Burn My Hart (The Notorious Harts 2)

‘Mine or yours?’

‘Don’t. Care.’ I rip my face from his as though I’m pushing out of the ocean, on the brink of drowning. ‘Now.’

CHAPTER SIX

I HAVE NO idea if we’ll make it to either of our places. I throw a wad of bank notes on the table and pull her to standing, and then we’re weaving our way through the restaurant with a lift of my hand to the waitress. In the warm, sultry air of New York, I pull her body to mine, kissing her as we step away from the restaurant and around the corner. As soon as we’re in the lane I push Asha to the wall, my body hard against hers, need overpowering me.

I haven’t felt like this since I was a school kid—maybe not even then. Every decent bone in my body is screaming at me to wait but I can’t. I’m burning up with need. Her hands are pushing at my shirt, lifting it from my pants so her fingers can trace my flesh, feel the ridges of my chest, then she’s at my pants, undoing the belt so I laugh and shake my head because with almost zero encouragement I would lift her up and take her against this brick wall, so help me God. Only the sound of passing pedestrians has me stilling, burying my head against her hair, shielding her from view of passers-by.

They walk on, but the fever is still alive between us. I half pull, half drag Asha—or is it the other way around?—toward my car, not breaking our kiss, our hands moving fervently over each other’s bodies as we go. I fumble with the handle, wrenching the door to the back seat open with relief and pulling her inside on top of me.

‘Thank fuck for tinted windows,’ I grunt as she straddles me. It’s awkward as hell and she makes a noise of impatience when her ankle connects with my knee.

Her skirt rips as she straddles me but I’m not sure she notices.

‘Jesus.’ I reach behind me for my wallet, unfurling it and pulling out a foil square. I slip it over my length and a second later she’s taking me inside, her long, husky moan the sound of surrender and relief, of bliss and desperation. She rocks on her haunches as she takes me again and again, using my length to pleasure herself, tilting her head back, rocking on top of me as though she can’t get enough. I look up at her beautiful face and then I’m dragging her head down, kissing her and lifting my hips, holding her body lower so I can drive deeper into her.

Her cries grow faster, more urgent, and higher in pitch and then she’s coming, her muscles squeezing me tight, her body racked with the cacophony of her release. I want to hold off but I can’t. I grip her shoulders and kiss her as silently, desperately, I orgasm, spilling myself into her, wondering if anything has ever felt this perfect before.

Our breathing is the only noise in the confines of the car. She pants and I tilt my head back so I can look at her through the veil of stars that has filled my eyes. She looks how I feel—like she’s waking up from some kind of dream.

‘Well, that’s a first,’ she murmurs, pulling a little grimace that’s frankly adorable.

‘Sex in a car?’

‘Sex in a car.’ She nods, lifting up and pulling away from me. ‘Wanting someone so bad I either have to leave a restaurant or go under the table.’ She turns her face to mine, smiling at me so I know that, despite the intense way we just fucked, she’s okay.

‘Dinner was a stupid idea,’ I say with a nod. ‘We’re not cut out to sit across a table from each other.’

‘Nope.’ She lifts a hand and trails her finger over my cheek. ‘No more restaurants.’

‘Deal.’

She frowns. ‘I can’t look at you without touching.’

My chest swells with the force of a thousand and one bulls. ‘Just as well I like you touching me.’

‘Just as well.’

‘So—’ I angle myself in the seat, swiping the condom off my length and reaching for a tissue from the side door. I wrap it up and jam it in my pocket. ‘My place or yours?’

Her eyes flare wider. ‘You can drop me off if you want. You don’t need to...’

I stare at her for so long she tapers off into nothing. ‘You think once is enough?’

Pink floods her cheeks and she shakes her head, her lips lifting into a smile. ‘My place. My skirt...’

‘Ah.’ I remember the sound of it splitting and reach down to the side seam. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault.’

‘Not even a little?’

‘Well, maybe just a little,’ she agrees with a gentle laugh. ‘But I’d do it all again. It’s just fabric.’

Her place is only a short drive from the restaurant and I’m conscious of her the whole way there. I’m conscious of the expanse of thigh that’s shown by the split in her skirt, of the way her hair is all messy because of me. I’m conscious of the fact I’ll never be able to drive this car again without looking in the rear-view mirror and seeing the way our bodies came together in the back.

Fuck.