CHAPTER SEVEN
‘WHO THE FUCK is she?’
I’m groggy, and it takes me a second even to recognise it’s Sienna’s voice coming from my phone.
‘Who is who?’ I rub a hand over my eyes and then flop back on the bed. ‘Sienna, it’s five o’clock in the morning.’
‘Who is the woman you’re with?’
I think of Ally instantly and flip over, reaching for her on autopilot. She’s not there. Of course she isn’t.
No sleepovers.
‘What woman?’
‘Oh, I’m sure there’s a billion. I’m talking about the one on all the gossip sites today. With the red hair.’
The photo. Taken the night we hooked up. It’s online?
Curiosity has me putting my phone on speaker, so that I can load up a browser without cutting Sienna off.
‘Are you kidding me? You’re engaged. Why the hell do you care who I’m fucking?’
Sienna’s sharp intake of breath is audible. ‘So you are fucking her?’
Bingo. My gut clenches. You can’t see Ally’s face but it’s obviously her. There’s something so elegant about her, even in the paparazzi shot. Her long hair is tossed over one shoulder and her face is averted. My hand is clutched possessively around her.
My eyes narrow. ‘Yeah. You’d better believe I am.’
‘Jeez, Ash. Classy.’
‘You can talk! You didn’t think you owed me a heads-up before you Tweeted the whole goddamned world with your engagement news?’
She’s quiet. I wonder if she’s feeling guilty and then discount it. Sienna is selfish. Singularly so.
‘I shouldn’t have done that.’
It’s something. But it’s not enough. This typifies our relationship. Her spectacularly bad behaviour followed by an almost-apology. Always insufficient, and yet I always let her get away with that.
Not any more.
‘Damn straight. What were you thinking?’
‘We’d had a few bottles of Bolly,’ she murmurs. ‘I don’t think I really was thinking. Anyway, you’re no better.’
‘Because I’m sleeping with someone else? In the privacy of my hotel?’
‘Oh, don’t expect me to believe it’s just one girl. I’ve seen the way they chase after you. I imagine you’re engaged in nightly orgies by now.’
I laugh. ‘If that’s what you want to imagine me doing, go right ahead.’
An orgy would have nothing on what Ally offers.
I lie back against the pillows and close my eyes. I remember the way she went down on me, her huge eyes looking up at me. My dick clenches.
‘You’re such a bastard...’ Sienna sniffs.
‘Yeah, well, just as well you don’t have to put up with me any more.’
I disconnect the call and toss my phone aside. It’s far more fun to imagine Ally’s lips around my cock than it is to argue with Sienna.
But the conversation has unsettled me. Our break-up was bad. No—it was so much worse than that.
I have vague recollections of Sienna pitching a crystal vase at me as she shouted, and I remember saying awful things to her. Things I regret.
We were both so angry.
We were both aware that we’d been holding on to something that had at one time been good, but that had soured slowly. As if poison had been dripping into our relationship for years and we didn’t want to acknowledge it.
Our final fight was proof of that.
There had been no love left.
I regret the way we ended it. Most of the time we were together it was okay, even good, and we knew each other in a unique way, both having gone from normality to immense fame almost overnight.
Which means we should have known better than to take our fight into the street. Well, that was Sienna, actually, storming out in the middle of the afternoon, mascara running down her cheeks, bare feet, shouting at me as though the world needed to know our issues.
Yeah, the break-up had been shit.
I get up and pull on some boxers, moving to my guitar on autopilot and staring out at Manhattan.
Things with Sienna are messed up, but that’s okay. Because what I’ve got going with Ally is just perfect for where I’m at. Fucking someone normal and undemanding. Someone who seems even less interested in the whole romantic dating bullshit than I am.
No flowers.
No dating.
Just sex.
With a reassuring end-date that takes all the Where are we going? crap out of the equation.
Suddenly I’m as impatient as all hell to see her.
So, I’ve been thinking...
I send the text to Ally with a smile on my face, not expecting to hear back. It’s so early she’s probably still fast asleep.
The idea fills my imagination very pleasantly.
I place my phone down on the coffee table, beside my bare feet, and reach for my guitar. It’s never far from me when I’m working on new songs, and I’ve been doing that for a month in earnest.
I begin to strum, and all I can think of is her smile.
Ally.
Her name whooshes out of me. I lean forward and scrawl lyrics in my own particular brand of can’t-be-fucked shorthand that will only ever be decipherable to me, note the chords, then lean back and stare out of the window, singing the lines over and again.
My phone buzzes.
Just in general? Or about something specific. Because I think you should be worried if you’re ever *not* thinking.
She puts a little kiss emoji at the end and it reminds me so much of her that my grin threatens to split my face.
Oh, my thoughts are very, very specific.
Three little dots appear, to show that she’s typing back, but then they disappear again. I grin, put the phone down and return to my guitar, continue playing. But after ten minutes, when she hasn’t replied, I’m impatient to hear from her.
I pick the phone up and am about to start typing when a message swishes onto the screen.
Specifically...?
