The Dare Collection February 2019. Nicola MarshЧитать онлайн книгу.
contemplative. Thoughtful, like his mind is reaching back to that time in his life. ‘My priest took me in. Father O’Sullivan.’
‘Your priest.’ It’s a murmur, and I reach for his wrist on autopilot, lifting it to my lips. There is a small, dark green cross tattooed to his tanned flesh. ‘You’re Catholic?’
‘No.’ His lips twist. ‘He is. My parents were.’
I nod. ‘Do you still see him?’
‘Yeah. Once a month or so.’
Another question is heavy inside me but I don’t know how to phrase it, so I hold it tight for now. There will be time later.
‘Will you stay for dinner?’
His eyes hold mine and then he nods slowly. ‘Yeah.’
Relief surges through me. I move back to the cannelloni, which I have laid in neat rows in a deep baking dish, and pour in warm stock and melted cheese, then cover them with aluminium foil and place them in the oven.
He’s watching me intently when I turn around, and I smile slowly. Everything feels oddly perfect.
Like the calm before a storm.
* * *
He’s waiting in the hotel room when I arrive on Tuesday afternoon, only he’s not really waiting for me. When I push the door in, he doesn’t hear me at first, he’s so caught up in whatever he’s reading on his laptop screen. He’s set up on the table near the window, and the image of Connor Hughes at work is so compelling that I stand perfectly still and simply look at him for as long as I can. I don’t breathe. I don’t speak. I just stare.
He’s wearing suit pants and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. The tie he wore throughout the day has been discarded on the chair beside him and his top two buttons are undone, revealing the column of his neck and the hint of a tattoo.
I swallow to moisten my throat but it doesn’t really help.
The door slides shut behind me with a loud click and he looks up, a frown on his face that gives way to a look of surprise. ‘Is it four?’
‘Yeah. Ten past, actually.’
He stands up, his eyes dark as they hold mine. ‘This dress.’ He closes the distance between us, and I look down at the simple summery dress I donned that morning. It’s pale green with white buttons down the front. He grabs me around the waist and lifts me easily so that I laugh. His mouth comes down on a button and pulls it, his eyes laughing at mine.
I groan, though—the sight of him fills me with needs I can’t fathom.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Everything.’ He drops me back on the bed so that my hair flies around my face and then his fingers are on the dress, pushing it up my body, his hands worshipping me even as they destroy the dress, ripping at it until it opens down the front.
‘Hey!’ I laugh, pushing up on my elbows. ‘That’s one of my favourites! I’ve had it for ever.’
‘Trust me, Olivia, the last thing you need is clothes,’ he mutters, dropping his mouth to my breasts, his teeth sliding over my nipples through the fabric of my bra. I drop backwards, surrendering completely to the pleasure of this moment, certain I must have died and gone to heaven.
But even heaven wouldn’t feel this good.
* * *
She is asleep beside me and I find I don’t want to leave her. I find that I want to stay the night, my body curled around hers, my arms wrapped around her, my lips on her shoulder. I find that I am already imagining the way it would feel to wake up beside her, to take her again. To watch her eat breakfast, read the paper. To see her as she steps out of the shower, all soft and warm, wrapped in just a hotel robe.
To strip it from her.
Fuck.
I was supposed to have lost interest by now, but every time I see her it makes me want more and more.
I ease myself out of the hotel bed, taking one last look at her, imprinting her on my mind. She shifts a little and I hold my breath.
If she wakes, I will kiss her. If she wakes and asks me to stay, I will.
She doesn’t, though. She rolls onto her side, her beautiful back visible to me. I watch the shift of her breathing and then step into the bathroom, softly, quietly dressing myself.
I’m almost at the door when I hear her.
‘Hey.’ A soft, gentle voice that has me turning almost guiltily.
‘Hi.’ Her eyes are heavy, her hair is a mess. Knowing I’ve done that to her—exhausted her and tangled her fine blonde hair—appeals to me on a savagely male level that I should probably be ashamed of.
‘Going somewhere?’
‘Yeah.’ I move back to her, drawn like a magnet, standing over her with my arms crossed.
She pouts. It’s almost my undoing. ‘Where?’
‘Home.’ I hold a hand out and she places her smaller one in my palm. Such an insignificant gesture and yet it signifies everything. Her trust, her faith, her goodness.
‘Why?’
‘I have an early start tomorrow. I need some class notes.’ It’s a lie. I’m testing myself again. Telling myself that I can leave her at any time I wish—see? See? I’m not addicted; this isn’t serious.
Only I can’t. Because I’m sticking to the side of the bed as though my feet are glued. She pushes up to kneel in front of me, her body naked and glorious, her hair falling over her shoulders, all golden and glowing.
‘No.’ Her eyes meet mine challengingly.
‘No?’ I grin, not resisting when she lifts her palms to my shirt front, splaying her fingers wide across my chest. She unbuttons the shirt, just at the top, and her eyes hold mine.
‘What does this say?’ She presses a kiss against the swirling Celtic script that runs the length of my collarbone.
‘I got it done years ago.’ My words take on a husky softness. It’s after midnight and there’s a witching hour quality in the air, enhanced by Olivia Amorelli and her beautiful body and glossy hair and bright blue eyes that stare through me, seeing all my hidden sinkholes.
‘It’s beautiful.’
My smile is more of a grimace. ‘I don’t think anyone’s ever called it that before.’
A flicker of something crosses her face. She kisses the words again. ‘What does it say?’
‘An té a luíonn le madaí, eiroidh sé le dearnaíd.’ The Celtic words come easily to me.
‘It sounds like Elvish.’ She sighs romantically.
I think of my penthouse and the empty bed there. I am suddenly no longer convinced I should leave the perfectly good bed here at the SleepInn Holborn, the bed with Olivia’s naked body in it.
‘What does it mean?’
I clear my throat. I don’t know why I’m hesitating. I live by the words—I say them to myself often, knowing how vitally important it is that I remember them.
‘It means...’ I pause and lift a hand to her cheek, rubbing my thumb along her soft, smooth skin ‘...that if you lie down with dogs, you’ll stand up with fleas.’
Her brows move closer together as she analyses the words, unpicking them for meaning. And I explain in a way I’ve never done before. ‘I represent assholes, Olivia. I work for them—I work on their behalf. But I’m not one of them. I will not be like them.’
Am I imagining the tears that make her eyes shimmer in the darkness of the hotel suite?
She