The Season To Sin

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 (#uf0821147-2abb-55dd-8bc1-0853bbc354d5)

‘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.

There was one summer I spent with a family who used to surf. They took me out with them, taught me how to ride a board. There is an art to keeping your balance; it’s a constant seduction. Every tiny movement shifts your power and one wrong breath may mean you tumble into the ocean.

If I allow Holly to have this power over me, she will roll me into the sea.

I won’t let that happen.

I stand, my eyes pinning her to the spot so I see the effect I have on her. She tries to cover it, but you can’t hide desire. Not really. There are markers that I have seen often enough to recognise easily now. Her cheeks flush along the ridge of bone, her pupils swell to cover almost her whole eye and her breathing is rasped, her chest moving up and down, so that her round breasts push forward. Jesus, that shirt sweater thing looks soft. My fingertips itch to reach out and touch it. To scrunch it against her skin, to feel her through the fabric.

I stand just a couple of inches away from her and she keeps staring up at me, her big red lips parted, her eyes whispering seduction even when I know she’s doing her best to hold the professional line.

I wonder how long she’ll keep that up.

‘On one condition.’

Her frown is infinitesimal. Her eyes drop to my lips and my gut jerks, wanting to pull me forward, begging me to kiss her.

Nah, not to kiss her, that’s far too sweet a word for what I want to do. I want to pull her lower lip between my teeth, I want to push her back against that window, I want to fucking own her.

‘What’s that, Mr Moore?’

It’s an attempt to put us back on a professional footing. Her own surfboard is tipping.

I lift a finger, touching her cheek lightly. She flinches with surprise and her eyes lift to mine slowly. She’s in the water; it’s threatening to consume her whole. ‘For every one of your questions, you answer one of mine. Same rules.’

Her breath is soft, warm. I feel it on my inner wrist. Imagining it elsewhere on my body, I throb with heat and need.

‘I told you last week.’ The words are uneven. ‘I’m not on the agenda.’