Burn My Hart--A Sexy Billionaire Romance Page 9

  ‘Look—’ he stares at the screen, then at me, and there is a helplessness in his eyes that does something funny to my insides because Theo Hart is never helpless ‘—get me more details and we’ll speak tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but if you’ll just—’

  I move my fingers faster and make a tiny, muted moaning noise that has Theo standing abruptly, leaning over the screen. ‘Tomorrow.’ He snaps the lid down in the same motion he sweeps towards me and pulls me to his body, his lips claiming mine in a kiss that is pure white-hot desperation.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ he murmurs into my mouth, ripping himself away from me just enough to see properly. Heat burns my cheeks. I tilt my head back a little as I feel an orgasm building, unmistakable, blinding, urgent.

  And then his hand is on my wrist, pulling me from my body, his own fingers taking over, touching me, slowly at first, so the heat that’s built ebbs and I make a moaning noise because, after two days without Theo, I don’t want to wait another moment.

  He understands—this is his way of tormenting me back. He drops his mouth to my throat, kissing the pulse point there, flicking it with his tongue, and then he moves his hand, bringing his hard cock against me, rolling his hips so the promise of what he can give me is right there. Christ, I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

  I push at his chest, my eyes showing wildness. ‘Fuck me, Theo. Right now.’

  His expression is a mask of need.

  ‘Right now,’ I repeat.

  He nods once, then reaches into his pocket, his trademark protection always close at hand when he carries a stash in his wallet. He undresses quickly, so quickly, and while he does I touch myself, perched on the edge of his boardroom table. My fingers move over my clit until I’m panting with need, so close to bursting. ‘Please,’ I moan, but he stands there, naked, watching me, his lips just a gash in his face.

  ‘Theo,’ I groan.

  He stays where he is, his arms crossed over his chest.

  ‘I want to watch you.’

  I tilt my head back, my fingers moving faster, the wave threatening to pull me under. ‘I want to feel you,’ I counter.

  ‘You will.’

  His promise is the striking of a match. I arch my back, heat building inside me, pleasure overtaking my every instinct until I’m flying far away from here, from him, from me, from this and us, until I’m flying above Manhattan, just air and ash, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, spirit to sky. I am a being of sensation and nothing else.

  There is no time to get my breath back. Even as I’m panting, trying to make sense of the new sensual heat I find myself enveloped by, he’s pulling at my legs, kissing me hard enough to push my back flat against the boardroom table, then driving his length into me, hard, his hands on my thighs holding me right where he needs me, taking me again and again until I’m twisting and turning on his boardroom table, my body a thousand and one flames.

  His hands possess me rather than caress me. His touch is a necessity, his fingers and palm finding every inch of me, running over it as a matter of need, not want. The same flames that burst through me are consuming him.

  He drives into me and I’m tipping away from reality once more, but this time he’s with me, his body riding the same wave. He’s silent; I’m not. My cries are muted, in deference to where we are, but I cannot keep my mouth closed. I moan his name over and over, an incantation and in gratitude. I thank God for bringing Theo into my life, even for a short time. I know we’re almost over but I will never forget the way he makes me feel and I will always be glad he taught me how great sex should be.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘DANIELLA CAN GO,’ I murmur, scanning the email, lifting my gaze to Kevin.

  He shakes his head. ‘Her doctor doesn’t want her flying in the third trimester.’

  ‘Right, of course. She’s pregnant.’ I’m happy for her, but there’s also a part of me that feels a squeeze of envy—envy at how everyone else’s life seems to be following the trajectory we’re told we should want, and mine is so far from that.

  ‘Yeah, she’s pregnant. You’re sending her a hamper, by the way.’

  I send him a look. ‘You’re too good to me.’

  ‘I know.’

  I shake my head. ‘Can I get her a massage as well, and a really huge bottle of champagne for her once she’s pushed that thing out?’

  ‘That “thing” is a kid.’

  ‘Oh, don’t go acting all baby-mad on me.’

