“You. Me. Sex. It’s easy.”

All she has to do is not get hooked...

Ally Douglas has made a deal with Ethan Ash: just sex, no strings, no forever. All she knows about him is that he’s a world-famous rock star and he’s absolutely gorgeous. Their sexual chemistry is instant and magnetic, and this arrangement satisfies their needs. Only now that Ethan has started to break the rules, will Ally be able to stop herself from getting burned?

“DARE is Harlequin’s hottest line yet. Every book should come with a free fan. I dare you to try them!”

—Tiffany Reisz, international bestselling author

CLARE CONNELLY was raised in small-town Australia amongst 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 sure-fire 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 or her Facebook page.

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Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Burn Me Once

Clare Connelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07120-8

BURN ME ONCE

© 2018 Clare Connelly

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 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.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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For anyone who’s ever fallen hard for a muso.

And for Isaac Hanson, who was my first rockstar crush.

We’ll always have MMMBop.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Extract

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand, dare seize the fire?

—William Blake

SHE HAS GOT to be kidding me.

I stare at the screen one last time, checking that the Tweet actually exists. And there it is. One hundred and forty characters reaching through time and space to slam me hard over the head.

I’m getting married! @_TheRealTomBanks asked and obv I said yes!!! Couldn’t be happier! #soinlove #dreamsdocometrue #happyeverafter

I curl my fingers around my phone, tempted to pitch the damned thing into the street. Only the thought of the personal information I keep stored in it stops me from being so reckless. The press would have a field-day if they found my phone lying in the gutter.

How can she still screw with me even now, three months after we ‘took a break’?

Then again, isn’t this so like Sienna? Sienna who’s had six years of my life. Sienna whom I thought I loved. Sienna who is now engaged to another man.

Fractured memories of our last months together assault me from all angles; they are blades of mirrored glass, shards through my mind, tormenting me every which way, pricking me with exquisite ecstasy.

It was a nightmare.

And yet it was my life.

The nightmare has ended and I don’t know if I remember how to live.

I need a drink. And I need to get Sienna the hell out of my head once and for all. And I can think of a really good way to kill two birds with one stone.

The bar is hardly my usual scene. It’s retro, but in an authentic way, which I guess means the décor hasn’t been updated since the early nineties. There’s peeling linoleum in the corner of the bar, where I prop my arms and hunch down, not wanting to attract attention to myself.

#happyeverafter, my ass.

I order a beer, barely noticing the recognition that flickers across the guy’s face. I’m used to being recognised. So is Sienna. Which makes it even harder to believe she’s been able to keep this relationship secret. Not just from me, but the world.

A frown gravels across my jaw. No, she didn’t keep the whole thing secret. They’re friends. Just friends. She’s told me that a dozen times. And I bought it.

Was she fucking him at the same time she was me? Jesus. Was that why she ended it? She told me she needed space to figure herself out and I bought it. Space? Space?

After six years together she doesn’t even have the fucking decency to give me a heads-up that she’s with someone else?

Nausea rolls in my gut.

I don’t particularly ascribe to the rock and roll lifestyle, but tonight I want to write myself off. I want to get hammered. I want to get drunk. I want to get fall-down pissed.

I need to forget about Sienna somehow.

CHAPTER ONE

‘COME ON! IT’S the perfect opportunity to put Jeremy behind you.’

I send Eliza a look of impatience but can’t fight the ever-present swoop of shame that accompanies any mention of his name. ‘He is behind me.’

‘If that were true you wouldn’t have spent the past eight months wallowing!’

‘I am not wallowing,’ I deny, turning to Cassie pleadingly.

‘I can see why you think I’d back you up, but seriously, Ally, you have to get back out there.’

My stomach flops and my gaze wanders towards the man at the bar.

Ethan ‘rock star’ Ash. And so much hotter in real life than I could ever have imagined.

I shake my head. ‘No way. I’m not going to talk to him.’

‘Why not?’ Cassie throws a look over her shoulder, and when she looks back at us she has a pretty flush in her cheeks.

‘Because.’ I shoot them both a look they know better than to argue with. ‘Now, can we please talk about something else?’

I sip my drink, crossing my legs in the other direction, and most definitely not looking towards the bar again.

‘What’s new?’

I listen to their responses, relieved as all hell that they’ve let the matter of the smoking hot rock god drop. At least for now...

‘Drinks are empty. It’s your turn, Ally.’

I blink, drawn back into the conversation by Eliza, who is handing her glass to me. I frown. ‘Isn’t it table service?’

‘Nah. Not on a Friday.’

I grimace. ‘Remind me why we chose this place again?’

Cassie points to the sign overhead and I know what it says without even reading it: Happy Hour—9-9!

As the only one of our little trio who can afford full-price drinks in decent bars with professional wait staff, I resist the urge to complain. Besides, the place is obviously good enough for Ethan Ash. Which begs the question: what’s he doing here? He’s alone, and has been since I got here an hour earlier. Is he waiting for someone? Has he been stood up? That doesn’t make sense. Who’d stand him up?

I’m two cocktails in, so I know I have a bit of an alcohol-confident swagger as I make my way to the bar. But I’m immune to tall, dark and handsome men now—Jeremy cured me of that habit for life—so I determinedly move past him—way past, like other-planet past—choosing to prop my elbows on a spot that’s practically in the kitchen it’s so far away from him.

Despite the fact there are at least seven people serving behind the bar, I’m kept waiting for several minutes. Slowing down is probably a good thing, so I don’t make a fuss. I pull my phone out instead, flicking through Instagram and checking my emails, humming along without realising to the song overhead. It’s only when the song begins to surround, envelop and roll over me, with an oddly perfect surround-sound quality, that I look up and realise he’s right beside me.

He.

He of the thick brown hair and ocean-green eyes. He of the tanned skin and gazillion-pack abs. He of the torn jeans and loose grey shirt—designer dishevelled. And the way he smells—delicious. My gut twists in enthusiastic acknowledgement of all of the above and my knees tremble as if they’re conspiring to pull me closer to him.

