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She shook her head, but she was unable to open her eyes. “You’re wrong.” And he was. It wasn’t just about sex. It was him. All of him.
“Am I?” He ran his hands down her back, stroking her skin, feeling her skin bunch beneath his gentle touch.
“You’re a bastard.”
He made a noise of assent. “Always was, though.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Not like this. Not to me.”
“Perhaps not.” He moved one hand to her chin and tilted her head forward. “I was rude about your blog. That was wrong of me. I apologise.”
Her eyes flew open. “You apologise?” She squeaked in confusion.
“I know that what you’re doing is special. That you’re incredibly talented.” He shrugged, but didn’t relinquish his hold on her. “You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever known, but you have to realise that I sort of hate you, too.” He was staring down at her face, a small smile playing about his lips, so that his angry words didn’t immediately penetrate her consciousness.
She bit down on her lip to stop herself from reacting. “What in the world would you have to hate me for?”
“You know the answer to that. You left me. You left me, when you promised you never would.” He shrugged. “I thought you meant that promise. I believed you. That you broke it has irreparably damaged what I think of you.” He leaned closer and pressed his lips against her neck. “Which doesn’t mean there isn’t something good between us still.”
Adrenalin and desire were at war inside her. “Sex.”
“Sex.” He confirmed her worst fears. “Invite me up, Aurora. Invite me in.”
She swallowed, wishing she had more strength. Wishing she had the fortitude to deny his accusation. To set the record straight once and for all. But she didn’t.
“Yeah.” She nodded. “Fine.” And though she knew she’d hate herself for it the next morning, she allowed him to link his fingers through hers and pull her towards the exclusive high rise. There was no future for them, but the past was just about enough, anyway.
4
His hands on her body were masters of her soul. With every touch and caress, they sent a shot of need spiralling into her being; a shot of need that grew and grew and demanded fulfilment. She reached for his jacket and hungrily pushed it off his frame, seeking contact with his skin. Her mouth sought his; their tongues duelled.
“I like your Mexican theme,” he whispered, smiling against her mouth as he ran his hands over the soft fabric of her poncho. She nodded, dropping his jacket to the floor and lifting his shirt higher. As her fingertips touched his smooth skin, she let out a moan of pleasure.
“Ponchos are going to be huge this winter.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said with a shrug of his muscled shoulders.
She pushed his shirt up over his head and added it, like the cherry on top, to his leather jacket. His chest was rippled with muscles; muscles that led to a tapered waist and strong legs. She knew what many people didn’t completely understand. That being a top Formula One driver meant he had to be incredibly fit. That he worked out like a man possessed for hours a day, to maintain cardio strength and stamina. His muscles formed a pack on his abdominal, smooth and hard beneath her touch. She found his scar and ran her finger across it, ignoring the way her heart flipped over. The memory of that surgery was something she would carry with her forever. The removal of a piece of shrapnel from his beautiful body, and the uncertainty over whether or not it had pierced any vital organs beyond repair.
She bent down and traced her tongue over the long, faded line, unaware of the way his breath hitched as he watched. “You were so lucky,” she whispered, reaching lower and undoing his low-slung jeans. She pushed them from his waist, so that he could step out of them easily.
The last time she’d said it, he’d argued with her. Now, he nodded slowly. “I know.” Although he’d required a lot of ‘putting back together’, at least that feat had been possible. For many, it was not.
“Does it hurt?” She asked, standing and looking at him seriously, her chest rising and falling in time with her hurried breath.
He didn’t want her to see him as weak. As damaged. “No.” Though the metal pins in his body ached at times, it was a small price to pay.
She bit down on the remark she wanted to make. He was mad to pursue his racing dream, having seen what the risks could be. But it was no longer her business. Sex was one thing. The deep, star-seeking future they’d imagined they would share had shattered and broken into a million shards of misery. Having thought that their love was stronger than anything life could throw at them, she now saw the opposite. Individually, they were strong. Together, they became weakened by their love and individual needs.
And so, she lightened her tone forcibly. “I’m glad. I like your body. I especially like what it can do to mine.”
He grinned. “It’s mutual,” he promised thickly. “How the hell do I get this thing off?” He said, pulling at the poncho impatiently.
She laughed, and reached for the tie at her neck. She pulled it until it separated, and watched as he lifted it carefully over her head. She wore an almost transparent shirt beneath, with no bra. “Jesus, S.B, what if you’d lost your poncho in the middle of the street. You’re practically naked.”
Her eyes were hooded as she grabbed her shirt and slowly peeled it upwards, tossing it across the room. “Practically,” she nodded, pleased to see the way his face visibly reacted to her state of undress.
He reached around her waist and pulled her to him, whispering with a desperate intensity in her ear. “How do you do this to me?”
