Unbreak My Hart (The Notorious Harts 4)

His eyes are guarded. ‘Yeah.’

I’m not surprised. Everyone’s heard of Moatsy. It’s the fastest growing data protection company in the world. Not only do we track who’s tracking you, we put safeguards on registered devices, making the sale of browsing information almost impossible. Corporations were my first clients but in the last couple of years the average Joe has become—quite rightly—concerned with the open slather collection of personal information for the purpose of commercial gain.

‘That’s me.’

‘No shit. You’re on my phone.’

His hand creeps higher. My pulse fires. ‘I hope to be on a lot more than your phone before the night is done.’

No laugh this time. Just a look in his eyes that I can’t analyse.

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-nine. You?’

‘Do I have to answer the questions?’ His hand nudges higher.

‘I can make it worth your while.’

But before I can lift my hand to his cock he shakes his head. ‘You’d better not do that.’

‘No?’

‘We wouldn’t want the night to end prematurely.’

‘Have you got something against telling me your age?’

For a moment a frown shifts on his face, and then he smiles, a lazy smile that’s slow to spread. It sparks curiosity low in my gut. ‘I got the feeling you didn’t want to know anything about me.’

I tilt my head to the side, considering that. ‘True. Still, a quid pro quo seems only fair.’

‘Is that right?’ His hand shifts slightly higher. I haven’t technically answered a question but I don’t point that out.

‘I like to take as well as give,’ I tease, moving closer so his hand brushes close to my sex.

His eyes narrow and I hear a faint hiss escape from between his teeth. ‘I’m thirty-three.’

‘And is there a Mrs Byron-Moore?’

‘Mmm...’ His noise of assent is a low rumble and I freeze. I might have very few standards when it comes to indiscriminate, passionate sex, but infidelity is a line I will never cross. I’ve got no interest in screwing another woman’s husband—nor in getting off with the kind of man who’d cheat on his wife.

I reach down, curving my hand over his wrist, pulling it away. His expression doesn’t change. He feels no guilt, evidently.

‘And how would she feel to see you with your hand up my dress?’

‘My mother has very little interest in my sex life.’

‘Oh.’ If I’d had any doubts as to how much I want him, the instant tsunami of relief would negate it. I am immeasurably glad he’s not married, glad I don’t have to walk away from the tension that’s humming between us.

‘Do you think I’d be here, doing this, if I was married?’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’

He looks...hurt. Fascinating.

‘I’m not like that.’

I lift my shoulders. A lot of men think they wouldn’t cheat, but in my experience that certainty’s about as rock-solid as a block of ice on a summer’s day.