But my face is still following orders and thankfully stays resolutely unimpressed.

A smile flicks his lips as he continues to croon—yes, he’s actually crooning—the words to a pop song, for God’s sake—and I desperately don’t want him to stop.

‘How’s it going?’

It’s so completely not what I expect he of the stubbled jaw to say that I laugh softly. ‘How’s what going?’

His grin is disarming and he obviously knows it. How could he not? His accent is huskier in real life—broad British that is more Midlands than Eton. It’s sexy AF.

‘Life. The universe. Your place in it.’

‘Ah. That sounds like a conversation more suited to Neil deGrasse Tyson’s living room.’

‘Want me to give him a call? See if he’s free?’

I roll my eyes. ‘Sure. You got him on speed dial or something?’

He lifts his phone out of his pocket. It’s an iPhone, I think, but it looks to be pure gold. Catching me looking, he seems almost embarrassed as he clarifies, ‘I get given them.’

At that moment, thank God, a waiter appears behind the bar. ‘What’ll it be?’

‘Vodka gimlet, gin and tonic and Prosecco.’

He nods and moves away, picking up where he of the smooth as caramel voice left off, singing the song softly as he mixes our drinks.

‘See?’

Ethan calls me back to him and he’s holding his phone so I can see the world’s most famous astrophysicist staring back at me.

‘You seriously know him?’

‘Sure. We did a charity thing together a year ago. Nice guy.’

I arch a brow. Am I really standing in a bar in SoHo talking to a veritable rock god superstar about a world-famous scientist?

‘I’m impressed.’

‘So am I. I think you’re the first girl I’ve met in a bar who outed herself as a science nerd.’

‘Your implication being that knowing who one of the most pre-eminent astrophysicists of our time is makes me a nerd? I would think that’s kind of mainstream knowledge.’

He shrugs. ‘Not in my experience.’

‘Ah. So maybe your experience is just...limited.’

The bartender returns with our drinks, and before I can hand my credit card over Ethan Sexier-than-Thou Ash slides his own across the bar.

‘Maybe it is.’

His eyes hold mine and my tummy lurches as though I’ve just driven at speed over the crest of a hill. I’m in free fall.

‘Don’t use his card,’ I say, my voice croaky as I drag my attention to the waiter behind the bar. ‘It’s my shout.’

‘You can get the next round.’ Ethan’s voice brooks no opposition and the bartender taps his card on the machine.

‘Next round?’ I arch a brow. ‘Meaning...?’

He leans closer. He smells amazing. Like salt and sand and sunshine all rolled into one.

‘Meaning these drinks are on me.’

He pulls back just far enough to grin at me while his eyes meet mine, green versus blue, and I am losing whatever battle it is we’re waging. Then his fingers lift up and press lightly to the back of my hand. Just for a second, but it’s enough. Heat spirals up my arm spreading goosebumps on my flesh and, mortifyingly, tensing my nipples. His eyes catch the reaction and my cheeks flush bright pink.

‘It was nice to meet you...?’

His question hangs in the air but I’m flummoxed. The way my body has reacted is strange. Unexpected.

‘You too.’

I deliberately don’t give him my name. Names are where the problems start.

I’m over Jeremy. I am.

If I ever see him again I think I could seriously find myself in a federal prison for life.

But the ghost of what we were...what he turned me into...is thick inside me. Always. I don’t remember the last time I looked in the mirror and didn’t see her. That woman. The woman he made me. The woman I came to loathe.

I fight the shudder. I’m not her any more. But it’s taken eight long months to claw my way back, and names are the beginning of forgetting that.

No names.

I lift the three drinks easily between my hands and give him one last smile without meeting his eyes before making my way back to the table.

Eliza and Cassie are staring at me, the former with a knowing smile and the latter with a dropped jaw.

‘You talked to him?’ Cassie squeaks in obvious disbelief.

‘He talked to me,’ I mumble, sliding their drinks across the table and looking guiltily towards the bar. He’s talking to someone else now. A guy. Is that who he came to meet? My heart drops. Does that mean he’ll be going soon?

‘He’s hot,’ Eliza pronounces. ‘Why the hell are you still sitting with us?’

I change the subject back to Cassie’s work situation, ignoring Eliza’s pointed stares and occasional jab beneath the table. But I drink quickly. Because I want to go back to the bar? Or because I need something to cool down my fevered blood?

Only it’s not working. My body is vibrating with a sensual need I haven’t felt in a long time. Heat is forming between my legs and I am so tempted to do something really stupid. Something I haven’t done in a long time.

Of their own accord, and definitely without my permission, my eyes shift towards him. He’s propped against the bar with glorious nonchalance, and he’s still chatting to the same guy, but his eyes are locked on me. He doesn’t try to hide it when I look up.

A thrill of something runs down my spine.

I’m so close to giving in to temptation, and that would be bad. Oh, it would be really good in some ways but...no. Bad. Definitely bad.

‘Okay, ladies,’ I murmur, pushing my almost finished drink aside and standing in one movement. ‘I’m going to head home.’

‘What?’ Eliza pulls a face. ‘Alone? Now? It’s so early!’

‘I know.’ I shrug. ‘But if I don’t go I think I’ll live to regret it.’

I wink at them, so that they can’t help but understand my meaning, and then blow each an air-kiss. There’s a slight tremble in my legs as I cut my way through the bar. Despite the fact we’re past the cut-off for free drinks it’s heaving busy now.

My body seems to be in silent rebellion of the decision I’ve made and is trying to make me change my mind. I don’t, though.

When I emerge from the bar’s air-conditioned comfort the night’s humidity crashes at me like a wave. But it’s nothing compared to the fever in my blood. I lift my hand, calling for a taxi, but it sails past.

‘Damn it.’

I begin to walk further down the sidewalk, my eyes scanning the street in both directions.

‘Hey.’

