His Innocent Seduction Read online

‘I could get used to this.’ The words don’t mean anything but, the second I say them, I wish I could retract them.

  He doesn’t answer, and I purposely don’t look at him. Silence stretches around us, not full of lust now—full of something else. Awkwardness, on my part.

  ‘Sex, I mean.’

  More silence.

  ‘I don’t mean sex with you. Sex in general.’

  Great. That sounds...stupid.

  I lift my hands up and cover my face and his strong wrists wrap around me, loosening my grip, exposing my eyes to his.

  ‘I know.’

  He’s watching me so intently and my insides quiver under the force of his attention. I reach for my dress, smoothing it down. He watches with a furrowed brow and then reaches out, lacing his fingers through mine.

  ‘The memory of your mouth on my cock is a memory that will drive me wild until I’m an old man, Millie.’

  Pleasure unfurls inside me. Shyness too. ‘Why did you stop me?’

  His voice is hoarse. ‘Because I was about to come.’

  ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’

  His eyes narrow a little and he leans forward, pressing a kiss against my mouth. I sigh, so perfectly happy in that moment that my heart trembles. ‘Yes. It’s a very good thing. But it’s also not something you’re ready for.’

  ‘Says who?’ I smile at him.

  He lifts a brow. ‘Me.’

  ‘And you know everything?’

  ‘I think we should take your education slowly.’

  ‘Oh, but Mr Brophy,’ I tease, ‘I’ve always been a fast learner and an A plus student.’

  His laugh is throaty. ‘That’s abundantly clear.’

  And yet his concern touches something inside me. He was looking out for me, my comfort. Protecting me.

  ‘Is it always like this?’

  The powerful airplane hits some turbulence and rocks a little. Oddly, for someone who’s a pretty bad flyer, the sensation, while lying down, is strangely pleasing. Or maybe that’s having Michael leaning over me, his face just inches above mine.

  ‘Sex is different with every partner,’ he says, somewhat noncommittally.

  I guess that makes sense. Hadn’t I just been thinking how intimacy would have an impact on closeness?

  ‘Have you ever slept with someone you were in love with?’

  He laughs again. ‘You’re a romantic, Millie.’

  ‘Am I?’

  He stands, pulling his pants back in place, strolling across the cabin and opening a small door. A liquor cabinet, concealed within the panelling. He pulls out two bottles of spring water and hands one to me. I crack the lid, watching him thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes,’ he says finally, but his smile seems somehow tight, his eyes a little serious.

  ‘I propositioned a stranger for sex; I don’t think that makes me a romantic.’ I sip the water. ‘I was just wondering if sex is different if it’s with someone you’re in a relationship with.’

  ‘Apart from knowing what the other likes in bed?’ he prompts, cynicism in his tone.

  I refuse to be diverted from my line of thinking. ‘Yes.’ And I kneel on the bed, scrambling over to where he stands at the edge, wrapping my arms around his back. ‘Think of this as the theoretical part of my study.’

  ‘And you’re a thorough student,’ he says seriously.

  ‘Uh huh.’

  His eyes are locked onto mine, and I am losing myself in their depths, their darkness, their intensity. I am losing all of myself. ‘How come you walked away from your career?’ he asks, still staring at me, still intense, despite the subject change.

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘You must have worked your ass off at uni. You’re a doctor working in a bar?’

  ‘It’s... I promised my mum,’ I say simply.

  His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. ‘But surely she would have wanted you to pursue your dream? I imagine medicine is your dream?’

  My dream? Such a romantic way of describing a vocation. ‘It’s something I’m good at.’

  At that Michael’s frown dips. ‘You could be good at lots of things. Why be a doctor?’

  ‘You don’t think saving lives is a noble pursuit?’

  ‘Sure. So is saving people from wrongful prosecution.’

  I bite down on my lip thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, of course.’ I tilt my head to the side. ‘I don’t know if I have an answer for you,’ I say after a moment. ‘I’ve always liked it. Fixing people, putting them back together. I’m good at it. I guess there was a confluence of events that led to me enrolling in medicine at university. And once I got in and did well, I didn’t think about it again.’

