Cross My Hart

‘I really—’ I drag his hand higher ‘—really—’ higher ‘—really—’ I place it between my legs, at the apex of my thighs, my eyes challenging him ‘—don’t want to talk about him.’

‘No?’ He moves his thumb just a tiny bit, but enough for it to brush my clit through the flimsy lace of my thong, and my breath escapes in a shuddered, tortured exhalation.

‘No.’ I shake my head from side to side, burying my face in his shoulder for a second. Fuck. He smells like...heaven. Sunscreen, sweat, strength. I lift a hand to his side, digging my nails into his toned hip.

I don’t know anything about him besides the fact he looks like a god and smells even better. His name. His country of origin. And the fact he’s blowing out of town in twenty-four hours.

It’s perfect.

‘What I want,’ I say into his shoulder before lifting my face and forcing my eyes to meet his, ‘is to get out of here. Right now.’

CHAPTER TWO (#ucf14da31-5283-5269-a913-fe1ae66de780)

I WATCH AS she walks into the hotel room, wondering what she thinks of this place. I think you can tell a lot about a person by the way they appraise hotels, and her eyes skim the simple, small room. A comfortable king-size bed—a prerequisite—a small en suite bathroom, a view of another city high-rise. The harbour is down at the rocks and I’m up near the park.

I remind myself she has no reason to be surprised by the somewhat meagre accommodation.

She doesn’t know who I am.

She doesn’t know what my bank balance is.

She knows nothing about me.

Except that she wants me.

And, God knows, I want her.

I’ve been with precisely three women since my marriage ended. An ex-girlfriend in Berlin for old times’ sake—even though the old times weren’t actually that great—a lawyer from Stockholm, and Katrina, who lives in the subpenthouse beneath me. That was a dick move, because every time I see her in the lift it’s like she’s angling for an invitation back to my place and nothing fills my veins with ice more than the idea of a relationship right now.

The ink on my divorce papers is barely dry—I got the notification from my lawyer last week—and I plan on staying single a goodly while. Possibly for ever.

This kind of thing—casual sex with fascinating and enchanting women—is all I need. Companionship, satisfaction and no strings—or iron chains, as was the case with Lorena. And this can’t be more than it is—one night. I’m leaving in the morning, flying north to check out a golf course I’m toying with buying before heading home to the States.

This is my one night in Sydney.

One night with Grace.

I don’t even know her last name, and I want to keep it that way. Last names lead to expectations and I expect nothing of women now. I expect nothing at all. I thought I was different, that my marriage was different, but here I am, twenty-nine with a divorce under my belt. Who knows how many I could rack up if I wasn’t determined to not become Adrian Hart?

My father screwed up in a billion ways—but by far the worst, the one I run from every day of my life, was his ability to suck people in, chew them up and spit them out. Time and time again I saw him make women love him, but he never loved anyone. Not even us, I think. He was proud of his sons, proud that he had three boys to raise and carry on the Hart name.

But he didn’t love us.

He didn’t love anyone.

How else could you explain what he did to Holden? I think of my brother and the news he learned only a month ago—that Hart blood does not run through his veins—and anger slams into me. Our father was a bastard, but keeping the truth of Holden’s parentage from him was the cruellest, strangest decision he made.

Grace’s eyes have stopped inspecting the room and now she’s looking at me with a mix of curiosity and desire. I like the latter.

‘Would you like a drink?’ I offer, moving to the minibar and scanning it.

‘God, no, those things cost a fortune. Don’t waste your money.’

My lips twitch involuntarily, imagining how my brothers would react to that comment. With over thirty billion apiece, it’s been a long time since any of us has worried about the overinflated cost of the minibar. Then again, isn’t that part of why I choose to stay in places like this? Because I hate the assumptions people make when they know who I am. I hate everything people think about me when they know who I am.

‘It’s fine,’ I assure her. ‘Champagne?’

She moves towards me, the skirt she’s wearing kicking a little as she walks, so my eyes drop to her legs of their own accord.

‘I don’t need a drink.’ She presses a hand to my chest and then pushes me backwards, towards the bed.