Though we’ve only spoken perhaps ten lines of dialogue to one another, his voice is imprinted in my mind. I recognise it instantly, even before I turn around.

‘Oh, hey.’ My heart is determinedly hammering against my chest.

‘You’re leaving already?’

When I frown my eyebrows draw together and I get a little line between them. I feel it form now.

‘Um... I’ve left, technically.’

‘Right. Where are you headed?’

‘Home,’ I say firmly, but my body rolls with the potential there. ‘Alone.’

It’s a defiant stop-sign and he laughs.

‘How about one last drink?’

One last drink. With Ethan all-your-dreams-come-true Ash. And then what? I’m already in serious danger of begging him to come home with me. And I suspect he would be incredible in bed. A good lover is one thing, but chemistry can’t be faked—and right now the chemistry bubbling between us is practically giving me an orgasm on the spot.

And don’t I want that?

Don’t I deserve that?

There’s been no one since Jeremy and I ache for what I think Ethan Ash could do to me. But then what? Am I really ready? How do you know when you are?

I shake my head slowly, not quite meeting his eyes. ‘I think that would be a bad idea.’ The words are thick, as though my mouth is coated in honey.

‘Go on. Live dangerously.’

His wink is the last word in delicious desire.

‘Are you dangerous?’ I ask.

‘I think I could be around you.’

There are cars zipping past and people moving quickly around us, and yet it is just him and me, and the air around us seems to throb with awareness and the heaviness of need.

A shiver runs down my spine, but it’s not a shiver of darkness or danger so much as one of anticipation. Oh, God. I’m done for.

‘Isn’t that a good reason to stay away?’ I say. My brain makes a valiant last-ditch effort to keep my decision in place.

‘Depends.’

He moves infinitesimally closer and I breathe in deeply, tasting his masculine fragrance and letting it roll through my blood.

‘On what?’

And then he does it again. Just the lightest touch on the back of my hand, but for longer this time, so that I have time to register the contact and enjoy the sensation of desire that resonates through my body.

‘On whether you like to live dangerously.’

‘Not generally,’ I respond quickly, my lips flicking with a tight smile.

‘That surprises me.’

‘Why? You don’t know anything about me.’

He drops his hand away. The absence of touch leaves me feeling bereft.

‘Don’t I?’

‘How could you? We just met.’

‘Mmm...’

God, just that single throaty sound of acknowledgement sends a riot tumbling through my veins.

‘I know you have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen.’

I’ve heard that line before. Why do men feel the need to compliment hair? Mine is striking more than beautiful, but I’ve long ago given up feeling self-conscious about the thick rust-coloured mane that was the bane of my middle school existence, when my white skin, freckled nose and fire-engine-red hair led to almost daily teasing.

Yes, I’ve heard the line before, but it’s never made my stomach flip like this. I’ve never believed the line.

Thanks to the pioneering efforts of Christina Hendricks, right around the time I was hitting college, I made a kind of peace with my peaches and cream complexion, voluptuous figure and rusty hair, but I still never bought the pick-up lines. The guys who told me they loved my curves and dimples.

How easy it is to ignore flattery! But there’s something in his eyes, his face and his voice that renders me incapable of being dismissive now.

‘I know that your eyes show me everything you’re feeling and that your skin is like salt-water pearls.’

My laugh is a hoarse sound in the swirling atmosphere of need. ‘That’s all very cheesy.’

It’s not. It’s really not. Maybe it’s the fact he writes and sings some of the most famous love songs of all time, but he can totally pull this off. This guy, and this guy alone, can make those lines sound like they’re being spoken for the first time ever.

His laugh answers mine, and I’m smiling even as I want to acquiesce to his flirtation and do as he bids—live dangerously.

‘Even if it’s true?’

My breath catches in my throat and I look away—straight into the curious eyes of a woman a few feet away. She’s studying us and her cell phone is in her hand.

Strange how quickly I have forgotten that Ethan Ash is a celebrity. Heat spreads through my cheeks and he follows my gaze, quickly assessing the reason for it. Now he touches me with more urgency, placing a hand in the small of my back and leading me further down the street.

‘So?’

‘So what?’

I toss a look over my shoulder. The woman is still there, cell phone still in hand. Busybody! I guess this is par for the course for him, but I can’t imagine that. Being watched and observed all the time. Having people think they have a right to pry into your life, crack the lid off it whenever it suits them. No thanks.

‘Want to take a walk on the wild side?’

‘I...’ My footing stumbles a little as my eyes skid to his and all sense of gravity and order tips off balance. ‘I’m not sure.’

I look away.

‘How about we start with your name and you can make your mind up over a quiet drink?’

‘I...’

I’m struck dumb. I don’t think that’s ever happened to me in my whole life. Acknowledging that brings a smile to my face.

‘I think I’d like that.’

His smile shines bright light and heat into every microscopic corner of my world.

‘Then let’s get going.’

CHAPTER TWO

WE’RE SHEPHERDED INTO the obviously incredibly exclusive bar with a degree of fanfare that might make even the Queen of England envious. At the bar around the corner from our flat, with its neon lights and pumping songs, it was easy to miss the degree of Ethan Ash’s celebrity. Not to ignore the fact that he’s unique and different and special, but that these are qualities he has independent of his fame.

Here the deference is marked and reverent, his celebrity obvious and noteworthy. He is treated like the Second Coming, and some of that glory deflects nicely on to me, as his obvious companion.

And it is obvious. He kept his hand in the small of my back the whole way here, and he stays close by me as we weave our way through the establishment. I like him being close.

Close enough that I can smell his fragrance and enjoy his warmth.

Close enough that I can slip into the fantasy of what it would be like—will be like?—to touch his body all over. To kiss him. To taste him.

I stifle a groan, dipping my head forward to hide the liquid desire that is taking over my body. Desire is unexpected and yet it is welcome. After Jeremy I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel it again.

‘Here?’

He nods towards a cosy booth seat and every cell in my body ratchets up with awareness. Of him, of me, of the intimacy of that booth.

