Burn Me Once

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.