and flexible.’ I smile distractedly. ‘I work really long hours and even though I get to be out and about a lot of the time, I still feel more...sedentary...than I’d like. So dancing felt like a health kick, or a kick-start to a health kick...’

‘Naturally.’ He nods, his eyes skating over my body, which must look like a fluffy duck in this robe.

‘She picked me up on the allotted night and we talked the whole way there. It was only when she pulled into some dodgy car park out in the western suburbs that I realised we weren’t at Miss Clarence’s Ballroom Blitz.’ I smile at the memory. ‘Penny said she presumed that because ballroom dancing was for senior citizens, I must have meant pole dancing and just got mixed up.’

He arches a brow. ‘You weren’t keen?’

‘I wasn’t not keen; it just hadn’t occurred to me before. But that’s me—and that’s so very Penny.’ I shake my head. ‘If I hadn’t met her, I suspect I’d be running my life on a very narrow, very straight line.’

He nods thoughtfully, and his silence encourages me to continue.

‘I guess I’m born with more than my fair share of the conservative in my blood.’ His expression flickers with something I recognise: curiosity.

‘Is that a bad thing?’

I’m confused for a moment—the curiosity or the conservative tendencies?

‘Being conservative,’ he prompts, as though he’s read my mind.

I shake my head, compressing my lips. ‘It’s almost a prerequisite in my family,’ I say simply. ‘Mum and Dad have had the same jobs all their lives—good, reliable government jobs. Civil servant salaries and pensions, guaranteed security. My brother and sister followed suit.’

‘It wasn’t for you?’

I shake my head. ‘Nope.’ I look towards the window, my eyes sweeping over the high-rises beyond the small window of his hotel room. ‘I always wanted to come down here. Growing up in a small town is—I guess I see it differently now, but, as a kid and a teenager, I hated it. I just wanted to travel and see the world, and not to have everyone I bump into know everything about me.’ I pull a face of distaste. ‘Sydney seemed like some shimmering oasis on my horizon. I couldn’t believe it when I got accepted to uni here.’

‘So you’re conservative in a different way,’ he hedges, and again I feel like he’s weighing me up, analysing me cell by cell.

‘Yes and no. My ex and I started our business from scratch. We were broke as a joke for the first six months, and my parents thought I’d lost the plot. There’s no job security when you’re running the show.’ I shrug. ‘But the rewards are also potentially so much greater.’

‘You went into business with your ex?’

‘He wasn’t my ex at the time,’ I say with a droll shake of my head. ‘My crystal ball wasn’t working the day we signed the papers.’

He opens his mouth to say something, but I shake my head, my eyes sparking when they meet his. ‘I don’t really want to think about him right now,’ I say honestly. ‘Tomorrow will be for that, him, the real world out there. Tonight’s just this...’




CHAPTER FOUR (#ucf14da31-5283-5269-a913-fe1ae66de780)


I WAKE WITH a start.

Where am I? My phone is buzzing. And there’s a body beside me. A warm, powerful, tanned body with tattoos on his hips and chest.

I lift a hand to my forehead as the events of last night—no!—I check the time—it’s just before midnight—the last few hours—come rushing back to me.

Jagger.

I sigh his name in my mind, my eyes devouring him in this unobserved moment. For he sleeps deeply, exhausted by all the sex.

And I mean all the sex. We ate together, a mountain of food, and then one thing led to another and we were in bed again, and somewhere after that we must have drifted off to sleep. The lights are still on.

I grab my phone off the table, my eyes bleary, and squint at the screen.

Penny’s face smiles back at me.

Frowning, I push my feet out of bed, stumbling towards the bathroom and shutting the door behind me. I push the toilet lid down gently then sit on top of it, swiping my phone to answer at the same time.

‘Penny?’ My voice is a hoarse whisper.

‘Gracie?’ She imitates it.

‘Why are you calling so late?’

‘I promised I’d get you home by midnight, didn’t I?’

I smile slowly, her dependability never in doubt. ‘That you did, lady.’

‘So? Where are you?’

My smile is self-conscious. ‘Not home yet.’

‘Oh my god,’ she squeaks. ‘You went back to his place?’

I nod, then, because it’s a phone conversation and nodding is pointless, clear my throat and say, ‘Yes.’

‘Gracie! I’m so proud of you! And? Was he everything those abs promised he would be?’

‘And more.’ A smile tickles my lips. ‘But I can’t talk now. I’m going to turn into a pumpkin unless I get out of here...’

Regret spirals inside of me. I don’t want to go. Not yet. But tomorrow is a hugely important day for me; I can’t mess it up. The whole future of my company is riding on it. This deal has the power to wrest me free of Gareth, to buy him out once and for all. Everything’s organised. I just need to show the buyer around the golf course, spend a few days showcasing the best the region has to offer, and then present the contracts...

I have to be fresh-faced and quick-witted; I’ve heard the buyer is a hard nut to crack and I am absolutely going to crack him.

Penny sighs. ‘As much as I hate to agree with you, I don’t want you working with that fuckwit Gareth for a moment longer. Away with you, Cinderella. Get thee to a taxi and texteth me when you’re home at your palace.’

‘Cinderella lives in a dungeon, I think.’

‘Fine, your dungeon.’ I can hear her epic eye-roll. ‘Just text me. Love you.’

‘You too.’

We hang up and I stare at my phone for a few moments, cradled against my naked legs.

I know I have to go, and yet I sit there for a few moments longer, bracing myself for the inevitable. This is just a sex thing, by the way. I’ve always known I’m a pretty sexual person—way more so than Gareth—but I never knew sex could be quite so...exhilarating. This went beyond sheer satisfaction. I felt like Jagger pushed me in every way possible and I abandoned myself to him, and this, in a way I wouldn’t have said was at all likely.

There’s nothing for it, though. I’ve worked too hard to potentially ruin a deal of this magnitude just because I’d really rather fall asleep next to his warm body and wake up in his arms...

With a sigh, I slip into the hotel room and dress as quietly as I can. And even though I’m barely louder than a mouse, I kind of wish he’d wake up and catch me in the act. Then I could explain in person. I could kiss him and one thing might lead to another, again.

He sleeps soundly and I stare at him for a few more self-indulgent seconds before grabbing the standard-issue hotel notepad off the desk and a pen from my bag.

Thanks...you were great. Grace.

It is short and to the point, but what else could I say? I’m never going to see this man again and soon this will be a very nice, very distant burn-me-alive memory.

* * *

Sydney is baking hot and here, on the private runway to the west of the airport, it feels like Satan’s waiting room. I stand at the base of the jet’s steps and cast an impatient glance at my watch.

She’s late.

Whoever Gareth is sending in his stead is five minutes behind schedule and it takes my mood from bad to worse.

I suck in a breath of the sultry, tarry air, reminding myself it isn’t this person’s fault that I woke up harder than rock with my erstwhile lover nowhere to be seen.

I should be grateful—I hate the ‘morning after,’ the awkwardness of extricating myself without leaving a phone number, the conversation about, ‘Thanks, I’m just not in a place where I can commit to anyone right now...’




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