  He grins. ‘Nah, it’ll be you and me, single, child-free and fabulous at sixty.’

  My gut twists. I keep a smile plastered to my face but it feels false, because it’s exactly the opposite of what I know I really want. ‘Rocking out at a retirement village?’

  ‘In pleather.’

  ‘Pleather? Puh-lease.’ I roll my eyes. ‘What about Peter?’

  ‘In pleather?’ He pulls a face.

  I smile. ‘For Paris.’

  Kevin’s businesslike once more. ‘He’s in Tokyo at the trade fair.’ I swear under my breath and his thick dark brows shoot towards his hairline. ‘What’s going on? You’re usually out the door at the mere mention of Paris.’

  Kevin, who’s worked for me for seven years, knows me better than almost anyone, and he’s completely right. Give me even half an opportunity to visit the French capital and I’m there. Paris is my soul city.

  But a meeting with our production manager and warehouse team is going to take me away from New York—more specifically from Theo—and the plans we’ve made for tonight. ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘So?’ he insists and I feel like my secret is in danger of slipping, so I overcompensate.

  ‘Nothing. I just had something on with Joshua.’

  ‘It’s not in my calendar.’

  ‘I know. Believe it or not, I do make plans without involving you.’

  He stares at me sceptically.

  ‘Some of the time, I make plans without involving you.’

  ‘Well, maybe you shouldn’t because this is what happens when I don’t have full access to your diary. I’ve told them you’ll be in tonight, babe.’

  I wince, knowing there’s no way I can get out of it. More than that, I daren’t even try. I have made Fleurs Sauvages the global name it is, I have worked twenty hours a day for months at a time, several times a year, to keep us relevant, to ensure the brand’s success. But failure is always only one step away, and I have no intention of failing. I have no intention of letting my dad think he was right about me, that this was too much for me, that I can’t handle it.

  I fix Kevin with a determined stare and nod. ‘Fine. I can leave in a few hours.’

  He airdrops something to my phone. ‘Already booked your ticket.’

  I stare at the first-class seat he’s reserved, my tummy dropping down to my ankles. It’s only been a matter of days—not weeks—since I went to Theo’s office and surprised him mid-conference call but despite that my body is incinerating with need.

  It’s not that I miss him, nothing so schmaltzy as that. I just want him on a physical level. I need him, like I need to drink water or eat lunch. It’s a physical itch that only he can sufficiently scratch.

  Still, there’s nothing for it.

  I lift my phone out and start to type a message, then delete it. Everything sounds so formal. Instead, I send him a GIF: a picture of a woman shaking her head in the rain. I caption it:

  Rain check tonight. Something came up.

  I reread the message, pleased with how unconcerned I sound, then send it.

  His response is instant.

  You’d better believe something ‘came up’. Me. Now. No rain checks.

  My heart squeezes.

  Sorry, can’t help it. I have to go to Paris. It’s important.

  He doesn’t reply.

  I wonder at the
growing sense of disappointment gnawing its way through me. I triage my emails, then move to the wardrobe in the corner of my office, grabbing a few things out and packing them neatly into the suitcase I always keep stashed there, the distinctive ‘FS’ branding in shades of gold and cream denoting to the world that it’s one of our premiere luxury items.

  I try not to think about Theo as I pack, but it’s impossible. My body aches for him, so every movement makes me hyper-aware of the fact it’s been far too long since he touched me. I fold silk blouses and pencil skirts and imagine his fingers running over the fabrics, removing them from me.

  I slip into my private bathroom and freshen my make-up and hair, spritzing with my signature perfume that will now always remind me, in an unwelcome and strange way, of him.

  ‘Your car’s downstairs.’ Kevin’s voice is piped through the intercom on my desk.

  I check my reflection once more and nod to myself, moving back into my office, grabbing the small suitcase and my handbag, and my phone last of all.

