The Season To Sin

I heave out a sigh, returning my attention to her face. It’s a face that is objectively beautiful. Huge blue eyes, a nose that can only be described as cute, with a neck that is elegant. Her hair is as fair as sunlight and it’s plaited in a way that tells me she’s trying to tame herself but, in contradiction to that, she’s wearing little red earrings that I see now are Christmas gifts with glittering green ribbon.

She’s what my nine-year-old self would have called fancy. All perfectly groomed and sweet-smelling, flawless and poised in a way that a ballerina would envy.

I know lots of women now, fancy and not. Fancy women tend to throw themselves at me, and it doesn’t matter if their lingerie is high-end or from a supermarket, they’re all just as eager to strip it off their bodies at the smallest encouragement.

They all scream with pleasure just the same.

She’s watching me patiently, waiting for me to speak, and I can only guess it’s a tactic taken from Therapy for Beginners. But it has little to no impact on me.

I watch back, my expression impassive, my lips curled with the derision I am famed for.

‘Well.’ She concedes defeat by speaking first. ‘I suppose we can always talk about the weather.’

‘Or we could talk about you.’

‘Me?’ I’ve surprised her. Again. Her lips open into a circle that is distractingly erotic. ‘I’m not on the agenda. Sorry.’

Her manner tells me she’s anything but apologetic.

‘So I’m supposed to bare my soul and you give me nothing?’

Her smile is tight. She’s pissed off. It’s the first time I realise that I like riling her up; definitely not the last. ‘Well, if you decide you want to undertake therapy, then I give you peace of mind in due course,’ she murmurs.

But she’s got no idea what ghosts run through me; what shadows fill my being. I am a wraith of my past’s creation.

‘Holly, I highly fucking doubt that.’

CHAPTER TWO

HER HAIR IS longer than I realised. And so much softer. Up close as I am, it smells like vanilla and honey.

I know it’s a dream but, for the first time in a month, a woman has chased her from my mind and I am free from the cursed hauntings of my past. I clutch at the fine threads of this dream, refusing to let it slip from my mind.

‘I love it when you kiss me,’ Holly murmurs, her lips a perfect red. I reach for her, pulling her to me, my hands large against her fine frame, my fingers splayed wide on her hips.

Her body is pliant at my touch. Easy to control.

Surrendered completely to me, and what I can give her.

I yank her—hard—against my chest, enjoying the soft exhalation that brushes my jaw. Her breasts feel so much better than I imagined. They’re firm and soft at the same time, so big and round. I lift a hand and palm one, my thumb brushing over her nipple, my fingers possessive and demanding.

She looks at me on a tidal wave of confusion and uncertainty. This is new and different and she doesn’t know how to respond.

She doesn’t need to worry.

I know enough for both of us.

I lift her easily—she’s light and I’m strong—and wrap her legs around my waist. I don’t know how I want her but, God, I know I need her. Her dress is floaty, it moves easily over her hips, granting me the access I need. Even though it’s my dream and I should be able to control this shit, she’s wearing underwear—a barrier I don’t want.

Her hands wrap around my neck, drawing my head closer to hers, and she’s kissing me, her tongue seeking mine, duelling with me, her eyes swept closed against the assault of this passion.

But I don’t want to kiss her.

Kissing is romance and reward—fucking is not. Fucking is passion and need—a primal, physical act that is over when it ends.

I break my mouth free and stride across the room. I don’t know where we are. Dreams are funny like that. I push her back against a wall and, with her weight supported by the wall and my hips, I rip her dress open at the front. She’s not wearing a bra—thank you, dream gods—and I crush my mouth to her breast, rolling my tongue over her nipple until she whimpers, and then I move to the other, this time pressing it with my teeth so her back arches forward and her fingernails dig into my shoulders.

I’m naked now—in a dream, clothes are capable of simply disappearing—and I slide her panties aside with my fingers, my eyes mocking her, teasing her, as I nudge my cock to her entrance, hitching myself at her seam, feeling her moist heat before sliding deep inside her.

She groans, a sound that comes from the base of her throat, and I laugh.

‘This is just the beginning, baby,’ I promise.