I laugh.
Ten minutes for one word? Seriously?
Her dots move frantically.
Are you literally standing by your phone waiting for me to reply?
Everything inside me tightens. This is fun. The kind of fun I haven’t had in...years?
I think of Sienna with guilt. When did I stop finding her fun? Or is that normal after you’ve known someone a really long time?
Yep. Aren’t you?
I stare out of the window, waiting for her to reply. It doesn’t take long.
My prayers are answered. She’s sent a photo of herself, a smiling photo taken as she...runs? Is she running? I pinch the picture. It looks to be a park somewhere. She has earphones in and a cap pulled low.
Even like this, with no make-up, her face pink from exertion, she is so beautiful. I ache for her.
Nice. How about you run my way next?
I briefly question the wisdom of such an obvious bootie call but her response is immediate.
I’ll be there in ten.
Thank fuck.
* * *
Ethan Ash doesn’t walk. He saunters. He saunters like the rock ’n’ roll sex god he truly is.
I watch him from my vantage point on the other side of the foyer of the Gramercy Park Hotel, and every sauntering sexy step he takes makes my temperature heat and my blood boil, so that by the time he stops in front of me I am a hot puddle of lava on the expensive leather seat.
‘Hey, you.’
‘Jesus. It should be illegal to be that sexy.’
He bursts out laughing and I fear I’m crab-pink all over, colour heating my cheeks all the way to my hairline as I realise I’ve said the words out loud. I briefly question the sense in coming to him like this—straight from a run. Should I have gone home and showered first? Done my hair and make-up?
He sobers, taking pity on me. And he leans down. ‘Right back atcha.’
The kiss he presses against my cheek is chaste. My body doesn’t get the memo, though, and every single cell inside me seems to vibrate and tremble and squeal in anticipation. With his lips beside my ear he whispers, the words husky, ‘You in Lycra is something I’m never gonna forget.’
Desire pitches through me, rolling my stomach. I stand up on legs that are somewhat wobbly and almost collide with him. Almost? I want to collide with him. It’s only his quick movement that saves us from bumping together, and he puts a hand in the small of my back. It is a touch of possession and it sparks my blood.
My eyes lift to his; in his face is the same heat as fills my body.
‘Shall we?’
I nod, not sure I can speak in that moment.
His grin is my further undoing. It spreads across his face and all the while his eyes hold mine and I am sinking, incapable of staying afloat.
Another couple is waiting for the lift and they obviously recognise Ethan don’t-forget-I’m-a-celebrity Ash. I step away, my smile tight, my body language instantly businesslike.
His teasing grin is all the indication I need that he has noticed.
I stare straight ahead, ignoring the obvious looks of appraisal from the other woman. When the elevator doors open they move in ahead of us. I step to the back of the lift and stay there, while Ethan leans nonchalantly against the panel of buttons, a hint of amusement obvious in every single one of his features.
‘What?’ I say, as soon as they step out and we are alone.
‘You’re embarrassed to be seen with me?’
‘No.’ I force a smile. ‘There was a photo of us in the papers this morning.’
‘The papers?’ He frowns. ‘I knew it was online.’
‘It’s online?’
My heart thumps. It’s okay. It’s okay. The woman in the picture doesn’t look like me. Only it’s not okay, because I can’t bear putting my mom and dad through yet another scandal.
They’re definitely not over the whole Jeremy thing. I think they took it harder than I did. Not just that I’d been ‘the other woman’ but that I’d been a homewrecker too. He had kids, for Chrissakes.
If they find out I’m in a purely sexual fling with a superstar like Ethan Ash they’ll actually disown me.
‘Mmm.’
He closes the space between us and I stay where I am, my back to the wall. My breath feels heavy somehow, weighted in such a way that it’s dragged down instead of pushed out. His body presses against mine, but he doesn’t touch me with his hands. Those he uses to brace himself against the wall of the lift, one on either side of me. He is the cage but my desire is untameable. It fills the cube we are in, surrounding us completely like a dense fog.
The doors open and he steps back from me, reaching for my hand and pulling me after him, out into the carpeted hallway. It’s deserted, thank God, because I don’t want to pull away from him again. We move quickly, the same silent force motivating our movements, making us step in haste.
He slips the key into the door and then pushes it wide. ‘After you, Miss Douglas.’
‘Thank you, Mr Ash.’
I step into the room and the table we first made love on—no, fucked on—is right in front of me. I walk towards it on autopilot, propping my hips against its edge, trailing my fingertips over the glass. Memories spike my blood. He’s watching me, and that knowledge makes me smile.
He prowls towards me and lifts my baseball cap off my head. I briefly wonder how badly my hair is plastered to my head—particularly when his eyes continue their mapping of my features.
He lifts both hands and cups my cheeks, then runs his hands back to the elastic band holding my thick mane in a ponytail. He pulls at it determinedly, his eyes focused on the job so that I am able to focus on him. On the thumb-print-sized divot in his chin. The little score between his brows. The colours in his eyes that have mesmerised me from the first moment I saw him.
