The Dare Collection December 2019. Clare Connelly

I am on fire; I am burning up. ‘Please,’ I whimper, needing him, needing more, needing everything.

      He pulls away, up my body, his mouth finding my nipples, his hands roaming my skin freely, inquiringly, and I’m so hungry for him I can barely cope. I need to feel him inside me.

      ‘I want you,’ I beg.

      ‘I know.’ His smile is tighter now, tension on his face. He pauses, rolling a condom over his length, and hope is a beast inside me.

      His eyes hold mine as he pushes his rock-hard arousal into my wet core; my muscles spasm around him and I jerk against the handcuffs, wanting to touch him now, to feel his muscles bunch beneath me as I run my hands over his skin.

      His laugh is soft, a caress against my skin. He moves inside me, deeper, and I groan, surrendering to this completely. My body is an instrument and he plays me with perfection.

      Dawn is coming. Even in winter, when the sun rises later, nothing staves off morning’s eventual appearance. I watch him sleep, my own eyes heavy, my mind heavier, my heart a dead weight.

      I love him, and I have no hope that he loves me back. For me, this has been completely unprecedented. For Nicholas, this is his life, his norm. I have no reason to think anything has changed for him since we started up with this, whereas all the boundaries of my world have shifted.

      My eyes run over his beautiful face, disbelief curdling my insides.

      This is so much harder than I thought it would be.

      I shift in the bed.

      A coffee will help.

      I step out quietly, drawing one of his shirts from the wardrobe and pulling it over my nakedness as I prowl through to the kitchen.

      It’s snowed overnight. When I look down from the windows, I see the pavement is white like chalk, cars covered in a pale, sparkling blanket. I press a button on the coffee machine, cursing as it stirs to life. Even though it’s quiet, it’s not silent, and I look towards his bedroom door in time to see Nicholas shifting in bed. He looks for me and my heart groans, because I’m his first thought on waking.

      How can this be the end?

      He disappears from view and a second later steps into the lounge area, a pair of grey boxer shorts low on his hips. My eyes find his tattoo on autopilot; acid coats the inside of my mouth.

      ‘Is it even morning?’ he asks groggily, his face showing bemusement.

      ‘I have to get going,’ I say, my own voice tight like a wire that’s been pulled too taut.

      His eyes focus blearily on his watch. ‘It’s five o’clock.’

      ‘I know.’ I pull the coffee from the machine and cup it in my hands. I keep my back propped against the kitchen bench. I hope it looks nonchalant. I hope I seem better than I feel.

      ‘Come back to bed.’

      My heart groans. ‘I can’t.’

      ‘Why?’

      I swallow, focussing on the black liquid inside my cup. ‘Because we said this would be the end. And I have to go.’

      I don’t think the stilted statements make much sense, and this is confirmed when I lift my attention to his face. ‘Stay.’

      ‘A few more hours?’

      ‘No.’ He frowns. ‘I don’t have to be in England until New Year’s Eve. Spend Christmas with me.’

      I feel as if I’m being stretched on the rack. ‘What?’

      ‘A week’s extension on our original deal?’ His tone is teasing.

      Something shifts in my chest, something painful. ‘Why?’

      He shrugs his shoulders casually. ‘Why not?’

      My knees tremble. Fire spits through my veins. It’s so close to what I want, but, now that I understand how I feel, being with Nicholas for another night—let alone seven—would just be too hard.

      ‘Because, I can’t.’

      His expression is sceptical. I draw in a deep breath. ‘I have to get back to my normal life,’ I say emphatically—my normal life is my lifeline. It’s the talisman for who I used to be. ‘I have the Christmas drive for Chance, and the Christmas lunch I do every year.’ I bite down on my lip, looking away from him because I can’t bear to look into his eyes for another moment. ‘I can’t.’

      The last word wobbles a little. I sip the coffee to stave off some kind of emotional scene.

      ‘One more week.’

      ‘No.’ I am emphatic. I speak as if my life depends on it, and in many ways it does.

      He’s quiet a moment. ‘I don’t understand. Last night was…amazing. You’re saying you don’t want more of this?’

      ‘We said a month,’ I murmur. ‘We were clear about this. The Christmas benefit was to be the end.’

      ‘And that’s what you want?’

      I open my mouth to say something, but what can I say? That yes, I want more. I want too much more. How did this happen? The club and Chance have been my total priority for so long and I would have sworn they always would be, but now there’s something—someone—else who matters just as much, and despite the fact I swore this would be fun and casual and no-strings, despite the fact I initially loved the boundaries we put in place, I want to push against them now. I’m in love with him, and I know he doesn’t love me back, but, God, I can’t ignore how I feel.

      ‘Damn it, Imogen, it was an arbitrary line in the sand you decided on. Why can’t we shift it by one fucking week?’

      His anger sparks my own. I can no longer control my feelings, my rawness. ‘Because a week isn’t nearly enough, Nicholas. I don’t want just one more week with you. I want a lifetime, okay?’