Burn Me Once. Clare Connelly

face and then he bursts out laughing.

      ‘What?’ I continue the charade, my eyes wide, expression droll. ‘Why is that funny?’

      He sobers. ‘It’s not.’ He clears his throat. ‘I’m... Christopher Smith.’

      A smile tickles my lips. ‘Pleased to meet you, Christopher Smith.’

      I wonder how often Ethan Ash gets hit on by girls who are more drawn in by his rock god status than anything else? I wonder if that makes him cynical about women? Or if it makes him think he’s God’s gift? In my case, I’m definitely not doing anything to disabuse him of that notion. In fact I seriously suspect that if God did gift women a man purely for pleasure it would be this guy.

      But, hang on. He’s hot, sure, and he has the voice of a husky alpha-angel—but he could be awful in bed, right?

      The thought brings a frown to my face. Isn’t there some rule of thumb about that? The really gorgeous guys don’t have to work for it so they never learn to be good? Am I going to test that theory with Ethan one-look-will-melt-your-panties-off Ash?

      I shift a little in the seat. Our knees brush beneath the table and I suck in a sharp breath. Apparently I am.

      He catches the involuntary gesture and his smile is sensual. ‘You’re nervous?’

      I don’t know if I’m nervous or surprised. This juggernaut has picked me up and it’s dragging me along with it, and I feel a strange disconnect with my own autonomy. ‘Maybe.’

      He lifts a hand in the air without taking his attention from my face. ‘Because of me?’

      I shake my head, biting down on my lip. His eyes roam my face like it’s a continent he must conquer. He sees everything.

      The sense of familiarity is as overwhelming as it is bizarre. I’m sitting in a booth with a bona fide rock star. I should feel strange, but I don’t. It all feels so right.

      ‘What’s your name?’

      ‘Ally.’

      ‘Ally.’

      He rolls it around his mouth as if tasting the two symbols. His accent is even hotter when he’s saying my name. He makes the A sound like a sigh...‘Ah’.

      ‘Is that short for something?’

      I nod.

      ‘Gonna make me guess?’

      I grin, and my eyes lift as a waitress approaches, her pale blonde hair pulled into a braid that wraps around her head like a crown.

      ‘Good evening. Here are some menus.’ She places two dark books on the tabletop. ‘Can I get you a drink to start?’

      Ethan turns away to address the waitress. He orders a beer and a gin and tonic, then adds some onion rings for good measure. In profile, he’s fascinating. I hadn’t noticed until then the bump halfway down his nose that speaks, presumably, of it having been broken at some point in his life. In an accident? Or a fight?

      Goosebumps dance down my spine as I imagine the rather sexy image of Ethan Ash in a fist-fight with someone. He’d be a good fighter. Not prone to aggression, I’d bet, but definitely able to take care of himself.

      Wow. I didn’t even know that I found that kind of thing attractive.

      ‘Alexandra?’ he says as he spins back to me.

      I don’t instantly understand what he’s saying, and then I realise. He’s guessing my full name.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Hmm...’ A low, gruff growl.

       Help me, Jesus, I am about to sin.

      Beneath the table his fingers find my knee and he strums it like a guitar, gently lashing his fingers over my flesh so that my breath is raspy.

      ‘Do I get a penalty?’

      ‘Definitely.’

      ‘And what would that be?’

      I tilt my head to the side, my eyes dancing with amusement even as desire makes my lids heavy.

      ‘Every time you get it wrong,’ I say, after a long beat of silence has stretched between us, ‘I get to ask you anything I want.’

      He lifts his brows skyward. ‘Sure. Sounds fair. So, what do you want to know?’

      Great question. What do I want to know? ‘How does everything sound?’

      He laughs. ‘“Everything” could take a while. There’s twenty-eight years to cover.’

      ‘Let’s start with what brings you to the Big Old Apple?’

      ‘A gig. And recording.’

      ‘An album?’

      He shakes his head and leans closer, so that his words whisper gently across my cheek.

      ‘That’s a separate question.’

      ‘No fair!’

      I lift a hand to playfully push at his chest, except the moment my fingers connect with his warm strength no pushing occurs. I hold my hand against him, my eyes meet his, and I feel like I’m sinking hard and fast, with no hope of saving myself.

      ‘Alita?’

      I shake my head and dredge up a smile, but it feels heavy on my face because it has to wade through all the desire that’s chewing my insides up.

      ‘You’re recording an album?’

      ‘Sorta.’

      ‘What does “sorta” mean?’

      He shifts his body a little, bringing himself closer to me. ‘I’m tinkering. Sketching.’

      ‘Sketching?’

      ‘You know... Getting a feel for some new stuff. Working on pieces.’

      ‘You do that in a recording studio?’

      ‘Sometimes.’ He shrugs.

      My hand feels the ripple of his muscles and my gut clenches correspondingly.

      ‘And you snuck an extra question in there. Don’t think I didn’t notice.’

      ‘Uh-huh. I’m very sneaky.’

      ‘I like sneaky.’

      His head dips closer. My breath is burning through me.

      ‘Alena?’

      When I shake my head this time it brings me closer. Our lips are barely an inch apart and my hand is still on his chest, my fingertips teasing the soft fabric of his shirt. Up close, his scent is intoxicating.

      ‘What’s your question?’

      My brain is thick and woolly. I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him so badly that I can phantom-feel his lips on mine already.

      What if he’s a terrible kisser?

      My eyes drop to his lips, assessing the possibility of that.

      No.

      He won’t be.

      I’m sure of it.

      ‘Don’t have one, huh?’ he teases.

      A noise cracks us apart. I blink, like I’m waking from a dream. The waitress has placed our drinks on the tabletop and then a basket of onion rings. It’s surprisingly sweet that he ordered something so pedestrian. Had I expected he’d ask for caviar-dressed lobster?

      ‘What’s it like? Being famous?’

      His expression shows surprise. He wasn’t expecting that.

      ‘You’re the first person to ask me that,’ he muses, drawing the foam top off his beer