Burn Me Once. Clare Connelly

paparazzi at your hotel.’ My eyes lift to his face.

      A muscle throbs against his jaw, like he’s clenching his teeth or thinking dark thoughts. My insides clench.

      ‘You go ahead of me,’ he says.

      ‘Will that work?’

      He looks at me for a long moment and then nods. ‘Yeah. Wait for me at the lifts inside.’

      It’s easy enough for me to slip past the paparazzi. One photographer lifts his camera and holds it poised at my face. But then, when he sees through the lens that I am nobody, he drops it once more.

      I am glad I am nobody.

      I am glad I am not her.

      The woman who ruined a family.

      Guilt sledges through me.

      Ethan Ash isn’t Jeremy, and this isn’t a big deal.

      It’s just...sex. Fun. Easy. Nothing serious.

      Nonetheless, my heart palpitates furiously as I turn and look over my shoulder, catching sight of him as he saunters—yes, saunters—across the street, hands in the pockets of his well-worn jeans, head tilted at an angle that shows the hard lines of his face.

      Desire whips me.

      I move quickly across the foyer, wanting to be well beyond the paparazzi’s point of interest by the time Ethan joins me. I catch a brief impression of sumptuous red carpet, black and white tiles, enormous crystal chandeliers, animal skins and a fire that would, in winter, create warmth and cosiness with stunning ease.

      The elevators are simply shining doors submerged behind wood panelling. I wait beside them, staring straight ahead. I hear the rush of lenses clicking and buttons being pressed and I don’t look. There’s the rustle of a doorman moving outside, and then he is beside me, his finger jabbing at the button of the lift with obvious impatience. We don’t look at one another.

      After only a few seconds, the doors ping open. It’s empty.

      We step in and Ethan swipes a key card before pressing one of the old-fashioned radio buttons on the panel. It whooshes upwards and my tummy whooshes with it.

      I have never wanted a guy this badly.

      The atmosphere is heavy with that feeling, that need. It practically hums around us, so that it takes every ounce of my willpower not to press the stop button and beg him to fuck me then and there.

      I dig my nails into my palms as extra insurance.

      The doors ping open—finally—and even as we step out of the lift he’s reaching for me. Now, in the privacy of the hotel corridor, he lifts me off the ground, his arms tight around my waist as his mouth moves over mine, and he walks like I weigh nothing, and carrying me is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. His lips are punishing and I am submissive, taking the kiss, begging for more even as my legs lift, needing greater purchase, more intimacy, closeness—everything.

      I wrap them around him and groan as I hear the unmistakable tearing of my skirt—which was definitely not designed to be spread-eagled around a rock star’s waist. Whoops. Somewhere in my mind I discover another consequential path of this coming together—some makeshift outfit assembly will be required in order for me to get home, whenever it is I do go home.

      Without releasing his grip, without lifting his lips, he fumbles the key card against the door. The first time is unsuccessful and he swears into my mouth as the door remains resolutely closed. Second time it springs open and we burst through it. The door slams shut and Ethan drops the key card to the floor like litter, striding deeper into the suite.

      I have a brief impression of more luxury, more red, more chandeliers made of beaded crystal—and an enormous bed that is like an oasis in the midst of a never-ending desert. But he turns sharply, propping me against a table instead.

      The second my butt connects with the tabletop his hands reach for my blouse and he pulls at it, ripping every single button so that they pop and fly across the room like angry little witnesses to my thwarted needs.

      It’s a damned nice blouse—one of my favourites—but I don’t bemoan its demise. I am as eager as he is to be naked and touching all over. I arch my back as he pushes the fabric down my arms, his fingers tracing my flesh as he frees me of the garment before they lift higher, finding my bra. He traces a thumb over the lace and I swear I whimper as though I’m about to come. I think I am about to come.

      My eyes skittle to his face, shock in all my features. He understands. I know he does. He curves his hands around my butt and drags me to the edge of the table, so that I can feel the hard, aching heat of his cock through the fabric of his jeans, straining at it, practically breaking it. My fingers seek it—seek him. They fumble at his button and then a noise of triumph erupts from my lips as I find the zip and push it downwards.

      But he’s moving, pushing at my bra, freeing my breasts in one moment and claiming them with his mouth the next. His tongue lashes my nipple as his fingers roll the other, and his dick grinds against me through the fabric of our clothes.

      Perspiration sheens my skin. I lift my fingers from his jeans, from their futile mission of cock-hunting, and curl them around his hips instead, digging my nails into him, lifting my feet to the edges of the table and crying out as his teeth press into my nipple with enough pressure to make me see stars.

      I’m at the edge of the world. Ethan’s there too, but I’m the one who’s stepping off...who’s being flung off! I dig my nails in harder and he rolls his mouth to my other breast, bringing his fingers to tease where his teeth have just been. It’s too much. The sensations and juxtapositions. The heat of his mouth and the coldness of the air-conditioned hotel room. The softness of his fingertips and the hurt of his teeth.

      I cry out loudly as an orgasm crashes over me, sucking me under, rendering me the opposite of mute. I am loud and I am desperate and I have no grasp of control. No grasp of time, space or date either, to be honest. If you’d asked me where I was, I would have needed a shot of black coffee to wake up and remember.

      I am doused in more sensations than I was even aware existed and yet I’m not done. He’s not done. This is just the beginning.

      ‘I want to fuck you.’

      ‘Isn’t that what you’re doing?’ I smile up at him, my body singing.

      ‘Hell, yeah.’

      He pulls at my butt, jerking me closer to him, and then he rolls his cock against me so that I cry out again.

      ‘Please, Ethan...’ I groan hungrily.

      Apparently he doesn’t need to be asked twice. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, then slides a condom from within its folds.

      There is a small part of me that is consciously cheering what is about to happen—unlike my body, which is so in the moment. This isn’t just sex. It isn’t just relief. It’s release—it’s an exorcism. I am going to fuck another man, and with every moment and motion I am going to blot Jeremy further from my mind.

      I am going to reduce his importance in my life.

      With sex.

      ‘I’ve never been happier to see a little foil square.’ I grin, reaching for it. ‘Now. Let me see what I’m dealing with here.’

      His grin is like warm treacle on a hot day. ‘You’re mighty impatient... Alicia.’

      Hearing him say my real name is the biggest turn-on yet. And that’s saying something.

      My eyes meet his and he knows.

       ‘Alicia.’

      Even better than Ally. My name tastes wonderful on his mouth. He pushes at his jeans and I take over, sliding my hands into his grey cotton boxers, feeling the curve of his ass—of course it’s a fantastic ass. I hold his eyes as I bring my hands to the front, feeling