I nod slowly, then slide in ahead of him. ‘Do you come here often?’

He shakes his head. ‘Nah, not really my scene.’

‘That’s interesting. It’s very much my scene.’ I wink at him. ‘At least more so than the place we were in before.’

‘Yeah, you were a bit of a fish out of water there.’

‘Really?’ I wrinkle my nose. ‘Why do you say that?’

He shrugs. ‘Gin and tonic?’

It takes me a second to realise he’s asking me a question—what kind of drink I want. A second longer to realise that he knows my regular drink.

‘How did you...?’

‘You ordered it right in front of me.’

‘I also ordered a Prosecco and a vodka gimlet.’

‘But you gave those to your friends.’

The certainty that he’s been watching me oozes pleasure over my skin. I think he knows, because his smile hints at the same kind of pleasure reverberating inside him. Heat is a burst between us.

‘So I did.’ I lean forward conspiratorially. ‘You’re not some kind of stalker, are you?’

His laugh is heaven. ‘Not until the last hour or so.’

More pleasure. His compliments are doing everything they should, and even though I’d like to think I’m genuinely hard to impress—thank you, Jeremy—I feel myself soften towards him.

Curiosity is as rampant in my body as desire. ‘So,’ I say, leaning in closer towards him. ‘What’s your name?’

For a second I have him fooled. Surprise etches across his face and then he bursts out laughing.

‘What?’ I continue the charade, my eyes wide, expression droll. ‘Why is that funny?’

He sobers. ‘It’s not.’ He clears his throat. ‘I’m... Christopher Smith.’

A smile tickles my lips. ‘Pleased to meet you, Christopher Smith.’

I wonder how often Ethan Ash gets hit on by girls who are more drawn in by his rock god status than anything else? I wonder if that makes him cynical about women? Or if it makes him think he’s God’s gift? In my case, I’m definitely not doing anything to disabuse him of that notion. In fact I seriously suspect that if God did gift women a man purely for pleasure it would be this guy.

But, hang on. He’s hot, sure, and he has the voice of a husky alpha-angel—but he could be awful in bed, right?

The thought brings a frown to my face. Isn’t there some rule of thumb about that? The really gorgeous guys don’t have to work for it so they never learn to be good? Am I going to test that theory with Ethan one-look-will-melt-your-panties-off Ash?

I shift a little in the seat. Our knees brush beneath the table and I suck in a sharp breath. Apparently I am.

He catches the involuntary gesture and his smile is sensual. ‘You’re nervous?’

I don’t know if I’m nervous or surprised. This juggernaut has picked me up and it’s dragging me along with it, and I feel a strange disconnect with my own autonomy. ‘Maybe.’

He lifts a hand in the air without taking his attention from my face. ‘Because of me?’

I shake my head, biting down on my lip. His eyes roam my face like it’s a continent he must conquer. He sees everything.

The sense of familiarity is as overwhelming as it is bizarre. I’m sitting in a booth with a bona fide rock star. I should feel strange, but I don’t. It all feels so right.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Ally.’

‘Ally.’

He rolls it around his mouth as if tasting the two symbols. His accent is even hotter when he’s saying my name. He makes the A sound like a sigh...‘Ah’.

‘Is that short for something?’

I nod.

‘Gonna make me guess?’

I grin, and my eyes lift as a waitress approaches, her pale blonde hair pulled into a braid that wraps around her head like a crown.

‘Good evening. Here are some menus.’ She places two dark books on the tabletop. ‘Can I get you a drink to start?’

Ethan turns away to address the waitress. He orders a beer and a gin and tonic, then adds some onion rings for good measure. In profile, he’s fascinating. I hadn’t noticed until then the bump halfway down his nose that speaks, presumably, of it having been broken at some point in his life. In an accident? Or a fight?

Goosebumps dance down my spine as I imagine the rather sexy image of Ethan Ash in a fist-fight with someone. He’d be a good fighter. Not prone to aggression, I’d bet, but definitely able to take care of himself.

Wow. I didn’t even know that I found that kind of thing attractive.

‘Alexandra?’ he says as he spins back to me.

I don’t instantly understand what he’s saying, and then I realise. He’s guessing my full name.

‘No.’

‘Hmm...’ A low, gruff growl.

Help me, Jesus, I am about to sin.

Beneath the table his fingers find my knee and he strums it like a guitar, gently lashing his fingers over my flesh so that my breath is raspy.

‘Do I get a penalty?’

‘Definitely.’

‘And what would that be?’

I tilt my head to the side, my eyes dancing with amusement even as desire makes my lids heavy.

‘Every time you get it wrong,’ I say, after a long beat of silence has stretched between us, ‘I get to ask you anything I want.’

He lifts his brows skyward. ‘Sure. Sounds fair. So, what do you want to know?’

Great question. What do I want to know? ‘How does everything sound?’

He laughs. ‘“Everything” could take a while. There’s twenty-eight years to cover.’

‘Let’s start with what brings you to the Big Old Apple?’

‘A gig. And recording.’

‘An album?’

He shakes his head and leans closer, so that his words whisper gently across my cheek.

‘That’s a separate question.’

‘No fair!’

I lift a hand to playfully push at his chest, except the moment my fingers connect with his warm strength no pushing occurs. I hold my hand against him, my eyes meet his, and I feel like I’m sinking hard and fast, with no hope of saving myself.

‘Alita?’

I shake my head and dredge up a smile, but it feels heavy on my face because it has to wade through all the desire that’s chewing my insides up.

‘You’re recording an album?’

‘Sorta.’

‘What does “sorta” mean?’

He shifts his body a little, bringing himself closer to me. ‘I’m tinkering. Sketching.’

‘Sketching?’

‘You know... Getting a feel for some new stuff. Working on pieces.’

‘You do that in a recording studio?’

‘Sometimes.’ He shrugs.

My hand feels the ripple of his muscles and my gut clenches correspondingly.

‘And you snuck an extra question in there. Don’t think I didn’t notice.’

