Page 21 of Second Chance Christmas

Leonardo swore into the hotel room, pacing from one side to the other, dragging a hand through his hair. He wanted to see Cassidy; he needed to see her. But at the same time, he was half-afraid of what he might say when he was in this mood. Because he wanted to make her his again. He wanted to erase any hint of the other man from her, so Leo would be the beginning and end of what she wanted in her life. At least, for now. Just for Christmas, just while he was in town again. Then, they could both move on, no more looking backwards…

* * *

Butterflies danced franticallyin her belly as she took the stairs to his hotel room, heavy, old key in her slightly-sweaty palms.

He’d called it foreplay, and he’d been right. Sitting opposite Leonardo, eating a meal he’d cooked, talking to him, being close to him and not touching, had made her pulse light up, and it hadn’t calmed down since. The whole day, she’d been on tenterhooks, waiting for this moment. Wanting to see him in a way that would have terrified her if she’d let it.

But Cassidy was in control of this. She was enjoying the ride of spending time with Leo, but she wasn’t stupid enough to want more from him than this.

It was just sex, and just while he was here.

She slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open, to find Leo staring out of the window, his face set in a grim mask, so she instantly paused, one foot inside the hotel. During her marriage, she’d become an expert at reading people. She’d had to be. If Grant’s mood was heading south, she’d needed to know, to work out how to change that. It wasn’t dramatic to say that her survival had depended on her ability to interpret the slightest change in his demeanor.

And so she easily felt Leonardo’s irritation now, and the butterflies in her tummy sped up.

Then he turned to face her, and the air between them seemed to spark and fizz with awareness. He moved quickly, crossing the hotel room and bundling her into his arms at the same time he kicked the door closed and kissed her. Like a cyclone that was devouring them both, they succumbed to the same well of need that had been tormenting them all day.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Their bodies communicated everything there was to be said.

They moved in unison, like a ballet, but so much more frantic. Every touch was incendiary, every kiss an answer to the question that had been building inside of her, and then they were on the bed, a tangle of limbs and discarded clothes and darkly urgent need.

“God, Cass,” he groaned as he entered her, and she cried out with relief because she’d been craving this, needing him, and his possession of her was so absolute, so total, that it drove everything from her heart and mind butthis.Him. Them. Here. Now. There was no past, no broken hearts, no betrayal, no marriage, no nothing. Just this.

It was frantic and primal, a desperate, essential coming together that tipped them both into a state of euphoria too quickly, but in a way that was simply a satiation, a stop gap. She knew they’d be together again. That had been the first course, necessary to make sure next time was slower, lasted longer.

“Shit, sorry,” he muttered against her shoulder, before flipping onto his back and staring at the ceiling. “I don’t think I’ve come that fast since I was a teenager.”

She angled her face to his, smiling softly. “Do I look like I’m complaining?”

His eyes roamed her face and the butterflies moved from her stomach to her heart.

“You look beautiful.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

She moved quickly, flipping onto her knees, straddling him, looking down on his face, something snagging in her chest. She only realised, when his eyes dropped to her side, that they’d made love with the lights on, and it hadn’t occurred to her to mind.

But old habits died hard and a trickle of ice ran down her spine as he looked at the twisted skin. When he lifted a finger to touch it lightly, she shuddered involuntarily.

“Were you in an accident?”

Her eyes flicked to his. The lie almost tripped off her tongue. Almost. Because she’d told it so many times after that night. She’d told it at the hospital, with her ‘concerned husband’ watching on, all handsome, easy charm. No one had noticed his scratched knuckles. No one had noticed one button of his shirt was missing, torn off as she’d tried to save herself from falling.

“Yes,” she answered eventually, robotically, moving to stand, moving away from Leonardo and his penetrating gaze, and the very real risk that he would see through her lie.

“What happened?”

She kept her back to him. It was easier to lie that way. “I wasn’t paying attention. I fell down the stairs.”

Silence crackled like static electricity. She didn’t turn to look at him, but she knew that if he possessed even half her abilities to read people, he’d see the tense line of her shoulders and know something was wrong.

“How did that cause your scars?”

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