The Dare Collection: May 2018. Clare Connelly
I quicken my step. ‘You and me both,’ I hear myself respond, hugely impressed at my ability to sound almost normal.
‘What were your plans tonight?’
‘Drinks with the girls.’ I shrug. ‘Then home by ten to catch up on Poldark and do a face mask.’
He pulls a face.
‘What? You don’t approve?’
‘Of Poldark? It’s something my mother watches.’
‘Mmm... Her and every other red-blooded woman on the planet.’
‘Seriously?’
He squeezes my hand again. I love the way that feels. Like he’s reaching right into my heart and giving it a little paddle with electricity.
‘Uh, yeah. Poldark is awesome. Hot, hot, hot. You should watch it.’
‘After that recommendation? How could I not?’
We stop at an intersection and traffic moves through it, too thick for us to go against the lights. And so we wait.
The night is balmy—I love New York nights like this.
‘Yeah. Summer’s got something going for it.’
I hadn’t realised I’d spoken aloud until he answered my observation. He pulls my hand, so that I bump closer to him. I love the way he smells. The way he feels. A shiver of something a bit like apprehension runs down my spine but I refuse to analyse it. The problem is, though, I’m really not this girl any more. I used to be able to just roll with the night...have fun without taking a second to think about the consequences.
When, exactly, did I grow out of that?
I remember learning to drive and my dad telling me that young people always think they’re invincible. I guess it’s true. It’s so easy to believe that nothing will happen—nothing will go wrong.
And nothing has gone wrong for me, yet caution has set into my bones along with age. At twenty-five I am less able to ignore the paths before me, and I wonder which this night will lead to.
After we’ve slept together—then what? Do I stay the night? Or creep out while he sleeps? If I stay, do we have breakfast together?
And then...?
Do I give him my number and wonder if Ethan I-have-won-a-million-Grammys Ash will call me? Worse, do I take his number and then call him? Agonising over what to say and whether he wants to see me again?
‘So, Alesandre, when you’re not being impossibly sexy in tacky bars what do you do with yourself?’
‘Alesandre is just the Italian version of Alexandra, you know.’
‘Mmm. So that’s a no. Altona?’
I laugh and shake my head. The lights switch to green and we move across the street, each as swiftly as the other, our mutual anxiety to be in privacy barrelling towards us.
‘My flatmates chose the venue.’ I wrinkle my nose. ‘They like it.’
They like the prices, really, but loyalty keeps me quiet on that score. Cassie’s a Broadway actress, but roles are few and far between and she’s forever auditioning and waiting for her big break. She’s an incredible performer, though—I have no doubt she’ll hit it big. Eliza is a primary school teacher, and while she works hard she seems to spend almost her entire salary on stuff for her students. New supplies, craft projects, science experiments...
Maybe if she didn’t insist on doing that we’d be able to drink in slightly more salubrious accommodations.
‘You’re not from New York?’
‘How can you tell?’ I look up at him, surprise obvious on my face.
He draws us to a slow stop just before moving down East Twenty-Second. ‘Your accent.’
‘You can pick up on that?’
He grins. ‘Is that weird?’
I bite down on my lip to stop myself groaning at how damned sexy the twist of his lips is. Ahead of us, the retro light installation above the Gramercy Park Hotel leads a path to our immediate future. Beneath it there’s a huddle of people. I’m not sure, at first, why they’re just standing there—and then I make out the shape of a long-lens camera.
‘There’s 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