And because I’m pursued by demons that seek to punish me, I wake up at that moment, sweat beading my brow and a cock that’s harder than stone. I drop my hand to it, rubbing my fingers up and down my length, curving my palm over my thickness.

It’s no good.

Having dream-fucked Holly, I need the real thing.

I reach for my phone and check the time. It’s midnight. I’ve been asleep only forty minutes. For Christ’s sake.

I scroll through my calendar, going back to Tuesday last week when I met Dr Scott-Leigh in that café.

Her contact details are in the appointment file. I click on her email address:

Holly,

I need to see you again. Tomorrow.

I consult my calendar once more—these sleepless nights are playing havoc with my short-term memory.

Four p.m. is my only free time.

NM

I drop the phone to my bed and push up. I dress quickly, or as quickly as I can when my dick is like a tent pole, and throw back a tumbler of straight vodka, then call one of my drivers—there are four on rotation.

Graeme is on the roster.

He’s probably the least able to hide his disapproval of my lifestyle, and that gives me a perverse sense of amusement.

‘Where to, sir?’ he asks without meeting my eyes. Did I wake him? Tough. It’s his job, after all.

‘Mon More,’ I say, naming a club in Putney. Julianne has haunted my dreams for a month and now Holly is taking over. The only thing I know is I can escape them both in a loud bar with free-flowing booze.

It’s not like I’ve been thinking of him since our appointment. At least, not only of him. I’ve had a lot else on my mind. Like working out how I’m going to make a Virgin Mary costume for Ivy before her Christmas concert and when I’ll have time to help her with the gingerbread house she’s determined to give her grandmother this year.

No, I’ve been far too busy to think only of Noah Moore.

Except at night, when my head hits the pillow and I shut my eyes. Then, all I can see is his face, his beautiful, exquisite, tortured face, his haunted eyes and sexy mouth, his body that I want to throw myself at, to curl up against, to be held and comforted by. He makes me want to surrender to his touch, to be safe within his arms.

I’m smart enough to know how absurd that is, but if I can’t have the real thing, I should at least be able to satisfy myself with the fantasy. Right?

I’ve had plenty on my plate this week but, when I arrive at my office this morning, fate seems to have conspired to throw Noah Moore at my feet.

His email detonates in my consciousness like a charge. It’s barely civil and it’s sure as hell not how appointments are made. I can’t even say for sure how he got my email address—it’s not on my business cards and I don’t routinely welcome patients to communicate with me directly.

There has to be a divide between my work and my home life. That’s the way this works best.

Not for Noah Moore, though. I’m surprised to find a wry smile has rubbed across my lips when I scan my calendar for availability and none of the usual clinical detachment chills my emotions.

My day is full, and yet if I were to swap my one o’clock for twelve o’clock and miss lunch, I could move my four o’clock forward and make time for Noah.

I swallow past the doubts.

I can’t say why, but I am compelled to answer, and I am driven by a desperate need to see him again.

I send a quick reply:

Noah,

I can meet with you again, but it will have to be in my office. Four p.m. works. Don’t be late—I have another appointment directly after.

Dr Scott-Leigh

I send it, pleased with the fact I’ve kept it so formal, pleased with the way my email doesn’t, in any way, shape or form, convey how utterly devastatingly sexy I think he is.

I’m proud and pleased as I load up the news browser I always read before starting work and Beatrice strides in with a coffee and bagel.

‘Morning, Holly,’ she says with a smile and leaves again without waiting for a response.

I love this woman so much.

She knows how desperately I need my sacred ten minutes without interruptions and I so appreciate her giving me that. Only now my brain is full of interruptions. Questions about Noah, his habits, his problems, his intentions, his needs.

I want to know him and I want to help him.

And I can’t be at my most effective, therapeutically, if other issues, like my raging desire and the fact I haven’t slept with a guy in over five years, take over my brainpower.

I employ mindfulness, breathing in deeply, exhaling slowly, counting beats and blanking my mind until I feel more like myself again.

But it’s a godawful day.

I feel like I’m operating at half my usual capacity. I drag my brain through appointments, eat a muesli bar between my two and three o’clocks and then, after my three o’clock leaves, make a quick phone call to the hospital to check on a patient of mine.

