Page 63 of The Rebel

‘I’m not asking for anything.’ I place my hand on his thigh. ‘I only want time to explore what we started on the island. That’s it. No expectations.’

He stares at my hand like it’s scorching him, before covering it with his with obvious reluctance. ‘There are always expectations.’

I squeeze his thigh and he flinches. ‘Okay, how’s this for expectations? I expect you to finish what we started on the plane. I expect you to make me scream because I’m on edge. And if you’re really determined to end this within the next hour or so, I expect you to take me somewhere right now so we can give this fling/relationship/whatever you want to call it the proper send-off it deserves.’

His hand grips mine so tight I feel the tendons crunching. I don’t complain, because I see my outburst has sparked something within him. His eyes glow like polished onyx before his gaze drops to my mouth.

He wants this. Wants me.

‘You’re fucking killing me,’ he mutters, before he leans forward and directs the driver to an address in Darlinghurst.

‘You better be taking me to a hotel,’ I murmur underneath my breath, and when he sits back, he shoots me a glance that’s pure wickedness.

‘And you better put that mouth to other uses besides giving me a hard time when we get to the hotel,’ he says, his tone tinged with reluctant amusement.

‘Oh, I will. Trust me.’ I slide my hand higher on his thigh and he clamps down on it before I hit the jackpot.

‘You are in so much trouble,’ he mutters, but as we lock gazes—molten heat blended with excitement—I can’t wait to get into trouble of the good kind.

He turns his hand over, palm up, and intertwines his fingers with mine. We sit in silence and hold hands for the rest of the fifteen-minute drive. I don’t mind. I like the quiet. It gives me a chance to formulate what I’m going to say later, when he inevitably tries to push me away.

I’m deep in thought when we pull up outside a hotel. It’s ramshackle and nothing like the five-star place I imagined. Not because I’m a snob or because I expect Hart to fork out a fortune for a quickie because he’s rich, but it’s surprising he would want this to be where we have fantastic reunion sex.

Unless…he’s really serious about this being a rousing send-off and doesn’t particularly care where we do it.

The thought saddens me, but I paste a smile on my face as he pays the driver and helps me out of the taxi. He hasn’t released my hand and is staring at me, looking for some kind of judgement perhaps?

‘Ready?’ I squeeze his hand and I glimpse a flicker of disappointment.

Yeah, bringing me here is part of his grand plan to alienate me but I’ll be damned if I give him the satisfaction.

‘Absolutely,’ he says, with less conviction, as we stroll into the foyer.

It’s nothing like I expect and at complete odds with the seedy exterior. The owners have stuck with a retro theme, from the black and white tessellated tiles on the floor to the gleaming brass lamps casting light over crimson velvet sofas strategically placed throughout.

It’s not a large space but it exudes a welcome cosiness and I experience a twang of jealousy at the thought of Hart knowing to come here and who he might’ve brought here in the past.

‘Give me a minute.’ He releases my hand and approaches the sole reception staff behind the desk, a sixty-something brassy blonde who wouldn’t look out of place draped across one of the sofas in a flapper dress.

He slides across his credit card, signs a slip of paper, and pockets a key. An actual, old-fashioned key, not the plastic swipe cards that hotels favour these days.

It’s madness, because I instigated this, but I’m struck by a sudden case of nerves. The moment I emailed Alf my resignation I set these events in motion. Finding Hart. Following my heart.

But what if I’m wrong?

What if this is nothing more to him than a last, quick fuck?

What if he truly won’t let me into his heart and his life?

‘We’re on the second floor. There are no functional elevators. We need to take the stairs.’ He holds out his hand and I know without a doubt that he’s giving me an out. One last chance to run.

I stare at his palm: the strong lifeline, the weaker marriage lines, and those long, strong fingers that have strummed every inch of me.

A blinding fear makes me tremble imperceptibly. But I can’t turn back now. I have to know that I’ve given us all I can.

I can’t quit now when I’ve come this far.

‘Pity we have to take the stairs, because I don’t want you tiring yourself out.’ I place my hand in his and he tugs me hard so I stumble and land flush against him.

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