My breath escapes as a sigh and his lips twist in acknowledgement of the noise.
His fingers find the hem at the bottom of my shirt and push it up, just enough for his fingertips to glance my flesh. His touch is strangely reverent, as though he is worshipping at the altar of me. It has to be said that if I were ever granted deity status I would totally spend my time doing this.
His eyes roam my face, but he says nothing. He just stares at me for a long, cold second, and then his fingers find me again, and this time they lift my shirt all the way up, over my face, discarding it on the table top.
I’m wearing a neon green sports bra and it’s glued to my skin. He slides his fingers under the elastic at the back and loosens it, but before he attempts to remove it he kisses me. It is a kiss of such depth and need that my gut twists. It is a kiss of ownership, of punishment, of anger and of conquest. Oh, and passion, too. So much passion.
I wrap my legs around his waist, holding him tight. His cock is hard. I feel him through my clothes and I moan into his mouth...a moan that must convey everything I want, because he picks me up, holding me to him, carrying me through the suite towards the bedroom.
He eases me to the ground and removes my bra at the same time, sliding it over my head. I laugh as it catches my hair.
He doesn’t.
His mood is serious.
Focused.
A stone drops through me.
Is this about wanting me? Or wanting her? The night we met, he was furious with her. And he wanted me. For me? For myself? Or was it payback? Did he want to hurt her by fucking me?
So what? I remind myself. This is exactly what I want. Sex. Hot sex. No-strings sex.
It is a swift coming together. We fuck like two people who have been kept apart for months. There is a furious hunger in our movements that burns brightly and explodes swiftly.
He holds me tight afterwards, holds me against his chest, kisses the top of my head and strokes my hair.
* * *
‘So, break it down for me. What’s all the fuss about?’
He slides another piece of peach between my lips. I take it, savouring the juicy sweetness without looking at him.
‘We’ve watched two episodes. How can you not get it?’
‘Maybe I’ve been a bit distracted.’
He reaches over and catches a dribble of peach juice that’s running down my chin. My cheeks flush.
I sigh with mock exasperation. ‘It’s just so angsty. I mean, he’s been away at war, and everyone thought he was dead. His poor fiancé has had to grieve his loss and move on with her life—which she’s done, by deciding to marry, let’s face it, an obviously very poor second choice. Then he comes back to town!’
He’s staring at me as though I’ve begun to talk in a foreign language.
‘It’s essentially a fight between good and evil! It’s a drama, and, yes, there’s romance, but it’s so... Oh, forget it.’
He shrugs. ‘It’s just kind of boring.’
‘How can you not get it?’ I’m outraged. It is so not boring.
He slices another piece of peach, and though I’m facing forward I can see him in the periphery of my vision, his fingers lean and insistent, the paring knife wielded expertly.
I turn to him as he lifts the fruit, my lips parted. He slides it in but I wrap my lips around his finger, holding it in my mouth a moment while my eyes meet his.
‘Plus,’ I say quietly, pulling away, ‘Aidan Turner is seriously hot.’
His brows shoot upwards. ‘This guy?’
‘Uh, yeah.’
I turn back to the screen, smiling to myself as I hear the cogs turning.
‘I mean, sure...if brooding and honourable is your thing.’
‘I think it’s kind of every woman’s thing,’ I say without looking at him.
‘Careful, Alicia.’
My expression is one of innocence. ‘What’s wrong?’
He straddles me quickly, surprising me, and holds the last piece of peach to my mouth. I bite around it, but he pulls his fingers away this time, disposing of the stone and then reaching for the remote. He silences Poldark as he crushes his lips to mine. I taste peach and imagine he does too.
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ He drags my lower lip between his teeth. ‘I just don’t want to share you with Poldark.’
I grin against his mouth even as a warning bell bleats in my brain. He’s just joking. Being silly. Distracting me from a show he doesn’t like. And I’m more than willing to be distracted.
* * *
‘Stay the night.’
I’m on the brink of sleep.
Time has ceased to have meaning. We have been in his bed for hours. Talking. Dozing. Kissing. My body is an odd mix of weightlessness and heaviness. I am satiated and needy.
‘What day is it?’
I’m only half joking. The week has passed so quickly that I can barely remember where I’m at.
‘Saturday. Tomorrow’s Sunday.’
He traces a finger down my nose, following the curve, lifting it over the small jump at its tip and then pressing it to my lips. I kiss it and he smiles beside me, then runs his finger onwards, over my chin to the cleft between my breasts.
Goosebumps scatter across my flesh.
‘Ally?’
‘Mmm?’ I rouse myself to pay better attention.
‘Stay tonight.’
‘No sleepovers, remember?’
‘Mmm... But you feel so good.’
He roves his hand over my naked breast, finding my nipple and circling it until I suck in a shuddering breath.
There is danger in spending the night. I know I must go. And I will. Soon.
I am no longer capable of thought, speech or staving off exhaustion. My eyes sweep shut.
I fall asleep with his hand on my breast and memories of him in my mind.