Burn Me Once

‘There’s paparazzi at your hotel.’ My eyes lift to his face.

A muscle throbs against his jaw, like he’s clenching his teeth or thinking dark thoughts. My insides clench.

‘You go ahead of me,’ he says.

‘Will that work?’

He looks at me for a long moment and then nods. ‘Yeah. Wait for me at the lifts inside.’

It’s easy enough for me to slip past the paparazzi. One photographer lifts his camera and holds it poised at my face. But then, when he sees through the lens that I am nobody, he drops it once more.

I am glad I am nobody.

I am glad I am not her.

The woman who ruined a family.

Guilt sledges through me.

Ethan Ash isn’t Jeremy, and this isn’t a big deal.

It’s just...sex. Fun. Easy. Nothing serious.

Nonetheless, my heart palpitates furiously as I turn and look over my shoulder, catching sight of him as he saunters—yes, saunters—across the street, hands in the pockets of his well-worn jeans, head tilted at an angle that shows the hard lines of his face.

Desire whips me.

I move quickly across the foyer, wanting to be well beyond the paparazzi’s point of interest by the time Ethan joins me. I catch a brief impression of sumptuous red carpet, black and white tiles, enormous crystal chandeliers, animal skins and a fire that would, in winter, create warmth and cosiness with stunning ease.

The elevators are simply shining doors submerged behind wood panelling. I wait beside them, staring straight ahead. I hear the rush of lenses clicking and buttons being pressed and I don’t look. There’s the rustle of a doorman moving outside, and then he is beside me, his finger jabbing at the button of the lift with obvious impatience. We don’t look at one another.

After only a few seconds, the doors ping open. It’s empty.

We step in and Ethan swipes a key card before pressing one of the old-fashioned radio buttons on the panel. It whooshes upwards and my tummy whooshes with it.

I have never wanted a guy this badly.

The atmosphere is heavy with that feeling, that need. It practically hums around us, so that it takes every ounce of my willpower not to press the stop button and beg him to fuck me then and there.

I dig my nails into my palms as extra insurance.

The doors ping open—finally—and even as we step out of the lift he’s reaching for me. Now, in the privacy of the hotel corridor, he lifts me off the ground, his arms tight around my waist as his mouth moves over mine, and he walks like I weigh nothing, and carrying me is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. His lips are punishing and I am submissive, taking the kiss, begging for more even as my legs lift, needing greater purchase, more intimacy, closeness—everything.

I wrap them around him and groan as I hear the unmistakable tearing of my skirt—which was definitely not designed to be spread-eagled around a rock star’s waist. Whoops. Somewhere in my mind I discover another consequential path of this coming together—some makeshift outfit assembly will be required in order for me to get home, whenever it is I do go home.

Without releasing his grip, without lifting his lips, he fumbles the key card against the door. The first time is unsuccessful and he swears into my mouth as the door remains resolutely closed. Second time it springs open and we burst through it. The door slams shut and Ethan drops the key card to the floor like litter, striding deeper into the suite.

I have a brief impression of more luxury, more red, more chandeliers made of beaded crystal—and an enormous bed that is like an oasis in the midst of a never-ending desert. But he turns sharply, propping me against a table instead.

The second my butt connects with the tabletop his hands reach for my blouse and he pulls at it, ripping every single button so that they pop and fly across the room like angry little witnesses to my thwarted needs.

It’s a damned nice blouse—one of my favourites—but I don’t bemoan its demise. I am as eager as he is to be naked and touching all over. I arch my back as he pushes the fabric down my arms, his fingers tracing my flesh as he frees me of the garment before they lift higher, finding my bra. He traces a thumb over the lace and I swear I whimper as though I’m about to come. I think I am about to come.

My eyes skittle to his face, shock in all my features. He understands. I know he does. He curves his hands around my butt and drags me to the edge of the table, so that I can feel the hard, aching heat of his cock through the fabric of his jeans, straining at it, practically breaking it. My fingers seek it—seek him. They fumble at his button and then a noise of triumph erupts from my lips as I find the zip and push it downwards.

But he’s moving, pushing at my bra, freeing my breasts in one moment and claiming them with his mouth the next. His tongue lashes my nipple as his fingers roll the other, and his dick grinds against me through the fabric of our clothes.

Perspiration sheens my skin. I lift my fingers from his jeans, from their futile mission of cock-hunting, and curl them around his hips instead, digging my nails into him, lifting my feet to the edges of the table and crying out as his teeth press into my nipple with enough pressure to make me see stars.

I’m at the edge of the world. Ethan’s there too, but I’m the one who’s stepping off...who’s being flung off! I dig my nails in harder and he rolls his mouth to my other breast, bringing his fingers to tease where his teeth have just been. It’s too much. The sensations and juxtapositions. The heat of his mouth and the coldness of the air-conditioned hotel room. The softness of his fingertips and the hurt of his teeth.

I cry out loudly as an orgasm crashes over me, sucking me under, rendering me the opposite of mute. I am loud and I am desperate and I have no grasp of control. No grasp of time, space or date either, to be honest. If you’d asked me where I was, I would have needed a shot of black coffee to wake up and remember.

I am doused in more sensations than I was even aware existed and yet I’m not done. He’s not done. This is just the beginning.