When I disconnect the call, Beatrice buzzes through that Noah Moore has arrived.

My pulse leaps immediately, my heart thumps hard against my chest and my fingers begin to shake. I cast a quick glance at the compact I keep in my top drawer, run fingers over hair I have today left loose and stand to greet him.

I didn’t know Noah Moore would book an appointment—it’s not for him that I’ve worn this outfit but, the second he enters the room, his green eyes skim over me and I get a kick of satisfaction at the speculation I see in his eyes.

Holy hell.

What am I doing?

I have no business feeling all warm and tingly because he’s staring at the way my leather skirt hugs my hips. It’s high-waisted—it comes up to my belly button—and I’m wearing a gold cashmere sweater tucked into it. It’s an outfit I would describe as perfectly professional but, the way his eyes light on my silhouette, I feel like a centrefold.

‘Mr Moore.’ My tone is cool. Good. Cool is good. ‘Please, take a seat.’

He strides into the room, looking dishevelled in a way that is sexy but that I have every reason to believe is the result of a sleepless night.

He throws his large frame into one of the chairs, his legs spread wide, his hands resting on his powerful thighs. Today he’s wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved top.

‘Holly—’ his lips flicker into a smile, but it’s over in a millisecond ‘—nice to see you again.’

I compress my lips. Normally, patients would express gratitude at the fact I’d squeezed them in under short notice, but not Noah.

‘Let’s get started,’ I clip. ‘How are you?’

‘Are you asking out of interest or as a doctor?’

My pulse ratchets up and I have to dig my fingernails into my palms to stop the guilty blush from creeping over my cheeks. ‘As a doctor.’ The words drip with ice.

His smile suggests he doesn’t believe me. Crap.

‘Then let me remind you; I haven’t agreed to see you professionally.’

I frown. ‘Haven’t you? I would have thought that’s just what you did when you asked for an appointment.’

‘No.’ It’s cryptic. I leave it alone for now and reach for a pen. There will be time to discuss the semantics of how he wants to proceed.

‘You were up late last night.’ He arches a brow in silent enquiry, so I rush to explain. ‘You emailed at midnight.’

He nods, dragging a hand through his hair, but says nothing. It’s like pulling teeth!

‘Are you always up so late?’ I ask.

‘Late? Midnight?’

I refuse to be embarrassed by him. ‘Yes.’

‘Yeah,’ he grunts, and his eyes are wary. He’s withdrawing from me, pulling back. Something about my line of questioning is hitting on an issue that is renewing his trauma.

It’s nothing you would be able to tell, unless you had experience with this. Outwardly, Noah is every bit the charming, sexy bad boy he’s renowned for.

I smile, lean back in my chair and drop the pen onto the notepad. ‘It’s cold today.’

A comment that surprises him. It makes him wary; his eyes skip to mine and a frown moves on his face. He doesn’t say anything.

‘Do you have plans for Christmas?’

‘Christmas?’ It’s practically a sneer. ‘Christmas is weeks away.’

I nod. ‘It’ll be here before you know it.’ My eyes drift to the picture once more, a smiling Ivy, and I feel somewhat more centred.

‘Do you have plans for Christmas?’ he volleys back, his expression tight as he watches me with every fibre of his being.

I wouldn’t normally answer—the question is too personal—and yet I hear myself say, a smile softening the words, ‘Not really. Just a small family celebration this year.’

His eyes drop to my fingers. He’s wondering what ‘family’ means to me. I don’t elaborate on that score. That’s common sense as well as training. Ivy is not a part of this world. She’s mine—and she’s all that is sweet and innocent.

‘I make a pudding—my grandmother’s recipe—we sing carols. The usual. Do you have any Christmas traditions?’

He knows I’m relaxing him and yet perhaps he also knows he has to give me at least something to justify the fact I’ve moved my schedule around to see him today. ‘Yeah. Getting hammered.’

I arch a brow.

‘It’s just another day for me, Doc.’

‘No family?’ I prompt.

I get the strangest sense that he wants to say something. That the temptation to open up is pressing against his back, pushing him forward, but then he just shakes his head sideways once. A curt dismissal.

