towards the CBD, so it’s all high-rises and lights.
Just inside the door he eases me to the ground, but the second my feet hit the carpet he’s reaching for the bottom of my dress and lifting it up my body, his impatience igniting a fierce volcanic eruption within me because I can’t say I’ve ever needed anything like I need Holden.
But maybe he was right this afternoon. Perhaps it’s not him I need so much as the wilful obliteration of memories that feel so much more real now that I’m back in Australia.
The dress is a caress as he drives it up my body. I’m not wearing a bra. The fewer clothes you wear the better. For both of us.
‘Jesus.’ He groans, dropping his head and burying it between my breasts so I tilt my head back to give him better access. His hands grip my hips, holding me to him, and then he’s undressing himself with the same desperate hunger, pushing his jeans down, stripping his shirt over his head, stepping out of his socks so he’s completely naked.
I take a step back because one thing I haven’t done yet—either of the times we were together—is properly look at him. I was so caught up in what we were doing both times, in the excitement of it, that my observational skills were off kilter, but now I want to see and recognise every damned detail I can.
His chest isn’t just broad and muscled, it’s marked with layers of ink, so many tattoos that I could spend hours decoding them, asking about each, because I’m as sure as anything that there’s a story there.
One in particular stands out and sends a shiver down my spine. Letters in what I imagine must be the Greek alphabet and, above them, a picture of some kind of mythological god. I press a finger to it but he winces, as though it’s fresh ink when it’s not. It’s like I’ve hurt him.
And before I can ask the significance of the tattoo he’s pushing me across the room with his body, his powerful frame guiding me to the bed so we stumble onto it together and all thoughts of artwork flee from my brain. There is no space for them when Holden Hart is on top of me, pressing me into the mattress with his powerful frame. I kick my shoes off—he’s forgotten them—then wrap my legs around him, silently drawing him towards me. At the same time I push up onto my elbows, moving my mouth towards his. He hesitates for a second, looking at me with a question or a doubt in his eyes, then shakes his head gruffly, makes a growling noise and takes complete possession of my mouth, the pressure of the kiss pushing me back down into the bed.
I writhe beneath him, my body needing more than he’s giving me, my pulse firing for some kind of absolution from this delightful torment. His cock is between my legs and I ache to feel him inside of me, just like last time, but he doesn’t move and he doesn’t answer my repeated attempts to bring him towards my sex.
I swear into his mouth and shake my head, breaking our kiss.
‘Fuck me, Holden.’
His eyes flicker to mine, something travelling between us, unspoken but important, and then he stands, staring down at me as his chest shifts with each breath he draws in. I watch as he strides, long-legged, across the room, disappearing through a door for a moment then returning with not just one condom but a line of them.
And lightning strikes through the core of my being because I was so very close to forgetting about protection completely. I’m not even on the fucking pill! What the hell? Didn’t I learn my lesson with Dave? But of course I did! The few guys I’ve been with since Dave have had to listen to my lectures on safe sex ad nauseum because falling pregnant is a consequence I’m not willing to entertain, ever.
‘Crap.’ There’s an apology in my curse. ‘I was just so—’
‘I know.’
He rips one foil square open and pulls the rubber out, positioning it over his length while he’s watching me.
‘I never don’t use protection,’ I say urgently, needing him, for some reason, to understand, as if that can assuage the torrent of panic which engulfs me.
‘I don’t either. It will never happen, Cora. If you forget, I won’t.’
I swallow because it’s not really good enough, but there’s no point