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She reads me like a damned book and I hate that. I smile—it’s tight on my face, but I hope it placates her. At the entrance to the bar, I look outside. I can’t see any photographers and this is hardly the kind of place that anyone of note frequents—one of the reasons I like to come here and unwind. Blow off steam. Be unknown. I prop Holly just inside the door and stride out, retrieving my bike helmet and then returning to her.
Her eyes are shut, but she’s standing.
‘Here.’ It’s a hoarse directive. I fasten the helmet and then scrutinise her. ‘Are you going to be able to hang on?’
‘Yeah.’ She nods. ‘Let’s go.’
I put an arm around her waist, guiding her from the bar, then seat myself on the bike. I keep a hand on her as she gets on behind me, relieved when I feel the press of her legs on my thighs, her arms around my waist, her head heavy against my back.
My place is only a ten-minute drive from the bar, but I practically hold my breath the whole time, needing to get her home, needing to get her off the back of my bike before she falls off.
She didn’t seem at all affected by the champagne. She was talking, asking her fucking questions, eyeing me like she couldn’t wait to get in my pants. And then she was...paralytic.
My face is a grimace as I pull the bike to a stop, the sludgy Thames issuing a steady, throbbing noise from its bowel as it bleeds a retreat to the sea.
‘You okay?’
She’s quiet for a moment before nodding, her eyes so beautifully, distractingly hooded that I have to bite back a curse. ‘Yeah. I’m fine.’
She gets off the bike somewhat unsteadily, so I move fast, kicking the stand down and then covering the distance between us in one motion. She sways again and I swear under
my breath, lifting her up over my shoulder and stalking towards my front door.
‘Hey!’ Her laugh is breathless. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Getting you inside before you fall down.’
‘I’m fine,’ she insists, slapping her hand to my back before sliding it lower, and lower, until her fingertips find the bottom of my suit jacket and pull it up. Jesus. I fumble with the key—this place is a hundred and fifty years old and the keys must be almost as ancient. Big and brass. That should be an advantage, but with all the blood rushing to my dick I’m finding it cumbersome as hell. Finally, I get the door open, right around the time Holly triumphs over my shirt-slash-pants scenario and finds the bare flesh of my back. Her fingers run over me with a curiosity that is sensual and distracting.
I flick the lights to my left and she swears softly. ‘That’s so bright.’
‘You’re still wearing a helmet.’ I laugh roughly, carrying her into my apartment and dropping her onto the sofa. She falls elegantly—how can she do that when she’s drunk as all hell and wearing a helmet?
Her fingers fumble with the straps to no avail and, suppressing a smile, I reach down and unclip it for her.
Shit. I’d forgotten her face. How distracting it is—how fascinating. I’d forgotten the fucking scar too. A surge of protective anger flashes through me so fast and shocks me to my core.
I’m not a protector.
Not even close.
At least, I’ve never felt that kind of instinct for anyone other than Gabe—probably the only person who needs protecting even less than I do.
But I feel it now. I feel an inexplicable fury that anyone could damage Holly. And because I understand the way scars work, I know the formation of the external scars is nothing compared to what she must carry inside. A heart that is scratched all over from repeated lashings and torment, a soul that is part withered from neglect and terror.
I’m lost in this moment of contemplation and so don’t realise that she’s pushing up to stand. Not until her sweet body presses against mine, her eyes hooded by desire and drunkenness. ‘I.’ She lifts unsteady fingers to the buttons on her shirt and undoes the top one. ‘Want.’ She works quickly for someone who’s so clearly affected by alcohol. I see the lace swirls of her bra. Shit. ‘You.’
I swallow hard as she removes the shirt altogether, revealing creamy skin and breasts I could weep for. It’s perfect. ‘To.’
Her hands move to the button of her pants and I know that I need to put an end to this. That I need this woman, who is already scarred and hurting, to be better than I am.
‘Fuck.’ She says the word as she pushes her pants down over her hips, revealing a tiny white thong that matches her bra. My body is tighter than a spring.
She steps out of her pants and then reaches around, unclipping her bra, dropping it at my feet while keeping her eyes locked to mine. ‘Me.’
Holy shit.
I take several steps backwards, not running away from what she said so much as needing to get a better view of her. My throat is drier than the Strzelecki Track; my abdomen tightens with an ancient, primal need to possess.
