I ignore the barbs of jealousy.
‘But that’s always the end of it.’
I nod, even when I don’t quite understand.
‘Always. I prefer not to think of the women I’ve slept with again.’ Our eyes are locked, and just holding his gaze is making my blood surge.
‘So why can’t I stop thinking about you, Cora?’ He says my name deliberately, to show not only does he remember it, it’s haunting him in some way, not touching me, drinking his beer as though in doing so he’ll be able to contain a need to reach for me.
But I can’t analyse it because pleasure is zipping through me now too. Intense pleasure at his admission, at realising that for every ounce of determination I’ve had to bring to my mind to stop from thinking about him, he’s dealing with that too.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, but the words are lighter, happier, because this feels like good news. It doesn’t change what I want from him but it makes me feel as though I’m not alone in that. We’re both out on a limb, navigating this strange dependency simultaneously.
He moves towards me, his purpose clear, and I stay where I am, waiting, needing, wanting.
‘Why can’t I stop goddamned thinking about you?’ His words reverberate with frustration, so I gather he’s really been trying—and failing—to put me from his mind.
‘I don’t know,’ I repeat, lifting a hand to his chest, letting my fingers splay across his pectoral muscle so I can feel the strong beating of his heart beneath my palm. My eyes latch to his and there’s promise in their depths, as well as my need.
‘But I’ve been having the same problem.’
He lifts one brow, curving his hand around my wrist and lifting my hand to his lips. He kisses my palm then moves it to my side, so his body can touch mine, so we’re toe to toe.
‘I want you to stay the night.’
My heart trips because the way he says that, it’s not just an invitation. It speaks of a visceral need, like I hold the key to his survival in the palm of my hand, as though my answer alone will determine his fate.
I stare at him, my pulse galloping through me. I wonder if I should fight this harder, control it better, but ultimately, if the last week has taught me anything it’s that I’d be waging a futile battle.
I want Holden. I need him in the same way he needs me.
And so I nod slowly, just a small shift of my head but it’s enough. For as long as he’s in Sydney he’s mine and I’m his, and that’s that.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Seven nights left in Sydney
‘I LIKE THIS ONE.’
Her fingertips move over my chest, tracing a tattoo I had done a long time ago.
‘Yeah?’ A gruff sound. I let my fingertips undertake their own exploration. There are no marks on her skin; it’s flawless. Fresh, beautiful, unmarked, undamaged, except by the ravages of my lovemaking, which was thorough and has wrought changes on her flesh, changes that will fade as the day goes on. To be replaced by me next time?
I catch the thought, spinning it over in my brain, because it’s unusual and odd. Then again, I’ve accepted that this is unusual. I’ve accepted the ways in which she’s different to my usual lovers.
‘It’s...pretty.’
That almost makes me laugh. I tilt my head to look at her. Her eyes are trained on my chest, beautiful eyes, a shade I’ve never really seen before. Deep and golden, like trapped sunrays and honeycomb.
‘You know what I mean. Delicate.’ She flicks those eyes towards me. I look away, towards the tattoo again, my frown instinctive.
‘What is it?’
‘A rose.’
‘Yes, I should have said, “Why is it?”’
My gut clenches. ‘No one’s ever asked me that before.’