  ‘But it’s what you want to do?’

  ‘It’s what I’m trained to do.’ The distinction even makes me frown. The plane rocks again; I feel it more, kneeling. He wraps an arm around my back immediately, bracing me to him, holding me tight against the sky’s eddies.

  ‘And your mum must have been proud of you,’ he says softly, but with an undercurrent of something speculative I don’t understand.

  ‘Yes,’ I say simply. ‘She was.’

  ‘And then she told you to leave your life and come to the other side of the world?’

  Something like defensiveness pricks at my side. The man holding me tight is no longer my lover, he’s a skilled, ruthless barrister. ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ He strokes my back and for once I’m not distracted by the intimacy of our contact.

  ‘No. She begged me not to make the same mistakes she did,’ I say quietly, my heart aching for my beautiful mum, for the regrets she died clutching. Stupid, unpredictable tears make my throat thick.

  ‘What mistakes?’ he asks, not a hint of softness in his voice. I suppose being able to emotionally disconnect would be an essential skill for someone like Michael, but I don’t like being on the other end of it.

  I expel a soft breath. ‘I...’

  ‘We don’t have to talk about this,’ he says, lifting a finger to catch one of the tears that has escaped from my eyes without my notice.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say, frowning. ‘I...like talking about her.’ My smile is watery. ‘Show me a man who has no regrets when he dies and I’ll show you a fool. My mum used to say that.’

  He keeps a hand curved under my chin, holding my face where it is.

  ‘What were her regrets?’

  I note he doesn’t sympathise with the general sentiment. I don’t talk about my mum. Not because I’ve made a decision not to, but because there’s never really been anyone I would talk to about her. How do I feel about opening up to Michael Brophy, almost five months after my mum’s death?

  ‘I...’ I sigh again. It doesn’t feel wrong. It feels weirdly right. ‘Lots of things, I think.’ I move to look out of the window—there’s cloud for as far as the eye can see. ‘Mum was a brilliant surgeon. Quite renowned, actually.’ Pride tinges my voice. ‘But she very nearly wasn’t.’

  He’s silent.

  ‘She got pregnant in her first year at uni.’ Our eyes meet. ‘She had an abortion. She’d wanted to be a surgeon all her life. She’d moved away from home to study and it wasn’t...something she was ready for. Motherhood.’ My heart twists for the young woman she must have been. ‘When her parents found out, they were furious. They cut her off, refusing to have anything to do with her. My grandfather was a minister, strongly tied to his faith. And, apart from that, very conservative. They couldn’t get past the fact she’d fallen pregnant, let alone had an abortion. It offended them in every way.’

  He nods once, saying nothing.

  ‘She finished uni, worked. Worked obsessively. I have wondered, as I’ve got older, if she didn’t work so hard because she wanted to prove something to her mum and dad. Like maybe each time she did a surgery for the first time, saved a life, they
would finally be proud of her again.’ I shake my head. ‘She worked tirelessly, to the exclusion of anything else. And one day she woke up and realised she’d missed her chance to do anything but be a surgeon.’

  ‘So she had you,’ he says, no emotion in the words.

  ‘Yes.’ I smile. ‘She was beautiful; I’m sure she could have met someone, but she told me I was enough. More than enough.

  ‘She never travelled. Not more than an odd weekend away for a conference. She never travelled in the sense of finding herself. Of being footloose and fancy-free, of wandering the streets of a foreign city without responsibility or pressure. She never lived that life.’

  ‘So she wanted you to.’

  ‘Yes.’ I nod.

  ‘And now you’re travelling the world for your mother.’

  ‘And for myself.’ I smile. ‘I feel like the only person my age who hasn’t backpacked through Europe or Asia. I’ve had this picture of the Eiffel Tower in my bedroom since I was a teenager. That’s where I’m going next. I want to be there for Christmas.’ My voice cracks. ‘My first without Mum,’ I explain, forcing a smile to my face to undercut the sadness of that comment, the grief behind the words.