It’s normal for patients to clam up around me, but I don’t generally take it personally. Intense frustration zips through me now and, against my usual therapeutic practices, I say, ‘Noah, I really want to help you and I think you want that too, but you’re giving me nothing to work with.’

He stares at me belligerently and I stand up, hoping that will dispel some of the frustrated energy that’s firing through me. I move towards the window, looking out at London, and I don’t know if I’m imagining it but heat warms my spine as though he’s still watching me.

I habitually deal with soldiers who’ve come back from war zones—men and women who’ve witnessed and perpetrated unimaginable crimes. People who have done what no human should ever have to do, who have seen first-hand the bleakness and despair of utter destruction. I understand their hauntedness and I know how to help with it, generally. Every patient is different, but at least I’m operating from the same wheelhouse. Not now, not with Noah. I need to tease information out of him gently. But I do need to get some information. Without it, I’m flying blind.

‘When did you decide to seek help?’

He expels a harsh breath that has me turning slowly to face him. I was right. He’s watching me. Blood jolts through my system as though each cell has been subjected to an electrical shock.

‘Noah.’ I say the word quietly but with a firmness that shows I’m serious. ‘I moved my day around for this. Are you wasting my time?’

He seems to withdraw from me even further. Not in the way many of my patients do, by becoming visibly upset or distant. Now he is looking at me as though he wants to eat me—and my tummy is in knots.

He stands and moves towards me. Every single fibre of my being is vibrating on high alert, but I don’t withdraw. Maintaining control of the session is vital. He is right beside me, at least a foot taller than me, and close enough that if either of us were to sway forward slightly we would be touching. Crazy thought! Where did that come from?

He looks down at me, so dominant, so strong and somehow so broken.

I stare at him for a long time, waiting for him to speak, determined not to break first.

Finally, his throat bobs as he swallows. ‘I don’t need therapy,’ he says gruffly, as though I’ve dragged him here kicking and screaming.

‘I see.’ I nod, not wanting to mock his assertion, nor to question why he emailed at midnight if that’s the case.

‘I just...’ He drags a hand through his hair and shakes his head. ‘This is fucking ridiculous.’

‘What is it?’ I urge and, damn it, I step closer. Stupid, stupid move, because now there’s barely a whisper between us and I can’t surrender the strength of my position by pulling away. If I do, he’ll know how he affects me, and that would be a disaster.

‘I’m not sleeping.’ He turns away from me and takes a step towards my desk, pressing his fingers against the wooden corner.

It is highly irregular for me to have people on this side of my office and I feel the invasion of Noah in every way. This is my space—my personal space. But the moment he’s started to open up to me, I can’t make him feel at fault. I move towards him and put a gentle yet professional hand on his elbow.

Tension is radiating from his bulky frame, as though this small admission of a perceived weakness has offended every iota of his hyper-masculinity. He flinches when I touch him and glares down at me.

Not with anger, though.

The desire that has me hostage is of a mutual kind. I feel him shift and it is all the confirmation I need that this crazy, dark lust surges through us both. My fingertips are still pressed lightly to his elbow. I nod towards the chair he’d been sitting in.

‘Please, sit down.’ It’s a quiet murmur and for a moment I think he’s not going to do as I say. He continues to stare at me and I find myself staring back, wondering what it would be like for those lips of his to drop to mine.

Temptation is thick in the air. I could push up onto the tips of my toes and kiss him... Would it really be so wrong? I step back just as he reaches for me, his fingers curling into my hair, wrapping it around his big masculine fist. ‘Is this real?’

The question catches me utterly off guard. I take in a deep breath that barely reaches my lungs and stare at him with a sense of helplessness. I have a thing for bad boys, remember, yet I’ve never known anyone quite like Noah Moore.

I force myself to remember several things, and to remember them quickly. He is waging a battle against demons I don’t yet comprehend; he has come to me for help.

And I don’t do this.

I don’t let men, no matter how sexy, make my pulse race and my knees knock.

That kind of thing was a million years ago for me.

‘Is this real?’

The words are husky from his mouth and all my certainties and good intentions quiver inside me.

‘What?’

Step away, step away! my brain is shouting at me, but I don’t move. Instead, I swallow and his eyes drop to my mouth, then lower, to the column of my throat, watching the convulsive movement, before resuming their fascination with my lips.