  I see a missed call from Theo and my heart lurches. There’s a text too. Clicking into it, I have to read his message twice before it makes any kind of sense.

  Venue change accepted. Meet you at JFK.

  Does that mean...? Is he...coming to Paris? Or planning an airport quickie? Considering I thought I wasn’t going to see him at all today, either is fine.

  Excitement makes my heart thump. This I hadn’t expected. I suck in a deep breath, calming myself before stepping out of my office—if I show even a hint of breathlessness, Kevin will know something’s up.

  ‘Okay, I’ll message from the air,’ I say, per our usual routine.

  ‘Got it. But not too late. I have a date tonight.’

  ‘The cellist?’

  He grins. ‘And her fabulous hands.’

  I scrunch my face up. ‘Way too much information. Have fun.’

  ‘You know it.’

  My driver is downstairs. He stows my bags and I slide into the passenger seat. It’s only as we’re almost out of the city that it occurs to me JFK is a pretty huge airport. Where am I supposed to meet Theo? And is he even serious?

  What exactly do you have in mind?

  A minute later a photo pings into my phone. It’s not from today; it has to be at least a few months old because it’s snowing lightly in the picture whereas today is another scorcher. In the photograph, Theo’s standing in a suit and jacket at the top of a set of stairs leading to a jet that’s emblazoned with ‘Hart Brothers’.

  Accompanying the photo are the words:

  Tell your driver to go to the General Aviation facility. My jet’s fired up.

  Excitement buzzes inside me.

  Ooh la la!

  A pause, and then I get a message back:

  Oui.

  The General Aviation facility is set aside from JFK and the luxury of the terminal reflects the clientele that utilise it. While there’s still a pretty intense security regimen to go through, everything is made easier with attentive staff and an attention to all the tiny details that make the experience a pleasure. Not that I’m there for long. I walk through the doors, someone takes my bags, including my handbag.

  ‘We’ll stow these for you, madam.’

  I’m ushered to a separate room, where I pass through a security frame. ‘Champagne?’

  I shake my head and a bottle of mineral water is handed to me instead. My passport’s checked while I take a sip then the woman comes out from behind the desk with a smile and guides me to a set of sliding doors. ‘This way, Miss Sauvages.’

  His jet stands like a piece of marble in the midst of the sky. Gleaming and white, and as big as a commercial jet, the stairs I recognise from the photograph lead the way to an open door. There’s no carpet at the bottom, like you might expect from a film, but a pilot stands at the bottom, dressed in a navy blue uniform with a crisp white shirt with gold embellishment. ‘Miss Sauvages, welcome.’ His smile is friendly. ‘Mr Hart is waiting for you.’

  He is? Theo must have left his office almost as soon as I messaged him. How the hell did he arrange all of this so quickly?

  My smile doesn’t show any of my innermost thoughts. ‘Great. Thanks.’

  He nods and gestures for me to move up.

  ‘Have a nice flight, ma’am.’ The woman who checked my passport bids me farewell. I suspect I’ll have a very nice flight, but neither of these two people need to know what I’m anticipating.

  I move up the stairs carefully—my stilettos want to drop through the gridded holes in the steps so I have to go slowly. Once inside, my eyes sweep the space, noting the details. The luxury I had expected. Private jets are already the last word in insane wealth, so it makes sense that this one should reflect that. The seats are white leather, arranged like a lounge area, spacious and comfortable. There’s a wide corridor that leads to the back of the plane. I walk down it, my eyes continuing to note the details even as I scan for Theo. I pass a bedroom and my temperature lifts, then a boardroom, and a cinema with a couple of treadmills, then a bathroom that bears no resemblance to the utilitarian décor you see on commercial planes, even in the first-class cabin. This could be in a five-star hotel—lightweight construction with pale timber, but a large shower cubicle, all luxurious and elegant.

  No Theo.