  He cups my face then and simply kisses me, and I don’t check the tears that drop from my eyes, because there is sadness in our conversation even when the happiness of his kiss, his possession, his desire for me, fires in my bloodstream.

  ‘You never answered my question,’ I say against his mouth, pulling away a little, wiping at my cheeks now.

  His eyes hold mine and I feel like he’s pulling me apart bit by bit, weighing each portion of me before returning me to myself. ‘I thought I loved her.’ He doesn’t smile, but the words are said with droll humour.

  ‘Who?’ I force myself to exhale.

  ‘Anita Kay. She was seventeen. The first girl I fucked.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I’m serious.’

  He grabs my hand, lifts it to his lips and kisses the inside of my wrist. My stomach lurches. ‘So am I.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She broke it off when she went to university. I was just a kid to her.’

  ‘You were just a kid,’ I say with a small shake of my head. ‘Did you pine for her, Michael? Did you cry into your pillows?’

  He laughs. ‘No. That’s not really my style.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like love then.’

  * * *

  I stare at my phone. Her number’s there, plus the few WhatsApp messages we’ve exchanged in the last week and a half. I run my finger over the screen, contemplating what I want to say.

  And draw a blank.

  Because I want to sleep with Camille Davis more than I’ve wanted just about anything in my life. I want her in a way that snaps me out of court. I want her in a way that robs me of the ability to think half of the time. I want her in a way that corrupts my dreams, that drives my actions; I want her in a way that is primal and all-consuming.

  I want her in a way that I know foretells of addiction.

  I want her more than I’ve ever wanted a verdict, a fee—more than I’ve ever wanted a drink, nearly more than I’ve ever wanted to see my father punished.

  We landed last night and I want her again now. Her flight to Paris is booked; she’s leaving soon and I’ll be free of this oppressive lust, this need, this burning requirement of another person.

  Dependency is bad. I’ve had a thousand demonstrations of that in my time. Dependency is the death knell to happiness. I won’t depend on anyone, or anything.

  I want her, though.

  I slam my phone down on my desk, pulling my tablet closer, reading through the latest evidentiary statement.

  I hated seeing her cry, and yet I was fascinated by her easy emotions too. I can’t remember the last time I felt anything so deeply. I don’t remember grief. I don’t know if I’ve ever known it so purely and completely as Millie.

  My eyes stray to my phone again. I turn it off.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE BAR IS PACKED. Worse than usual, because Ireland just beat France in a World Cup match and it feels like every man and his dog has crowded into O’Leary’s. We’re slammed.

  Which is why I don’t notice Michael when he first walks in. Why I don’t notice him when he steps to the bar. Why I don’t notice him until I’m literally standing in front of him, mixing a cocktail, and he says, ‘You look good enough to eat.’

  I jerk my head up hard enough to snap a muscle and I smile instinctively, widely, happily.

  It’s been about fifteen hours, but it feels like a month.

  ‘Hey.’ I bite down on my lip. ‘Wait right here.’ I lift a finger. ‘I’ll be back.’ I add a wedge of lime to the cocktail, move down the bar and deliver it, completing the transaction as quickly as possible. When I look up, he’s watching me and my skin seems to catch fire.

  We’ve got loads of staff in and I almost bump into another waitress as I weave my way back to Michael. I only have eyes for him. When I pull level, I fight an urge to lean over the bar and kiss him.

  But heat fires against my spine as though I have. I feel his lips on my body like we’ve touched.

  ‘How’s your case going?’

  His eyes spark with mine. ‘Fine.’

  I’ve missed you. The words are tight in my throat. I don’t say them. In fact, I wish I hadn’t even thought them. Stupid, foolish, inappropriate. Ridiculous! It’s been one day.

  One day.

  ‘The usual?’ My eyes roam his face hungrily.

  He doesn’t say anything for a really long time and I feel as though I’m falling down a well shaft.

