The Season To Sin. Clare Connelly
Her dress is floaty, it moves easily over her hips, granting me the access I need. Even though it’s my dream and I should be able to control this shit, she’s wearing underwear—a barrier I don’t want.
Her hands wrap around my neck, drawing my head closer to hers, and she’s kissing me, her tongue seeking mine, duelling with me, her eyes swept closed against the assault of this passion.
But I don’t want to kiss her.
Kissing is romance and reward—fucking is not. Fucking is passion and need—a primal, physical act that is over when it ends.
I break my mouth free and stride across the room. I don’t know where we are. Dreams are funny like that. I push her back against a wall and, with her weight supported by the wall and my hips, I rip her dress open at the front. She’s not wearing a bra—thank you, dream gods—and I crush my mouth to her breast, rolling my tongue over her nipple until she whimpers, and then I move to the other, this time pressing it with my teeth so her back arches forward and her fingernails dig into my shoulders.
I’m naked now—in a dream, clothes are capable of simply disappearing—and I slide her panties aside with my fingers, my eyes mocking her, teasing her, as I nudge my cock to her entrance, hitching myself at her seam, feeling her moist heat before sliding deep inside her.
She groans, a sound that comes from the base of her throat, and I laugh.
‘This is just the beginning, baby,’ I promise.
And because I’m pursued by demons that seek to punish me, I wake up at that moment, sweat beading my brow and a cock that’s harder than stone. I drop my hand to it, rubbing my fingers up and down my length, curving my palm over my thickness.
It’s no good.
Having dream-fucked Holly, I need the real thing.
I reach for my phone and check the time. It’s midnight. I’ve been asleep only forty minutes. For Christ’s sake.
I scroll through my calendar, going back to Tuesday last week when I met Dr Scott-Leigh in that café.
Her contact details are in the appointment file. I click on her email address:
Holly,
I need to see you again. Tomorrow.
I consult my calendar once more—these sleepless nights are playing havoc with my short-term memory.
Four p.m. is my only free time.
NM
I drop the phone to my bed and push up. I dress quickly, or as quickly as I can when my dick is like a tent pole, and throw back a tumbler of straight vodka, then call one of my drivers—there are four on rotation.
Graeme is on the roster.
He’s probably the least able to hide his disapproval of my lifestyle, and that gives me a perverse sense of amusement.
‘Where to, sir?’ he asks without meeting my eyes. Did I wake him? Tough. It’s his job, after all.
‘Mon More,’ I say, naming a club in Putney. Julianne has haunted my dreams for a month and now Holly is taking over. The only thing I know is I can escape them both in a loud bar with free-flowing booze.
It’s not like I’ve been thinking of him since our appointment. At least, not only of him. I’ve had a lot else on my mind. Like working out how I’m going to make a Virgin Mary costume for Ivy before her Christmas concert and when I’ll have time to help her with the gingerbread house she’s determined to give her grandmother this year.
No, I’ve been far too busy to think only of Noah Moore.
Except at night, when my head hits the pillow and I shut my eyes. Then, all I can see is his face, his beautiful, exquisite, tortured face, his haunted eyes and sexy mouth, his body that I want to throw myself at, to curl up against, to be held and comforted by. He makes me want to surrender to his touch, to be safe within his arms.
I’m smart enough to know how absurd that is, but if I can’t have the real thing, I should at least be able to satisfy myself with the fantasy. Right?
I’ve had plenty on my plate this week but, when I arrive at my office this morning, fate seems to have conspired to throw Noah Moore at my feet.
His email detonates in my consciousness like a charge. It’s barely civil and it’s sure as hell not how appointments are made. I can’t even say for sure how he got my email address—it’s not on my business cards and I don’t routinely welcome patients to communicate with me directly.
There has to be a divide between my work and my home life. That’s the way this works best.
Not for Noah Moore, though. I’m surprised to find a wry smile has rubbed across my lips when I scan my calendar for availability and none of the usual clinical detachment chills my emotions.
My day is full, and yet if I were to swap my one o’clock for twelve o’clock and miss lunch, I could move my four o’clock forward and make time for Noah.
I swallow past the doubts.
I can’t say why, but I am compelled to answer, and I am driven by a desperate need to see him again.
I send a quick reply:
Noah,
I can meet with you again, but it will have to be in my office. Four p.m. works. Don’t be late—I have another appointment directly after.
Dr Scott-Leigh
I send it, pleased with the fact I’ve kept it so formal, pleased with the way my email doesn’t, in any way, shape or form, convey how utterly devastatingly sexy I think he is.
I’m proud and pleased as I load up the news browser I always read before starting work and Beatrice strides in with a coffee and bagel.
‘Morning, Holly,’ she says with a smile and leaves again without waiting for a response.
I love this woman so much.
She knows how desperately I need my sacred ten minutes without interruptions and I so appreciate her giving me that. Only now my brain is full of interruptions. Questions about Noah, his habits, his problems, his intentions, his needs.
I want to know him and I want to help him.
And I can’t be at my most effective, therapeutically, if other issues, like my raging desire and the fact I haven’t slept with a guy in over five years, take over my brainpower.
I employ mindfulness, breathing in deeply, exhaling slowly, counting beats and blanking my mind until I feel more like myself again.
But it’s a godawful day.
I feel like I’m operating at half my usual capacity. I drag my brain through appointments, eat a muesli bar between my two and three o’clocks and then, after my three o’clock leaves, make a quick phone call to the hospital to check on a patient of mine.
When I disconnect the call, Beatrice buzzes through that Noah Moore has arrived.
My pulse leaps immediately, my heart thumps hard against my chest and my fingers begin to shake. I cast a quick glance at the compact I keep in my top drawer, run fingers over hair I have today left loose and stand to greet him.
I didn’t know Noah Moore would book an appointment—it’s not for him that I’ve worn this outfit but, the second he enters the room, his green eyes skim over me and I get a kick of satisfaction at the speculation I see in his eyes.
Holy hell.
What am I doing?
I have no business feeling all warm and tingly because he’s staring at the way my leather skirt hugs my hips. It’s high-waisted—it comes up to my belly button—and I’m wearing a gold cashmere sweater tucked into it. It’s an outfit I would describe as perfectly professional but, the way his eyes light on my silhouette, I feel like a centrefold.
‘Mr