  I spin around and move back down the corridor in time to see him emerging from the cockpit. He probably started the day wearing a suit but, in deference to the day’s heat, he’s shed the jacket and tie and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing tanned, toned forearms that make my mouth go dry. His hair is in its usual bun, his hips narrow, his chest muscled, his body so familiar to me that, despite the clothes he wears, I can visualise him naked and heat pools between my legs in immediate response.

  ‘Hey.’ His grin is my undoing. So sexy. So him. I admit to myself how glad I am he’s done this, how glad I am that our plans aren’t cancelled.

  ‘This is a surprise.’ Understatement.

  ‘I like Paris.’

  I laugh. ‘But...’

  ‘No rain checks,’ he murmurs, pulling me towards him, and I inhale everything about him, imprinting it on my mind, my body responding instantly, filling with need and familiarity, with comfort and pleasure. Happiness that comes not just from the expectation of physical fulfilment but from everything else—the overall sense of rightness that fills me because he’s here and I’m here and suddenly this trip to Paris feels like so much more than a business necessity.

  ‘Still—’ my voice is breathy ‘—this is kind of overkill, right?’

  ‘Is there any such thing?’

  Is there? It doesn’t feel like it. ‘I guess not.’

  His kiss is quick, his smile infectious. ‘Sit down. We’re taking off.’

  He moves back towards the cockpit.

  ‘Wait. You’re not...flying this thing?’

  He grins. ‘Not today.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘But thanks for the vote of confidence.’ His wink is teasing. I poke my tongue out and choose a seat at random. There are seat belts embedded in each lounge chair.

  A few minutes later the engine purrs to life, the door is clicked shut and a hostess brings me a glass of champagne. I sip it and then Theo is back, striding out of the cockpit, taking the seat beside me with that same charming boyish grin on his handsome face. My pulse throbs.

  ‘You do fly, though?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘You’re surprised by that?’

  ‘You’re not a pilot, so...’

  ‘I started flying when I was just a kid. Fifteen. I was pretty obsessed, actually.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Mmm. I had a simulator installed when I was ten. It was good, but nothing beats the feeling of being in the cockpit as you take off, fly
ing through the clouds.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s very energising.’

  His passion is captivating.

  I can’t help myself. I reach out and put my hand on his knee, drawing imaginary circles. ‘You didn’t think about doing it for a living?’

  ‘Nah. I get the best of both worlds now. I fly whenever I want, but it’s not my whole life.’

  I look beyond him, through the window, as we lift up over Manhattan. The city is picture-perfect beneath us, sheaths of glass and shimmering metal forcing their way upwards, the land such a tiny archipelago it’s almost impossible to understand how it can bear the weight of such construction.

  ‘I used to hate flying,’ I confide in him. ‘As a kid, I was scared to death.’

  I feel his gaze on me. ‘And now?’

  I slide my eyes to his, a smile curving on my face. ‘I grew out of it.’

  ‘A fear of flying is perfectly normal. It’s the unknown that’s frightening. Once you understand the mechanics it takes a lot of the mystery out of it and makes it feel less like you’re trusting yourself to fate and more like jumping on a bus.’

  ‘You don’t fly commercial?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Always.’

  He frowns. ‘Really?’

  I can’t help it; I laugh. ‘You realise ninety-nine per cent of people only fly commercial?’

  ‘I just presumed...’

  ‘Nah. Jets like this are bad for the environment.’ I lean closer so our faces are only an inch apart. ‘Look at all this space. You could fit a football team or three in here.’

  ‘And have them ogling you? Never.’

  It’s just a joke but it almost sounds like that would bother him, as though he’d be jealous. The very idea makes my heart contort painfully, because Theo isn’t a jealous kind of guy and if I ever doubted that I only need to remember that he’s offered to set me up with someone ‘suitable’. Hardly the action of a man who feels even a hint of possessiveness.

  ‘I like the convenience of this,’ he says with a lift of his shoulders.

  I consider that for a moment. ‘My assistant booked me on a flight at a moment’s notice. I got a seat in first class. That’s not remotely inconvenient.’