The Dare Collection December 2019. Clare Connelly

over one shoulder, my fingers grazing my nipples by accident, so I have to spin away or risk him seeing my instant physical reaction to the simple touch.

      ‘It was also completely fucking great.’

      A smile curves my lips. There’s a bathroom across my office—I work long hours and frequently have to attend Billionaires’ Club events, which I go to directly from here. Fortunately for me, there’s also a wardrobe and it’s always stocked with an array of outfits. I pull out a black pantsuit and a silk camisole, trying not to think about what Emily will say when she notices the obvious change of clothes, pulling the silk top on quickly to dispense with the whole nakedness thing.

      I spin around to find him watching me with an expression I can only describe as indolent. He’s like some kind of crack cocaine to me—I’m high on him and already craving my next fix.

      I stare across at him—he’s pulled his boxers back on but there’s still an expanse of toned abs and tanned skin—and my mouth goes dry, my stomach loops and my fingers tingle.

      ‘I don’t do this.’

      He lifts a thick, dark brow, his expression quirking with curiosity. ‘Do what?’

      ‘This.’ I gesture from him to me. ‘Sleep with clients. Sleep with anyone.’

      He laughs, the sound bouncing around my office. My pulse trembles. ‘You weren’t a virgin.’

      I jerk my head. ‘Yeah, but…’

      He begins to prowl towards me.

      ‘It had been a while.’

      I told him that in Sydney. There’s no point in denying it.

      ‘What’s “a while”?’

      I swallow, my throat bone dry. I wave my hand in the air in what I hope passes as some kind of descriptor of time. He catches it in his, lacing our fingers together and holding it at my side.

      Up close, I look at him—really look at him—in a way I haven’t had the luxury of doing yet. I notice things that previously passed me by. Not because they didn’t warrant notice, but because there’s so much of him that demands attention: his square jaw; his perfectly sculpted lips; the little indent above his mouth, forming a bridge to his nose; a nose that is straight and strong—patrician, appropriately, given his pedigree—but that has a bump halfway down, as if it’s been broken at some point. His lashes are thick and dark and clumpy, and close up it almost looks as if he’s wearing eyeliner. He’s not, but that’s the effect the weight of his lashes combines to create. He has a silvery scar near his hairline—a single, trembling line about an inch long, very faint and, going by the shimmery paleness of it, earned long ago, perhaps even as a boy.

      My tummy swoops. ‘Oh, you know, years.’

      ‘Years?’ The word is like a curse, and his brow dips as if he can’t even comprehend this concept. I can’t really blame him—standing here in a post-orgasm glow, I have no idea why I’ve denied myself this for as long as I have.

      I go to pull away but his hand squeezes mine. ‘Years?’ Softer, gentler, less shocked, more wondering.

      ‘Yeah.’ I don’t meet his eyes. I hate feeling like this. Most people look at me with awe and it’s pushed my vulnerabilities deep inside me. But suddenly, I feel gauche and insecure; I feel like the gangly, solitary teen I was after Abbey died and I realised I had no one who really knew me.

      I make an effort to straighten and transform into Imogen Carmichael, entrepreneur, philanthropist.

      ‘It’s not a big deal, okay?’

      ‘I beg to differ. Are you some kind of masochist? Or nun?’

      ‘Clearly not the latter.’

      ‘So why the hell have you been single so long?’

      I square my shoulders but make no effort to pull my hand away from his. I like touching him. That should set alarm bells off inside my brain. Maybe it does. I ignore them, though, staying right where I am, his naked torso with that cursive script tattoo inked over his heart calling to me.

      ‘I’ve been busy,’ I point out, waving my free hand around the office.

      ‘But sex is…’

      ‘Yeah, yeah.’ I roll my eyes. ‘To you, sex is like breathing. I get it.’

      ‘I was going to say,’ he interrupts, a little gruffly, ‘that it’s an instinct. And it’s more than sex, it’s companionship. It’s falling asleep in someone’s arms, it’s having someone to laugh with.’

      ‘Says you, Mr Manhattan Playboy?’

      He lifts his defined shoulders. ‘So? A varied sex life doesn’t mean I don’t still enjoy those perks.’

      It’s an admission I didn’t expect. Our eyes connect and something electrifies my pulse. ‘With a different woman every night, right?’

      His eyes hold mine unflinchingly and I admire him for his lack of apology. Why should he apologise? He’s a renowned bachelor; he lives as he preaches. Everyone who sleeps with him knows what they’re getting.

      Great sex.

      Lots of it.

      But just for a night or so.

      I knew that—it’s why I approached him, specifically, in the forums. I didn’t want the complication of a guy who might want more from me.

      Which somewhat begs the question as to why he’s here.

      And why I don’t feel more annoyed about it.

      ‘You like sex,’ he says, as if I’m a puzzle he wants to work out.

      My cheeks flush. Because up until a week ago, I didn’t know how much I like sex. I’ve only been with two guys. My college boyfriend, who it turns out was using me to access my mother’s production company connections, and Jackson, who was ‘great on paper’ but a complete dud in real life. It’s a shame it took me six months to work that one out.

      In any event, the sex with both was…nice. At best.

      ‘Apparently,’ I murmur, scanning his face.

      I had no idea it could be so completely mind-blowing. I mean, I’ve read my fair share of romance novels and watched movies where the women just have to be kissed on the nose to go into a full-blown orgasm, and I’ve always thought it was a stupid fantasy.

      Not so much now.

      ‘You came looking for sex,’ he prompts, and I get a glimpse of the determination that’s made Nicholas Rothsmore such a success in business, away from his family’s prestigious standing in society. He has a needle-sharp focus and he’s using it to sift through my soul.

      ‘Yes.’ I jut my chin out unapologetically.

      ‘Why?’

      I open my mouth to answer and then shake my head. ‘I told you, it’s been a while.’

      ‘So why now?’ he persists.

      My eyes drop away from his, skimming the walls of my office. This place is my home away from home and yet it’s nothing like the real me. Elegant Scandinavian furniture, obvious signs of wealth and success. It’s what my clients expect.

      ‘I guess…’ I search for an answer. The truth is, it wasn’t one thing or another. People in the club have been pairing off lately. There’ve been engagements and rumoured weddings, and I guess it’s made me realise how far I am from that. It’s the knowledge that I’m approaching thirty and that happy couple life is nowhere near being on my horizon. But mostly, it was desire. Curiosity. Loneliness—the kind that permeates me on a cellular level, so I could no longer ignore it.

      He squeezes my hand so I jerk my attention back to his face.

      ‘I just wanted to get laid.’