Cross My Hart. Clare ConnellyЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.’
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