‘Uh-huh. I’m very sneaky.’

‘I like sneaky.’

His head dips closer. My breath is burning through me.

‘Alena?’

When I shake my head this time it brings me closer. Our lips are barely an inch apart and my hand is still on his chest, my fingertips teasing the soft fabric of his shirt. Up close, his scent is intoxicating.

‘What’s your question?’

My brain is thick and woolly. I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him so badly that I can phantom-feel his lips on mine already.

What if he’s a terrible kisser?

My eyes drop to his lips, assessing the possibility of that.

No.

He won’t be.

I’m sure of it.

‘Don’t have one, huh?’ he teases.

A noise cracks us apart. I blink, like I’m waking from a dream. The waitress has placed our drinks on the tabletop and then a basket of onion rings. It’s surprisingly sweet that he ordered something so pedestrian. Had I expected he’d ask for caviar-dressed lobster?

‘What’s it like? Being famous?’

His expression shows surprise. He wasn’t expecting that.

‘You’re the first person to ask me that,’ he muses, drawing the foam top off his beer in a way that is so absolutely masculine my knees knock with feminine heat.

‘Really?’ I sound normal. That’s good. ‘You weren’t born famous. It must be a bit weird.’

‘Weird’s a good word for it.’ He shrugs. ‘I don’t notice so much now. But at first...’

‘You were...how old? When your first record came out?’

‘I didn’t release a record at first. I was big on YouTube before any of the labels came knocking.’

‘So you’ve been doing this a really long time?’

He reaches for an onion ring, crunches it. ‘I was sixteen when I topped the UK charts.’

I’m impressed—obviously. All the more so because he says it without a hint of arrogance. It’s just a fact, one he’s accepted as a part of the fabric of his story, so that he says it without realising what a huge deal it is.

‘Do you like it?’

‘Music?’

‘Fame,’ I correct, sipping my drink.

‘Nah. It’s shit.’

I laugh—it’s not what I was expecting him to say at all. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’ He grins. ‘You get used to it, but at first it’s like being on a different planet. I’ll never forget the first time I opened my front door to a throng of paparazzi. It was madness. I was still living at home—we had to move to a gated community with security fences and cameras. I can’t get over how fascinated people are by the minutiae of my life. Of anyone else’s life. I once had a busboy sell the cutlery I’d used for lunch on eBay.’

I pull a face, barely able to imagine the invasiveness of that.

‘But the music...’

He grins and my heart flops.

‘I live for it, you know? Always have.’

And he begins to hum, something low and deep, and he moves closer to me again, propping an elbow on the table to form a sort of cage around me. He is big and I’m not. I’ve always been little, but in the circle created by his arms I feel something I’ve never felt before. I feel safe.

Safe?

From what?

It’s a stupid, errant thought. After all, whatever’s happening between us is possibly the most danger I’ve been in. Even with the guys I was with before Jeremy it was never like this. I was in control. Always.

Ethan when-is-he-going-to-kiss-me? Ash is definitely not eating out of the palm of my hands. Yet.

A need to grasp control out of his hands spins through me. I reach up and curl my fingers around his shirt, so that I can pull him closer still, and then I brush my lips to his so that I feel the notes rather than just hear them. If possible, his voice tastes even better than it sounds.

‘Alison?’ he says against my lips.

I shake my head.

‘Do you have a question for me?’

I’m at a crossroad. Past, future and present swirl around me. Need, want, right and wrong. These are all voices and forces throbbing in my head. But one voice is loudest of all.

Desire shouts through me.

‘Can we go yet?’

* * *

Every time I question the wisdom of this I think of the freaking Tweet. #soinlove

Sienna’s moved on. Why the hell shouldn’t I have some fun too?

Something squeezes inside me and my past with Sienna flashes before me. The years we spent together. The way we came through the industry together. I get her and she gets me. It damned near killed me when we broke up. Only her promise that it was temporary eased that pain.

And now she’s fucking engaged to another guy.

A new sense of urgency powers my intent.

‘Hell, yeah. Let’s get out of here.’

I drain my beer, noticing she’s hardly touched her drink. I nod towards it but she shakes her head.

‘I’m okay.’

She’s better than okay. Briefly I feel a wave of guilt. To Sienna. To Ally. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’m not thinking one hundred percent clearly, but my instincts are telling me to go with this—or is that my cock?—and I’m not going to ignore them.

‘Let’s go.’

I hold my hand out and she places her palm in mind. Her hand’s small, and yet it fits into mine perfectly. I stand and pull her closer to me as I do. She smells like vanilla and moonlight.

Someone’s tipped the press off as to my whereabouts, so that when we step out of the club there’s flashes everywhere. Ally’s surprised. She’s not used to fame and its pointed intrusion. I pull her closer to my chest. The desire to protect her is instinctive. I don’t want her being collateral damage in all of this.

I hail a cab and it stops instantly. I hold the door open for her and she slips inside, a blur of pale skin, bright blue eyes and long red hair. I follow, moving close to her in the back of the cab.

I hear every single one of Ally’s rushed breaths echo inside my soul.

I give the driver my hotel address and then I turn to Ally. I don’t know what I’m going to say to her. Thoughts fly from my head at the sight of her huge wide eyes and parted lips.

Fuck it.

I want her.

I kiss her as though my life depends on it. I kiss her with an aching hunger and desperation that surprises us both.

Or maybe it doesn’t—because it’s exactly how she kisses me back.

CHAPTER THREE

IS IT POSSIBLE to pass out from pleasure? I know that’s generally the body’s response to painful stimuli, but is it possible to be so turned on that the pleasure almost becomes pain? I’ve never had sex in a cab, but if this drive takes any longer I’m going to do just that.

His hand is on my thigh and his tongue is tangled with mine, his lips move over mine and I am melting into the leather of the seat. Desire is like a volcano in my core, bursting with lava-like heat. He runs his fingers higher, confidently, firmly, until he reaches the lace of my thong. He pads his fingertips across me there and I groan into his mouth, my fingers lifting to knot into his thick hair, my body weak and strong all at once.