‘I want to fuck you.’

‘Isn’t that what you’re doing?’ I smile up at him, my body singing.

‘Hell, yeah.’

He pulls at my butt, jerking me closer to him, and then he rolls his cock against me so that I cry out again.

‘Please, Ethan...’ I groan hungrily.

Apparently he doesn’t need to be asked twice. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, then slides a condom from within its folds.

There is a small part of me that is consciously cheering what is about to happen—unlike my body, which is so in the moment. This isn’t just sex. It isn’t just relief. It’s release—it’s an exorcism. I am going to fuck another man, and with every moment and motion I am going to blot Jeremy further from my mind.

I am going to reduce his importance in my life.

With sex.

‘I’ve never been happier to see a little foil square.’ I grin, reaching for it. ‘Now. Let me see what I’m dealing with here.’

His grin is like warm treacle on a hot day. ‘You’re mighty impatient... Alicia.’

Hearing him say my real name is the biggest turn-on yet. And that’s saying something.

My eyes meet his and he knows.

‘Alicia.’

Even better than Ally. My name tastes wonderful on his mouth. He pushes at his jeans and I take over, sliding my hands into his grey cotton boxers, feeling the curve of his ass—of course it’s a fantastic ass. I hold his eyes as I bring my hands to the front, feeling for his long, hard dick. As I enclose it in my fist, wrapping my hand around it hungrily, he lets out a hoarse groan.

‘How do you feel about being fucked fast?’

His laugh is borderline apologetic, and there’s a vulnerability that makes me ache for more than just this. But only for a moment.

‘I feel really, really good about that.’

I rip the top off the condom with my teeth and then slide it over him as he steps out of his jeans. For a moment I wonder at his size—I haven’t slept with anyone in a really long time. Is it possible I’ve forgotten that dicks do this when they’re hard? But it’s big. Really big. And beautiful.

A shiver swirls through me. He pushes his shirt off impatiently and then he’s lifting me up once more, carrying me against his chest, cradling me, into the bedroom. He throws me on the bed and reaches for the remains of my skirt, tearing it off me and then pulling my thong down my legs.

It’s not slow, like he was with the bra. His hands graze my legs, my calves, my thighs, but that’s accidental. He needs me now as much as I need him. There’s no sense denying it. No sense in pretending.

As he brings himself over me I push my palm against his chest, knocking him so that he is on his side, next to me, and we’re face to face. I kiss him as I hitch my leg over his hip, and then push up on my knee so that I’m straddling him.

I don’t know why having control is important to me, but I suppose if I had to analyse it I would probably say that I feel so utterly out of my depth in what I’m feeling that I need something to make me have a sense of agency.

Choice is my agency, though, and I choose this. I choose to move on. I choose to forget. I choose not to let Jeremy make me cower any more. I choose all of what we’re doing.

And my choice has nothing to do with anything other than desire and need and everything to do with Ethan Ash and me—Alicia Douglas.

We are two chemicals, mixing together, swirling, swarming and about to explode.

‘Fuck me,’ I whisper as I lift up and lower myself over him, taking his length deep inside me slowly, letting my muscles adjust to this strange newness. To his size and his needs.

I almost can’t bear the perfection of that moment. The haunting rightness.

He lets out a long, slow grunt and his fingers dig into my hips. He holds me down, low on his length, and he throbs, pulses. I feel every jerk of his desire deep inside me. I hold my breath, chewing on my lip as my nerve-endings quiver in response. His cock is whispering secrets within me and my body is listening intently.

It’s but a moment. A magical moment. And then he’s moving, holding my hips low as he thrusts, his abs rippling with each movement. I drop lower, my mouth chasing each ridge of his chest, my tongue flicking his hair-roughened nipples, my body pressed against his.

His fingers roam my flesh again, like an object, like he owns me, and I love the feeling of being owned by him. I roll my hips and he swears, moving his hands to hold my face, dragging me up to his mouth, to kiss me. And he pushes up, flipping me onto my back while barely breaking the kiss.

Oh, God. It’s bone-meltingly perfect. Like this, he is deep, so deep, and he thrusts harder and faster and his tongue echoes the movements. I lift my legs and his hands grab my ankles, pushing them higher, moving them over his shoulders so that he has complete access to me. It breaks the kiss but I don’t care, because now his lips are moving over my leg, and every thrust is waving me on, nearer to explosive release.

I dig my fingers into his shoulders and there it is!

I cry out as the orgasm shreds me, my hand lifting to his chest to still him, to implore him to wait, so that I am able to feel every tremor of the earthquake he’s created. He knows. He waits. He is patient. The only sound in the room is that of his breathing, loud and hoarse, his control almost at breaking point. But he watches me, watches the effect of pleasure on my face, my skin, and then, when he knows—because he knows me—that I can take it again, he moves once more, slowly at first, letting new sensations build up, before he drops my legs back to the bed and brings his mouth to my mouth, kissing me, making me groan under the weight of the rightness of that moment.

The next time I come it’s with him. We are both on the edge of the cliff, stepping off it together. My fingers seek his and I lace them together again, and that act of intimacy means everything and nothing as our bodies sing in unison.

We are entwined. Him, me, and the luxury of the Park View Suite. I fear that I am lost. Or is that I’m found?

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