Burn My Hart (The Notorious Harts 2)
‘Got it.’ He leans forward and presses a kiss to my cheek. I bristle and hope he doesn’t notice.
‘Thanks for the company. Your stepmother was right—you’re charming.’
* * *
He’s Greek. Or Greek-American. But the American part of him is almost completely muted by his Greek heritage, which expresses itself in myriad ways: his complexion, dark like burnt butter, with eyes the colour of ebony, a chest that is broad and muscular and covered in a sprinkle of hair, and features that are symmetrical and strong, as though they’ve been chiselled from granite.
A week after my stepmother’s birthday and I’m at Theo’s place, pressed against the floor-to-ceiling glass, my body raw with feelings as he holds my hips and takes me from behind, his every shift an intimate possession that sparks fire in my blood, just like that first night. Manhattan twinkles beneath us, bright lights in slender columns, and directly outside on his rooftop terrace is an infinity pool that will be perfect for cooling the day’s heat, and passion’s tempest, from my body.
But thought isn’t possible. Not when his hands come around my front, cupping my breasts, his fingers strumming my nipples so I cry his name again and again and push my hips back, taking him deeper, moaning as he does just what I’ve wordlessly asked for. One of his hands drops to my clit and he massages me there skilfully so I explode without warning, swearing over the top of his name. He stills, letting me absorb this, letting me feel every single damned sensation before he moves once more, his hands roaming my body, touching every inch of me, each thrust slow at first and building until he’s joining me in a powerful crescendo that robs me utterly of breath.
He grabs my body, pulling me to stand, holding me almost straight against him and buries his face in the crook of my shoulder so I hear his ragged exhalation as he loses control and comes deep inside of me.
‘Wow.’ It’s minutes later before I’m capable of speaking. And even then I’m still not really able to articulate anything meaningful. ‘Wow.’
He laughs, but I feel his own surrender to this, his own awe at the power of our physical connection. Sex with us is out of this world. ‘Yeah, wow.’
Slowly, I move away from him, but he keeps hold of me, spinning me in the circle of his arms. His face is perfection. I stare at him for several beats then smile, kissing his nose and moving to the side.
‘Thanks.’
He laughs. ‘You don’t have to thank me every time.’
I lift a brow, reaching for my camisole. ‘But you’re so good at that.’
He watches as I slip the silk over my head and reach for my thong. ‘So, Charlotte, huh?’
It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the afternoon of my stepmother’s party. I’m not surprised he’s brought this up—I am surprised, though, that I haven’t thought of a way to answer it. And yet we don’t really do this, talk about personal stuff. I lift my shoulders. ‘It’s no big deal.’
‘No? It’s kind of a strange nickname.’ He pulls his jeans on and moves to the kitchen, grabbing a beer out and lifting the top. He’s so stunning in that moment I give myself a few seconds to drink him in—the caramel of his complexion, the breadth of his muscled chest, a frame that doesn’t have an inch of spare flesh.
‘It’s my christened name.’
He’s still and watchful as those words digest. ‘You were
born Charlotte?’
‘I was born a baby,’ I correct, teasing, pulling my skirt over my hips and zipping it up. ‘My dad called me Charlotte after my mom...’ I swallow, the rush of sadness familiar. ‘My mom died a little after I was born. Complications from my delivery. Her name was Charlotte.’
He frowns, considering that. ‘You didn’t like the name?’
‘I didn’t like the ghost.’
He holds his beer towards me. I take a long sip, then pass it back.
‘It’s hard to explain,’ I say after a moment. ‘I just felt like every time my dad looked at me he saw my mom. Or, rather, he saw the myriad ways I was nothing like her. Changing my name didn’t really change that but I guess I thought it might.’ I paste an over-bright smile to my face, not really wanting to drag this shit show into our light and fun relationship. ‘Besides, it was during my rebellious teenage phase. I did a lot of stupid crap back then.’
‘So you legally changed your name?’ he pushes, a smile hovering at the edges of his lips.
‘Yep.’
‘Why Asha?’
‘I liked it.’ I shrug. ‘It means hope. It felt...appropriate at the time.’
I feel like he wants to ask me something else, like he wants to ask me many things, but he doesn’t. He pulls me towards him instead, takes a drink of his beer and then kisses me, pushing the liquid into my mouth so I laugh and swallow, my hand pressing to his naked chest. I love how light he keeps this.
‘You free Friday?’