Page 40 of Craving the Edge

I locked the gym door and stood for a long moment in the empty laneway. This was a bad idea. Every part of me knew it, but I walked to the tram stop on Sydney Road anyway, wrestling with the piece of paper in my pocket with his address scrawled on it.

I told myself I could turn around. I didn’t.

I got onto the tram and held onto the pole, watching the wet streets rumble past, the lights of the city reflecting on the slick asphalt. Car headlights, red tail lights, the dinging of the tram bell, the squeal of rubber as the doors opened and closed.

The tram took me all the way into the city, and I walked the rest of the way. I cut through the underground walkway at Flinders Street Station, crossed the Yarra, and into Southbank.

Declan’s building was right on the Promenade, and I looked up at the tower of glass and steel before entering, not trusting myself to listen to my thoughts. Inside the lobby was quiet, all polished stone and moody recessed lighting. I punched the code into the lift panel, the doors slid open, and I got in.

My stomach squirmed with every floor. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. The number seemed impossibly high. He didn’t live in the penthouse, but it was pretty damn close.

The lift opened onto a hushed, carpeted hallway. I found the right door, a slab of dark wood with a plain silver number. I knocked before I could chicken out, and I shoved my hands into the pockets of my hoodie. I waited, my heart pounding.

The lock turned. I swallowed, my throat dry. I didn’t move.

What would his place be like? A home, or just somewhere he stayed when he was in Melbourne? My body tensed as if it knew exactly what ‘talking’ would lead to. Now that I stood here, sex seemed like an inevitability.

Declan opened the door. He said nothing, just looked at me with wide eyes. Then he stepped back in a silent invitation.

I walked past him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, and stopped in the centre of his living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a glittering panorama of the city’s lights. A huge, dark leather sofa sat on an even bigger rug, facing a large TV.

Clean, impersonal, and a million miles from my shabby one-bedroom unit with its mismatched furniture, mustard coloured carpet, and peeling paint.

I stood there, feeling small and out of place in my jeans and black hoodie.

Declan moved around the floating kitchen island, the stone bench top gleaming under downlights. “Would you like a drink?”

“No, I’m good.” My hands stayed shoved in my hoodie pockets.

He abandoned the fridge and leaned against the kitchen island. “The scan today went about as well as expected,” he said. “Rhys is in full damage control mode. Making my life, his life, and everyone’s life a complete hassle.”

“What were the results?”

“Don’t have them yet,” he admitted, shaking his head. “They’ll probably send it through tomorrow. Due diligence and all that.” He stared out at the city lights for a moment. “But it was worth it just to see Rhys lose his mind.” A dark flicker of amusement crossed his face. “I could almost smell the smoke coming out of his ears.”

The corner of my mouth twitched. I knew that kind of panic. The frantic, useless energy of a man watching his easy ride come to a grinding halt. Gary had that same look every time a final notice arrived in the mail.

“He went white when the radiologist came out and said they’d need a bit more time. I swear he thought I was going to die on the spot, right there in the waiting room.” Declan laughed. “The look on his face was priceless.”

I licked my lips. “How much does it hurt?”

He held up his right hand, flexing his fingers slowly, opening and closing his fist.

“They put a cortisone shot straight into the joint this arvo,” he said. “Hurt like hell, but the inflammation is dead for now. I can make a full fist without a problem.”

I watched the muscles in his forearm tighten as he clenched his hand. Watched his knuckles turn white. He held the fist for a solid second before his fingers uncurled again.

In that moment, something inside me snapped. What the hell were we doing, talking about his hand when all I could think about was ripping his clothes off? I was done weighing the risk of some photographer finding me here. Done circling the black hole of what this would cost when he left.

I was done thinking. Thinking hurt too much.

I wanted him. The ache stabbed into me, lighting up every nerve ending, my breasts aching, my core throbbing with the need to feel him there…

I crossed the few steps toward him and put my hands on his chest, pushed up onto my toes, and kissed him.

His surprise lasted a bare second. He responded immediately, his mouth firm against mine. One of his hands came up, his palm rough and calloused against the side of my face, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. The kiss deepened, a slow, consuming pressure that stretched on and on.

He was the one who pulled back, but only just. His forehead rested against mine, his breath warm on my skin. “Are you sure?” he murmured, his voice thick. “If you touch me, I won’t be able to stop…”