The Season To Sin - Clare Connelly

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life he’s lived that caused him to phone me. At the fact he’s making me want to throw caution to the wind and make him mine.

      ‘No,’ I say finally. ‘I think I can help you. If you want to be my patient.’

      ‘I don’t have time to be a patient,’ he says, and it’s so scathing that a shiver runs down my spine.

      ‘Well, unfortunately, it takes time,’ I point out firmly. ‘There’s no quick fix for whatever has led you to me.’

      ‘You’re confident saying that when you don’t have the faintest idea why I organised this meeting?’

      ‘Yes.’ I glare at him. ‘You know why, Noah?’ God help me, the taste of his name on my lips is addictive. ‘Because I do this all day, every day. People like you walk into my life, wearing your issues like a coat that only I can see.’

      He narrows his eyes.

      ‘It’s in the set of your shoulders, the depths of your eyes. I see it.’ I lean back and feel my heart pounding hard against my forearms. ‘Trauma isn’t something that can be drunk away. Nor is it something I can wave my magic wand and cure. The only way to get beyond it is to work through it. It’s not a pleasant process, I won’t lie to you. Sometimes the healing can feel worse than the original pain. But I can promise you that if you don’t work through your problem you’re going to come unstuck one day. I wonder if that hasn’t already happened. Is that why you’re here?’

      ‘This is a load of bullshit.’

      I can’t help it. The woman might be hotter than Hades, but she’s spouting psychobabble crap out of that beautiful red mouth of hers and it makes my skin crawl.

      I hate this shit. I’ve heard it all before. If it hadn’t been for Gabe’s ultimatum, I’d never have arranged to meet her. But I’d do just about anything for Gabe, even without the threat to stand me down from the company while I ‘sort myself the hell out’—his words. I don’t want to see a shrink, and I have no intention of seeing Dr Scott-Leigh—hell, I don’t want to see anyone. I’m going through the motions, that’s all. But I didn’t come here expecting her to get under my skin like she is. I didn’t expect to find her utterly fascinating.

      ‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ she murmurs, and I wonder how she’d feel if I were to slip my hands under her dress, finding the softness of her thighs, the heat between her legs.

      I drink the water again, thinking I really should have chosen a bar instead of this busy central London café. I replace the water glass and prop my elbows on the table, enjoying the way her eyes flare a little wider as my body looms closer, before she tamps down on the response and is all businesslike professionalism again.

      Is there a Mr Dr Scott-Leigh?

      No wedding ring, and you’d bet her husband would be smart enough to make sure she wore one. With a body like hers, she’s no doubt got a never-ending queue of men at her door. Hell, if she were mine, I’d chain her to my bed. At least until the novelty wore off.

      My lips twist at the missed opportunity. Yes, I definitely should have suggested a bar after-hours. Somewhere I could actually do something about the fantasies I’ve had about her since she walked in, aching to dispel all professionalism and aloofness.

      I heave out a sigh, returning my attention to her face. It’s a face that is objectively beautiful. Huge blue eyes, a nose that can only be described as cute, with a neck that is elegant. Her hair is as fair as sunlight and it’s plaited in a way that tells me she’s trying to tame herself but, in contradiction to that, she’s wearing little red earrings that I see now are Christmas gifts with glittering green ribbon.

      She’s what my nine-year-old self would have called fancy. All perfectly groomed and sweet-smelling, flawless and poised in a way that a ballerina would envy.

      I know lots of women now, fancy and not. Fancy women tend to throw themselves at me, and it doesn’t matter if their lingerie is high-end or from a supermarket, they’re all just as eager to strip it off their bodies at the smallest encouragement.

      They all scream with pleasure just the same.

      She’s watching me patiently, waiting for me to speak, and I can only guess it’s a tactic taken from Therapy for Beginners. But it has little to no impact on me.

      I watch back, my expression impassive, my lips curled with the derision I am famed for.

      ‘Well.’ She concedes defeat by speaking first. ‘I suppose we can always talk about the weather.’

      ‘Or we could talk about you.’

      ‘Me?’ I’ve surprised her. Again. Her lips open into a circle that is distractingly erotic. ‘I’m not on the agenda. Sorry.’

      Her manner tells me she’s anything but apologetic.

      ‘So I’m supposed to bare my soul and you give me nothing?’

      Her smile is tight. She’s pissed off. It’s the first time I realise that I like riling her up; definitely not the last. ‘Well, if you decide you want to undertake therapy, then I give you peace of mind in due course,’ she murmurs.

      But she’s got no idea what ghosts run through me; what shadows fill my being. I am a wraith of my past’s creation.

      ‘Holly, I highly fucking doubt that.’

       CHAPTER TWO

      HER HAIR IS longer than I realised. And so much softer. Up close as I am, it smells like vanilla and honey.

      I know it’s a dream but, for the first time in a month, a woman has chased her from my mind and I am free from the cursed hauntings of my past. I clutch at the fine threads of this dream, refusing to let it slip from my mind.

      ‘I love it when you kiss me,’ Holly murmurs, her lips a perfect red. I reach for her, pulling her to me, my hands large against her fine frame, my fingers splayed wide on her hips.

      Her body is pliant at my touch. Easy to control.

      Surrendered completely to me, and what I can give her.

      I yank her—hard—against my chest, enjoying the soft exhalation that brushes my jaw. Her breasts feel so much better than I imagined. They’re firm and soft at the same time, so big and round. I lift a hand and palm one, my thumb brushing over her nipple, my fingers possessive and demanding.

      She looks at me on a tidal wave of confusion and uncertainty. This is new and different and she doesn’t know how to respond.

      She doesn’t need to worry.

      I know enough for both of us.

      I lift her easily—she’s light and I’m strong—and wrap her legs around my waist. I don’t know how I want her but, God, I know I need her. 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

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