I laugh, a husky sound from low in my throat. Her forwardness is different but, fuck me, I like it. She pushes again, her eyes holding mine, and I fall onto the bed, pushing up it until I’m in the middle. I watch as she stands at my feet, her fingers moving to the bottom of her shirt. For a second she hesitates, and then she lifts it up, over her sides, towards her head and she drops it to her side. I don’t see more than the swish of the fabric, though, because my eyes are locked to her breasts as though they’re some kind of glue or magnet in effect.

They are nice breasts.

My hands tingle with a need to touch them, to feel their weight in my palms. She reaches around behind herself for the bra strap, and I hold my breath, watching as she undoes it, her eyes still on mine. There is challenge in them and pride, a mutinous look of sheer determination, as she does something that perhaps she thought she might chicken out of.

Grace’s hands drop to her skirt, and my cock is like granite in my pants. I am desperate to touch her, for my hands to be doing what her hands are, but somehow I feel like this matters to her. That taking charge of this is a big part of what she needs, and so I stay where she’s pushed me, I lie there and I watch her and I tell myself, soon. Soon I will touch her and taste her and kiss her and drive myself deep into her body, burying myself balls-deep in her wetness, making her cry my name again and again into this tiny room.

She moves slowly, too slowly. I want to see her, I want to see her naked, but she teases the skirt over her narrow hips, her eyes almost laughing as they watch me, and then, realising she’s enjoying this, I hiss out a breath, but still don’t move. Finally, finally, she’s wearing just about the most delicious scrap of lace I’ve ever seen. It’s barely anything—fine and delicate, it covers her vagina but at the hips it’s just lace, narrow bands that wrap around to the back.

‘Turn around,’ I command, my voice throaty.

Her eyes hitch to mine and she bites down on her lip again, drawing my attention to the full pillow of her lower lip. It was one of the first things I noticed about her. That, and the long blond hair that tumbled over one shoulder. And the way she kept stirring her drink and darting her eyes around the bar.

With the same speed, or lack thereof, she used to remove her skirt, she begins to spin, turning her back on me, and I can’t help the groan that escapes me. ‘Fuck me,’ I mutter, because the lace is just a T between two perfect peach-like arse cheeks.

She tosses a glance over her shoulder. ‘Isn’t that the plan?’

Okay. I get that she wants to be in control here, but suddenly my dick is like a torture device in my pants. I move my hands to my belt but she turns back to me and I’m hit with the realisation of her beautiful rounded breasts and I don’t know if I’m an arse or tit man any more, but just that Grace is whatever I need and want.

She straddles me, her hands on mine. ‘Let me.’

She’s really doing the whole ‘take charge’ thing, but I lie back, not caring if it’s her or me who gets my clothes off, just caring that somehow we’re naked together, soon.

But, instead of unbuttoning my jeans, she leans up to my shirt, which means wriggling her body higher up my frame, so suddenly her G-string-clad body is pressed right over my dick.

She moves her hips provocatively and I am done with the passive lie-still thing. I grab her hips, holding her on my cock, staring at her while I move my hips, as though I really were inside of her and she were naked, her legs spread, taking me into her wet core.

Her eyes flare wide and I grunt as I move her body up and down my length, through my jeans, and she’s not passive here, either; she begins to grind her hips, using me to get off, her hands balling in my shirt front before pushing it up my body, and I lift my head so she can get it off completely and then she’s dropping her body forward so her breasts, her soft, round breasts, run over my hair-roughened chest and she moans, low in her throat. Her nipples are puckered and hard and I thrust against her and she whimpers, her fingers digging into my shoulders as she cries out and trembles, pleasure filling her in a way that is more erotic than just about anything I’ve ever known.

Fuck me sideways, she’s hot.

Her breathing is loud, tortured. Her mouth is hot, and she drops it to my shoulder first, nipping the flesh there with her teeth before dragging it lower, to my chest. She finds a nipple and flicks it; my dick jerks in my pants.

I bring my hands around and cup her arse, pressing her against me, and then slide a hand in front of her, finding her clit, and then her seam, pushing inside her, rejoicing at the feel of her muscles, so tight, so wet, so hot. I swirl my finger around her and she whimpers and then her hands are on my belt and she’s moving away from me, she’s looking at me with white-hot hunger as she pushes her thong down her thighs and steps out of it, then rips my jeans apart, pushing them.

She works fast, but not fast enough. The second I’m naked I feel like it’s taken ten years to reach this stage, but hell, it was worth it.