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Hands On

Written by Clare Connelly

Chapter Seven

HOLY SHIT. I’VE OFFICIALLY crossed over into creepy-perve territory. My dick has definitely taken over this decision-making process.

Meet in the foyer.

It makes perfect sense.

So why the hell didn’t I just nod along like a good little boy and leave her alone?

Because I’m not a good little boy. And Gemma sure as hell brings out the worst of my inclinations. I thought I’d dealt with this! I’m no longer a sex-starved widower lusting after the beautiful woman I’m spending pretty much all my time with.

I’m having sex.

I’m fucking like nobody’s business.

Meaningless, don’t-even-need-to-know-their-names sex washed down with a shit load of whisky by way of apology to my beautiful wife.

And yes, to Gemma, who is almost always in my head as I screw these other women.

That sounds bad, and it is. I’ve never been like this before. Sure, I like sex, and before Lucy, I was no saint, but I wasn’t interested in meaningless rendezvous either.

It’s like I’ve unleashed something and I don’t know how to turn it off.

Lucy killed me for love. I don’t want anything with these women beyond sex. Lucy deserves better than to be forgotten, and I don’t plan to ever water down what we had by committing to someone else.

But Gemma is who I really want in my bed, and these women are like very poor, very cheap nicotine patches. But they’ll have to do. I cannot let this thing with Gemma get out of hand. Looking is okay—well, actually, I don’t even know about that. But acting on this? Definitely not.


In the reflection of the TV, through one half-opened eye, I watch Gemma unbutton her shirt. She moves quickly, just like I would if I was undoing those buttons. Her fingers are deft and she slides the shirt off, risking a glance over her shoulder to make sure I’m obeying the rules, before reaching for her pants and kicking them off.




Her thong is pretty much a tiny scrap of lace. I can see the perfect curve of her arse and it takes every single ounce of my will power not to turn around. My eyes slide sideways to the king-size bed in the middle of the room, mentally calculating how many steps it would take for her and me to meet in the sheets.


The jingling of coat hangers draws my attention back to the TV and I watch in the reflection as she slides a silky dress onto her body.

“You’re meant to be talking,” she reminds me.

Fat fucking chance. Speech is most definitely beyond me.

So too is thought.

All I’m going to be doing all day is replaying the last thirty-seven seconds of my life and trying not to make a mess in my pants.

I was insane to hire her.

And even more so to think I could control this.

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About the author

Clare Connelly writes romance that will set your soul on fire. She is ...

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Clare Connelly

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