He removes his hand from between my legs and his desertion is a wave that flushes me with ice. I grind my hips impatiently and make a whimpering sound as his flat palm drags up my body, over the softness of my clothes to the curves of my breast. He rolls his hand across me as though I am an object and he its owner. His touch sends spirals of fire deep into my body, affecting me on a cellular level.

I make a gurgling sound and laugh, pushing up to kiss him harder, to let my breasts flatten his hand between us. We are wedged together and my hands are curled around his neck and, God, he tastes and feels amazing. Better than amazing.

Finally the cab pulls to a stop and I am flushed with relief—until I realise it’s a stop sign.

‘You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,’ he snaps, his brow furrowed as he shoots an impatient look through the glass of his windscreen.

He feels it too, then. This need that is reverberating through the back of the cab somewhere in the middle of Park Avenue. It makes me feel inexplicably relieved, knowing that I’m not the only one out here on this limb.

He turns to look at me and I laugh at the bewilderment on his features.

‘I swear to God, if this takes much longer...’

I totally get it. Hadn’t I just been thinking the same thing?

I swallow, trying to bring moisture back into my parched mouth. My hand is still on his chest; I can feel the rapid beating of his heart. Thump, thump, thump.

Craning my head around, I can just make out the street sign that shows we’re on the corner of Park Avenue and East Twenty-Second. ‘You said the Gramercy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s like a block away. Let’s walk.’

He arches a brow, and heat simmers through me as he reaches forward and taps on the glass.

‘We’ll get out here.’

He tosses some money through the window and winks at me, opening the door and stepping out so that he can hold it wide for me. I follow, my foot landing on the pavement for the briefest moment before his arm wraps around my waist and draws me to him.

I don’t think the cab has even driven off before his lips are back on mine, with renewed intensity and urgency. His body is strong and he pushes me easily, guiding me to the sandstone wall of some building. It’s cold and hard behind me, and he’s hard and hot against me, his body all angles and planes and thick strong legs surrounding me, holding me still as he grinds against me. His arms are my cage and, oh, the sweetness of being trapped by him!

His mouth holds my head to the wall and I devour him as he devours me, my hands curling around his back to find the waistband of his jeans. I slide my fingers beneath his shirt, groaning as warm skin rewards my seeking. It’s so soft and smooth beneath me. I draw my fingertips on a slow exploration higher, along the ridges of his spine and then to his sides, to hips that are carved and firm.

‘Fuuuuck...’

He groans into my mouth, wrenching his head away—and it is a wrench. Every line of his body speaks to that. It is as though he’s had to fight his way through quicksand just to find space between us.

Maybe it’s the whole rock star thing. Maybe it makes him sexier than mortals. I don’t know. This is so not normal, though. Is it for him?

‘I need to get you to my hotel. Now.’

I nod, not even bothering to argue with him. But there’s a frown between his eyes, just like I always get.

I lift my finger to it, absentmindedly exploring the groove. ‘What’s wrong?’

The line deepens. He has a dimple in his cheek and when he frowns it’s deliciously seductive.

‘Nothing. I...’ And then he shakes his head, steps back, reaches for my hand.

We’ve just been simulating sex with our clothes on, and yet there is something bizarrely intimate about the simple act of lacing our fingers together. His, mine, his, mine, his, mine—in and out, they are woven together, and it’s a new kind of coming together.

‘Let’s go.’

I nod, not sure I’m capable of speech anyway.

After a few paces he looks at me with an almost embarrassed grin. ‘You look like you’ve been thoroughly felt up.’

‘Felt up?’ I laugh. ‘I guess I have been, now that you mention it.’

He squeezes my hand and I lift my other hand to run it over my hair. Always difficult to contain, it is beyond wild now. His fingers have done that. The knowledge makes my tummy flip.

‘Sooo...’ he says on a laugh. A husky laugh. ‘This isn’t how I thought my night would be going down.’

I don’t know if it’s an intentional double entendre but I have an instant image of him doing just that—going down on me—in my mind, and my face heats up.

Unknowingly, I quicken my step. ‘You and me both,’ I hear myself respond, hugely impressed at my ability to sound almost normal.

‘What were your plans tonight?’

‘Drinks with the girls.’ I shrug. ‘Then home by ten to catch up on Poldark and do a face mask.’

He pulls a face.

‘What? You don’t approve?’

‘Of Poldark? It’s something my mother watches.’

‘Mmm... Her and every other red-blooded woman on the planet.’

‘Seriously?’

He squeezes my hand again. I love the way that feels. Like he’s reaching right into my heart and giving it a little paddle with electricity.

‘Uh, yeah. Poldark is awesome. Hot, hot, hot. You should watch it.’

‘After that recommendation? How could I not?’

We stop at an intersection and traffic moves through it, too thick for us to go against the lights. And so we wait.

The night is balmy—I love New York nights like this.

‘Yeah. Summer’s got something going for it.’

I hadn’t realised I’d spoken aloud until he answered my observation. He pulls my hand, so that I bump closer to him. I love the way he smells. The way he feels. A shiver of something a bit like apprehension runs down my spine but I refuse to analyse it. The problem is, though, I’m really not this girl any more. I used to be able to just roll with the night...have fun without taking a second to think about the consequences.

When, exactly, did I grow out of that?

I remember learning to drive and my dad telling me that young people always think they’re invincible. I guess it’s true. It’s so easy to believe that nothing will happen—nothing will go wrong.

And nothing has gone wrong for me, yet caution has set into my bones along with age. At twenty-five I am less able to ignore the paths before me, and I wonder which this night will lead to.

After we’ve slept together—then what? Do I stay the night? Or creep out while he sleeps? If I stay, do we have breakfast together?

And then...?

Do I give him my number and wonder if Ethan I-have-won-a-million-Grammys Ash will call me? Worse, do I take his number and then call him? Agonising over what to say and whether he wants to see me again?