  ‘Sure.’ I have the feeling that he’s waging a battle within himself and goosebumps mark my arms. I turn away from him, reaching for the bottle on the highest shelf. When I turn back, Michael’s eyes are running over my body with a possessiveness that fills me with instant, crazy need.

  I measure out his Scotch and place it on the bar. He’s put a fifty-euro note there.

  ‘You know,’ I tease, leaning closer so he can hear me. Leaning closer so I can breathe him in, then wishing I hadn’t when my stomach squeezes with a desire that is almost fatal. ‘There’s this nifty little invention. About yay big, made of plastic. What’s it called? Oh, a credit card.’

  He smiles, a lazy, indolent, beautiful curve of sculpted lips, lips that have driven me wild, lips that have kissed me in parts of my body that have never known touch before.

  ‘I’ll have to look into that,’ he murmurs, his eyes dropping to my lips.

  ‘I’m serious.’ I try to smile but desire is too thick in my blood. The air around us seems to hum and everyone else in the bar moves as if in slow motion.

  ‘I like cash.’

  It’s a simple statement, but there’s such magnitude in those three small words that I frown. ‘Why?’

  His eyes flick to mine. ‘It’s easier.’

  ‘Why?’

  He reaches out, taking my hand, and my body jolts to life, begging for more than this simple, almost clinical contact. He unfurls my fingers and places the note in my palm. ‘Thanks for the drink.’ His eyes are darker than usual.

  He releases my hand, stands and, holding his tumbler, moves away from the bar. I watch him go with a charge of adrenalin.

  I want him. He’s here. One way or another, when I leave work tonight, I’m going to have him.

  A smile stretches my face as I move to the register, depositing the cash and withdrawing the change. I put it on a silver tray and tuck it behind the bar. I’ll take it to him at the first chance I get. The bar is pumping, though, and, before I realise it, forty minutes have sped by.

  I grab his change tray and push out from behind the bar. It’s still busy, but there’s less demand for drinks now. People are well on their way to being hammered, sitting on their
drinks for longer, talking more, some are slurring.

  Michael’s around the corner, in the small alcove he was in the first night I approached him. His back is to me now, as it was then. ‘Can I get you anything else, sir?’ I murmur as I come to stand behind him. His glass is still half-full, leading me to wonder if he’s been served by someone else and I haven’t noticed.

  I place the change tray on the table. His eyes lift to mine. Passion surges between us. ‘Yes.’ A simple, quiet agreement.

  I flick my eyes to the glass. ‘Another?’

  When I turn back to him, he’s watching me with a face that gives little away. ‘No.’

  ‘Something to eat?’

  He arches a brow. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then...?’

  He stands, his big body covering mine. ‘Follow me.’

  I bite down on my lip, hesitating for about three seconds. It’s quiet in this part of the bar, even more so when he turns the corner into a small booth.

  As soon as I step into the booth area, he drags my body to his, kissing me as though he is drowning and I am oxygen. He kisses me as though for survival.

  And I kiss him back, our bodies meshed, my arms wrapping around his neck, my body completely pinned to his. If I’m his chance of survival, then he is also mine. I kiss him as though he’s my dying breath. I kiss him as though he’s my everything.

  And then his hand is between us, pushing at the button of my denim skirt, unclasping it without breaking our kiss.

  ‘Michael,’ I whisper into his mouth.

  His fingers push aside the elastic of my thong, finding my clit and brushing over it. I swear softly, then he’s kissing me, pressing my body back against the wall.

  His fingers move over me, hard and fast, finding the parts of me that seem to unthread my sanity. I hear high heels clacking outside and freeze. He doesn’t stop.

  ‘Michael,’ I whisper. ‘Someone’s going to see.’

  His head lifts; his eyes are teasing when they lock onto mine. ‘Getting off in public is an important part of your education...’

  I freeze, staring at him. ‘I can’t!’

  He grins, nodding slowly. ‘Really?’ And his fingers move faster and I dig my nails into his shoulder as a wave of heat bursts inside me.