Moist heat slicks between my legs and I clamp my lips together. My nipples press against the bra I’m wearing, little arrows darting through me from each hardened nub, radiating heat through my body. There is a fine tremble that passes over my spine.

‘This. Your hair.’ And his fist moves higher, towards my head, so his palm curves around my skull, his fingers still tight in the blonde lengths. He angles my head upwards and our eyes are locked. Our bodies are separated by inches and yet I feel the essence of him pulse into me, throbbing inside my gut. This is, hands down, the most intimacy I’ve ever felt with a man.

‘Yes.’ It’s a word weakened by desire and my temptation to surrender to it completely. ‘It’s real.’

He nods but doesn’t otherwise move. If I don’t do something, anything, to grab control of this situation, I’m going to be in serious trouble.

‘Noah.’ I clear my throat and step away. For a second he doesn’t relinquish his hold on my hair, and then he drops his hand to his side. His expression is knowing. As though he understands that I am now fleeing what we just shared.

‘Please, sit down.’ The words lack conviction and yet he complies, moving back to his seat and owning it with his body. I don’t sit behind my desk, though. Instead, I cross to the other side of it and perch on the edge, crossing my legs at the ankle.

It’s dangerous because I’m quite close to him, but I feel we need to maintain some of the connection he just established.

‘You’re not sleeping?’ I prompt softly.

‘No, Doc.’

‘Not at all?’ I frown, reaching around behind me for my pad and pen.

He shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. ‘I sleep a bit. Ten minutes. Twenty.’

‘Then what?’ I write 10...20 in the corner of my paper.

‘I wake up.’ The words are droll, bordering on sarcastic. My cheeks warm, but I dip my head forward to write a note.

‘Do you have dreams?’

The wry sarcasm fades from his features. He focuses on a point behind me. ‘No.’

Liar. I don’t challenge him, though. It’s too soon and, for the moment, he’s made some admissions, which is a huge thing for a guy like Noah. I need him to trust me, and that’s going to be a tough sell with him.

I scrawl no dreams and underscore it, which is my way of reminding myself that I suspect it’s not the truth. ‘Have there been any changes in your lifestyle recently?’

‘Besides seeing you?’ he says thoughtfully, his eyes shifting back to mine, all confident, charismatic, sexy bad boy again.

My heart leaps.

‘I mean changes that could affect your sleep.’

‘Oh, you sure affected my sleep last night.’ The words are so far from what I expect that I lose my mask for a moment and show my surprise. I’m sure my face must pale visibly, that he must see the way I react. My stomach swoops and, briefly, I allow temptation to cloud my clarity.

But only briefly.

I’m a professional. I need to remember that.

‘Perhaps we need to try something new,’ I say, my smile an attempt at coolness that I suspect I don’t pull off.

He lifts a brow, obviously teasing. ‘I’m game if you are.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘I SET ASIDE a full hour, but I can already tell there’s no sense keeping you here that long.’ She pushes off the edge of the desk and walks back towards the window. The afternoon light shimmers across her, backlighting her in a way that makes her look like an angel. A very sexy angel.

‘Sick of me already, Holly?’

Her eyebrows knit together and I can see her cogs turning, analysing me. This is one of the many reasons I like to hook up with women who’ve got a drink or three under their belt. None of this psycho mind-reading bullshit.

And Holly Scott-Leigh is, I suspect, very good at this.

‘You don’t want to be here. And yet you came.’

‘I was curious about where you worked,’ I say lamely. Stupidly. She’s too smart to fall for that kind of bullshit.

‘So...’ She lifts a hand to her thick blonde hair and scrapes it back from her brow. A sign of frustration? The action pulls her sweater across her breasts, and everything inside me jerks. She speaks as though I haven’t. ‘We’re going to do five questions.’

‘Five questions?’ That’s easy. Relief is palpable.

‘But...’ She lifts her finger, her lips twitching with barely suppressed amusement. ‘You have to answer me honestly, and promptly. No faffing about trying to make something up and no dodging the questions.’

I can hear my blood throbbing in my ears like a fucking tsunami. There’s a high-pitched noise too, like air from a balloon being pinched to release.