‘So, Alesandre, when you’re not being impossibly sexy in tacky bars what do you do with yourself?’

‘Alesandre is just the Italian version of Alexandra, you know.’

‘Mmm. So that’s a no. Altona?’

I laugh and shake my head. The lights switch to green and we move across the street, each as swiftly as the other, our mutual anxiety to be in privacy barrelling towards us.

‘My flatmates chose the venue.’ I wrinkle my nose. ‘They like it.’

They like the prices, really, but loyalty keeps me quiet on that score. Cassie’s a Broadway actress, but roles are few and far between and she’s forever auditioning and waiting for her big break. She’s an incredible performer, though—I have no doubt she’ll hit it big. Eliza is a primary school teacher, and while she works hard she seems to spend almost her entire salary on stuff for her students. New supplies, craft projects, science experiments...

Maybe if she didn’t insist on doing that we’d be able to drink in slightly more salubrious accommodations.

‘You’re not from New York?’

‘How can you tell?’ I look up at him, surprise obvious on my face.

He draws us to a slow stop just before moving down East Twenty-Second. ‘Your accent.’

‘You can pick up on that?’

He grins. ‘Is that weird?’

I bite down on my lip to stop myself groaning at how damned sexy the twist of his lips is. Ahead of us, the retro light installation above the Gramercy Park Hotel leads a path to our immediate future. Beneath it there’s a huddle of people. I’m not sure, at first, why they’re just standing there—and then I make out the shape of a long-lens camera.

‘There’s paparazzi at your hotel.’ My eyes lift to his face.

A muscle throbs against his jaw, like he’s clenching his teeth or thinking dark thoughts. My insides clench.

‘You go ahead of me,’ he says.

‘Will that work?’

He looks at me for a long moment and then nods. ‘Yeah. Wait for me at the lifts inside.’

It’s easy enough for me to slip past the paparazzi. One photographer lifts his camera and holds it poised at my face. But then, when he sees through the lens that I am nobody, he drops it once more.

I am glad I am nobody.

I am glad I am not her.

The woman who ruined a family.

Guilt sledges through me.

Ethan Ash isn’t Jeremy, and this isn’t a big deal.

It’s just...sex. Fun. Easy. Nothing serious.

Nonetheless, my heart palpitates furiously as I turn and look over my shoulder, catching sight of him as he saunters—yes, saunters—across the street, hands in the pockets of his well-worn jeans, head tilted at an angle that shows the hard lines of his face.

Desire whips me.

I move quickly across the foyer, wanting to be well beyond the paparazzi’s point of interest by the time Ethan joins me. I catch a brief impression of sumptuous red carpet, black and white tiles, enormous crystal chandeliers, animal skins and a fire that would, in winter, create warmth and cosiness with stunning ease.

The elevators are simply shining doors submerged behind wood panelling. I wait beside them, staring straight ahead. I hear the rush of lenses clicking and buttons being pressed and I don’t look. There’s the rustle of a doorman moving outside, and then he is beside me, his finger jabbing at the button of the lift with obvious impatience. We don’t look at one another.

After only a few seconds, the doors ping open. It’s empty.

We step in and Ethan swipes a key card before pressing one of the old-fashioned radio buttons on the panel. It whooshes upwards and my tummy whooshes with it.

I have never wanted a guy this badly.

The atmosphere is heavy with that feeling, that need. It practically hums around us, so that it takes every ounce of my willpower not to press the stop button and beg him to fuck me then and there.

I dig my nails into my palms as extra insurance.

The doors ping open—finally—and even as we step out of the lift he’s reaching for me. Now, in the privacy of the hotel corridor, he lifts me off the ground, his arms tight around my waist as his mouth moves over mine, and he walks like I weigh nothing, and carrying me is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. His lips are punishing and I am submissive, taking the kiss, begging for more even as my legs lift, needing greater purchase, more intimacy, closeness—everything.

I wrap them around him and groan as I hear the unmistakable tearing of my skirt—which was definitely not designed to be spread-eagled around a rock star’s waist. Whoops. Somewhere in my mind I discover another consequential path of this coming together—some makeshift outfit assembly will be required in order for me to get home, whenever it is I do go home.

Without releasing his grip, without lifting his lips, he fumbles the key card against the door. The first time is unsuccessful and he swears into my mouth as the door remains resolutely closed. Second time it springs open and we burst through it. The door slams shut and Ethan drops the key card to the floor like litter, striding deeper into the suite.

I have a brief impression of more luxury, more red, more chandeliers made of beaded crystal—and an enormous bed that is like an oasis in the midst of a never-ending desert. But he turns sharply, propping me against a table instead.

The second my butt connects with the tabletop his hands reach for my blouse and he pulls at it, ripping every single button so that they pop and fly across the room like angry little witnesses to my thwarted needs.

It’s a damned nice blouse—one of my favourites—but I don’t bemoan its demise. I am as eager as he is to be naked and touching all over. I arch my back as he pushes the fabric down my arms, his fingers tracing my flesh as he frees me of the garment before they lift higher, finding my bra. He traces a thumb over the lace and I swear I whimper as though I’m about to come. I think I am about to come.

My eyes skittle to his face, shock in all my features. He understands. I know he does. He curves his hands around my butt and drags me to the edge of the table, so that I can feel the hard, aching heat of his cock through the fabric of his jeans, straining at it, practically breaking it. My fingers seek it—seek him. They fumble at his button and then a noise of triumph erupts from my lips as I find the zip and push it downwards.

But he’s moving, pushing at my bra, freeing my breasts in one moment and claiming them with his mouth the next. His tongue lashes my nipple as his fingers roll the other, and his dick grinds against me through the fabric of our clothes.

Perspiration sheens my skin. I lift my fingers from his jeans, from their futile mission of cock-hunting, and curl them around his hips instead, digging my nails into him, lifting my feet to the edges of the table and crying out as his teeth press into my nipple with enough pressure to make me see stars.

