Cross My Hart. Clare ConnellyЧитать онлайн книгу.
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