Burn My Hart (The Notorious Harts 2)

‘He’s harder on Joshua.’ I make the distinction carefully. ‘He’s always expected more of him. Joshua is the boy.’ Derision at that old-fashioned notion creeps into my tone. ‘He was always the one who would carry on the family name, marry well, make babies and simultaneously grow the company at an exponential rate.’ I shake my head. ‘My dad did that. He’s formidable in business and he expected as much from Joshua.’

‘And you?’

I bite into my lower lip, aware I’m running dangerously close to criticising my father—something I aim not to do. ‘I think he’s happy I seem happy,’ I murmur. Not that Dad has any idea if I’m happy or not, really.

‘You’ve increased Fleurs Sauvages’s market share by almost twenty per cent in the last three years. Your revenue is up forty per cent on a decade ago.’

Despite the tenor of our conversation, I feel a laugh shifting through me. ‘You sound like you’re reading from our stock prospectus.’

He grins. ‘What can I say? I looked into you when we met.’

‘Did you now?’ I’m not sure what to make of that. ‘Why?’

A frown briefly mars his features. ‘Because I’ve never done this before and wanted to make sure of who you were.’

> His honesty floors me.

‘Does that bother you?’

I tilt my head to the side. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Caution runs in my veins. It always has but especially after the Holden debacle.’

Sympathy is easy to feel. The shock of that discovery must have torn through each brother in a different way.

‘And what else did you learn about me?’

‘That you’re the sexiest woman on earth?’ he murmurs, reaching for the hem of my skirt and pushing it up so his hand can creep along my thigh towards my underwear. My breath catches in my throat.

‘That was in our investor literature?’

‘Sure was.’

I laugh softly. ‘What else?’

‘That you’re incredibly good at what you do. That you’re clever and focused and driven and industry insiders all say that, without you, Fleurs Sauvages would have lost relevance instead of the way it’s transitioned to meet the needs of Gen Y.’

Heat blooms in my cheeks. ‘Such lavish praise.’ I tut. ‘Surely you know by now flattery will get you nowhere?’

‘You don’t like compliments?’

‘I don’t need them.’ I’ve had a lifetime without, so, frankly, they border on making me uncomfortable. I lean forward and pull his lower lip between my teeth, then kiss him hard, wrapping my fingers into his hair, dislodging it a little from the bun on the top of his head. His hand moves behind me—I realise a moment later that he’s pulling steak off the grill.

‘Burning,’ he says by way of explanation, capturing my mouth once more.

His other hand is between my legs and he brushes his fingers over my sex so I make a strangled, groaning sound into his mouth, earning a throaty agreement from him.

‘I suddenly feel like dinner was a crappy idea.’

‘You could be right. How quickly can you eat?’

‘I’m not hungry.’

He pulls away and looks at me, nodding once. ‘We’ll get burgers delivered.’

He kisses me again, slower this time, and beneath the table his hand nudges my lace thong aside so his fingers collide with warm, wet flesh. He swears into my mouth as he slides a finger deep inside me so I buck in the booth seat, the blood in my body catching fire in a way that would rival the grill.

‘Home,’ I grunt, moving my body, wanting to push up and straddle him even as I’m vaguely aware that would be a really stupid thing to do in a crowded restaurant. ‘Now.’