I’m at the edge of the world. Ethan’s there too, but I’m the one who’s stepping off...who’s being flung off! I dig my nails in harder and he rolls his mouth to my other breast, bringing his fingers to tease where his teeth have just been. It’s too much. The sensations and juxtapositions. The heat of his mouth and the coldness of the air-conditioned hotel room. The softness of his fingertips and the hurt of his teeth.

I cry out loudly as an orgasm crashes over me, sucking me under, rendering me the opposite of mute. I am loud and I am desperate and I have no grasp of control. No grasp of time, space or date either, to be honest. If you’d asked me where I was, I would have needed a shot of black coffee to wake up and remember.

I am doused in more sensations than I was even aware existed and yet I’m not done. He’s not done. This is just the beginning.

‘I want to fuck you.’

‘Isn’t that what you’re doing?’ I smile up at him, my body singing.

‘Hell, yeah.’

He pulls at my butt, jerking me closer to him, and then he rolls his cock against me so that I cry out again.

‘Please, Ethan...’ I groan hungrily.

Apparently he doesn’t need to be asked twice. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, then slides a condom from within its folds.

There is a small part of me that is consciously cheering what is about to happen—unlike my body, which is so in the moment. This isn’t just sex. It isn’t just relief. It’s release—it’s an exorcism. I am going to fuck another man, and with every moment and motion I am going to blot Jeremy further from my mind.

I am going to reduce his importance in my life.

With sex.

‘I’ve never been happier to see a little foil square.’ I grin, reaching for it. ‘Now. Let me see what I’m dealing with here.’

His grin is like warm treacle on a hot day. ‘You’re mighty impatient... Alicia.’

Hearing him say my real name is the biggest turn-on yet. And that’s saying something.

My eyes meet his and he knows.

‘Alicia.’

Even better than Ally. My name tastes wonderful on his mouth. He pushes at his jeans and I take over, sliding my hands into his grey cotton boxers, feeling the curve of his ass—of course it’s a fantastic ass. I hold his eyes as I bring my hands to the front, feeling for his long, hard dick. As I enclose it in my fist, wrapping my hand around it hungrily, he lets out a hoarse groan.

‘How do you feel about being fucked fast?’

His laugh is borderline apologetic, and there’s a vulnerability that makes me ache for more than just this. But only for a moment.

‘I feel really, really good about that.’

I rip the top off the condom with my teeth and then slide it over him as he steps out of his jeans. For a moment I wonder at his size—I haven’t slept with anyone in a really long time. Is it possible I’ve forgotten that dicks do this when they’re hard? But it’s big. Really big. And beautiful.

A shiver swirls through me. He pushes his shirt off impatiently and then he’s lifting me up once more, carrying me against his chest, cradling me, into the bedroom. He throws me on the bed and reaches for the remains of my skirt, tearing it off me and then pulling my thong down my legs.

It’s not slow, like he was with the bra. His hands graze my legs, my calves, my thighs, but that’s accidental. He needs me now as much as I need him. There’s no sense denying it. No sense in pretending.

As he brings himself over me I push my palm against his chest, knocking him so that he is on his side, next to me, and we’re face to face. I kiss him as I hitch my leg over his hip, and then push up on my knee so that I’m straddling him.

I don’t know why having control is important to me, but I suppose if I had to analyse it I would probably say that I feel so utterly out of my depth in what I’m feeling that I need something to make me have a sense of agency.

Choice is my agency, though, and I choose this. I choose to move on. I choose to forget. I choose not to let Jeremy make me cower any more. I choose all of what we’re doing.

And my choice has nothing to do with anything other than desire and need and everything to do with Ethan Ash and me—Alicia Douglas.

We are two chemicals, mixing together, swirling, swarming and about to explode.

‘Fuck me,’ I whisper as I lift up and lower myself over him, taking his length deep inside me slowly, letting my muscles adjust to this strange newness. To his size and his needs.

I almost can’t bear the perfection of that moment. The haunting rightness.

He lets out a long, slow grunt and his fingers dig into my hips. He holds me down, low on his length, and he throbs, pulses. I feel every jerk of his desire deep inside me. I hold my breath, chewing on my lip as my nerve-endings quiver in response. His cock is whispering secrets within me and my body is listening intently.

It’s but a moment. A magical moment. And then he’s moving, holding my hips low as he thrusts, his abs rippling with each movement. I drop lower, my mouth chasing each ridge of his chest, my tongue flicking his hair-roughened nipples, my body pressed against his.

His fingers roam my flesh again, like an object, like he owns me, and I love the feeling of being owned by him. I roll my hips and he swears, moving his hands to hold my face, dragging me up to his mouth, to kiss me. And he pushes up, flipping me onto my back while barely breaking the kiss.

Oh, God. It’s bone-meltingly perfect. Like this, he is deep, so deep, and he thrusts harder and faster and his tongue echoes the movements. I lift my legs and his hands grab my ankles, pushing them higher, moving them over his shoulders so that he has complete access to me. It breaks the kiss but I don’t care, because now his lips are moving over my leg, and every thrust is waving me on, nearer to explosive release.

I dig my fingers into his shoulders and there it is!

I cry out as the orgasm shreds me, my hand lifting to his chest to still him, to implore him to wait, so that I am able to feel every tremor of the earthquake he’s created. He knows. He waits. He is patient. The only sound in the room is that of his breathing, loud and hoarse, his control almost at breaking point. But he watches me, watches the effect of pleasure on my face, my skin, and then, when he knows—because he knows me—that I can take it again, he moves once more, slowly at first, letting new sensations build up, before he drops my legs back to the bed and brings his mouth to my mouth, kissing me, making me groan under the weight of the rightness of that moment.

The next time I come it’s with him. We are both on the edge of the cliff, stepping off it together. My fingers seek his and I lace them together again, and that act of intimacy means everything and nothing as our bodies sing in unison.

We are entwined. Him, me, and the luxury of the Park View Suite. I fear that I am lost. Or is that I’m found?

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