The Greek's Unwilling Bride

by Sandra Marton

  “Yes,” she said breathlessly, and he made a sound low in his throat, pushed up her skirt, slid his hand up her leg and cupped the molten heat he found between her thighs.

  The shock of his touch, the raw sexuality of it, shot like lightning through Laurel’s blood. A soft cry broke from her throat and she grabbed for his wrist. What she felt—what he was making her feel—was almost more than she could bear.

  “Damian,” she sobbed, “Damian, please.”

  “Tell me what you want,” he said in a fierce whisper. “Say it.”

  You, she thought, I want you.

  She did. Oh, she did. She wanted him in a way she’d never wanted any man, not just with her body but with something more, something she couldn’t define...

  The half-formed realization terrified her, and she twisted her face away from Damian’s seeking mouth.

  “Listen to me,” she said urgently. Her fingers dug into his wrist. “I don’t think—”

  “Don’t think,” he said, “not tonight,” and before she could respond, he thrust his hands into her hair, lifted her face to his and kissed her.

  * * *

  It was not the civilized thing to do.

  Damian knew it, even as he took Laurel’s mouth again.

  The same wild need was beating in her blood as in his. He felt it in her every sigh, her caresses, her hungry response to his kisses. But she’d started to draw back, frightened, he suspected, of the passionate storm raging between them.

  Hell, he couldn’t blame her.

  Something was happening here, something he didn’t pretend to understand. The only thing he was sure of was that whatever this was, it was too powerful, too elemental, to deny. He’d sooner have given up breathing than give up this moment.

  Minutes ago, when he’d touched her, when he’d felt the heat of her and she’d given that soft, keening cry of surrender, he’d damn near ripped off her panties, unzipped his fly and buried himself deep inside her.

  That he hadn’t done it had had little to do with propriety, or even with reason, though it would have been nice to tell himself so. The truth was simpler, and much more basic. What had stopped him was the burning need to undress her slowly, to savor her naked beauty with his eyes and hands and mouth.

  He wanted to watch her face as he slowly caressed her, to see her pupils grow enormous with pleasure, to touch her and stroke her until she was wild for his possession. He wanted her in bed, his bed, naked in his arms, her skin hot against his, climbing toward a climax that would be more powerful than anything either of them had ever known, and though the intensity of his need was setting off warning bells, he didn’t give a damn. Not now. His body was hot and hard; he wanted Laurel more than he’d ever wanted anything, or anyone, in this world.

  She’d told him, in the restaurant, that he wasn’t a gentleman but hell, he’d never been a gentleman, not from the moment of his birth. Now, as he cupped her face in his hands and whispered her name, as her eyes opened and met his, he knew that he’d sooner face the fires of hell than start pretending to be a gentleman tonight.

  * * *

  He lived in an apartment on Park Avenue.

  It was a penthouse duplex, reached by a private elevator that opened onto a dimly lighted foyer that rose two stories into darkness. If he had servants, they were not visible.

  The elevator doors slid shut, and they were alone.

  Shadows, black-velvet soft and deep, wrapped around them. The night was so still that Laurel could hear the pounding beat of her heart.

  There was still time. She could say, “This was a mistake,” and demand to be taken home. Damian wouldn’t like it, but what did that matter? She was neither a fool nor a tramp, and surely only a woman who was one or both would be on her way to bed with a man she’d met little more than twenty-four hours ago.

  Damian’s hands closed on her shoulders. He turned her toward him, and what she saw mirrored in his eyes drove every logical thought from her mind.

  “Laurel,” he said, and she went into his arms.

  He kissed her hard, lifting her against him, his hands cupping her bottom so that she was pressed against his erection. His mouth teased hers open. He bit down on her bottom lip, then soothed the tiny wound with his tongue, until she was trembling and clutching his jacket for support.

  “Say it now,” he said in a savage whisper. “Tell me what you want.”

  The answer was in her eyes, but she gave it voice.

  “You,” she said in a broken whisper, “you, you—”

  Damian’s mouth dropped to hers. Heart surging with triumph, he lifted her into his arms and carried her up the stairs, into the darkness.

  * * *

  His bedroom was huge. The bed, bathed in ivory moonlight, faced onto a wall of glass below which the city glittered in the night like a castle from a fairy tale.

  Slowly Damian lowered Laurel to her feet. For a long moment, he didn’t touch her. Then he lifted his hand and stroked her cheek. Laurel closed her eyes and leaned into his caress.

  Gently he ran his hand over her hair.

  “Take it down,” he said softly.

  Her eyes flew open. She couldn’t see his face clearly—he was standing in shadow—but there was an intensity in the way he held himself.

  “My hair?” she whispered.

  “Yes.” He reached out and touched the silky curls that lay against her neck. “Take it down for me.”

  Laurel raised her hands to the back of her head. Her hair had already started coming loose of the tortoiseshell pins she’d used to put it up. Now, she removed the pins slowly, wishing she could see his face as she did. But he was still standing in shadow, and he didn’t step forward until her hair tumbled around her shoulders.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered.

  He caught a fistful of the shining auburn locks and brought them to his lips. Her hair felt like silk against his mouth and its fragrance reminded him of a garden after a gentle spring rain.

  He let her hair drift from his fingers.

  “Now your earrings,” he said softly.

  Her hands went to the tiny crystal beads that swayed on slender gold wires from her earlobes. He could see confusion in her eyes and he knew she’d expected something different, a quicker leap into the flames, but if that was what she wanted, he wouldn’t, hell, he couldn’t, oblige. His control was stretched almost to the breaking point. He couldn’t touch her now; if he did, it would all be over before it began, and he didn’t want that.

  Nothing would be rushed. Not with her. Not tonight.

  One earring, then the other, dropped into her palm. Damian held out his hand, and she gave them to him. Her hands went to the silver buttons on her silk jacket, and he nodded. Seconds later, the jacket fell to the floor.

  He reached out and caught her wrists.

  “Nothing more,” he whispered, and brushed his mouth over hers. “I want to do all the rest.”

  She heard the soft urgency in his voice, the faint tone of command. His eyes glittered; there was a dark passion in his face, a taut pull of skin over bone that made her heart beat faster.

  But his touch was gentle as he undressed her. And he did it slowly, so slowly that she thought she might die with the pleasure of it, first her blouse, then her skirt, her slip and her bra, until she stood before him wearing nothing but her high-heeled sandals, sheer stockings, a garter belt and panties that were a lacy wisp of white silk.

  She heard his breath hitch in his throat. He stepped back and looked at her. She felt a flush rise over her skin and she started to cross her arms over her breasts, but he stopped her.

  “Don’t hide yourself from me,” he said thickly. “Laurel, mátya mou, how exquisite you are.”

  She wanted to ask him what it meant, the name he’d called her; she wanted to tell him that no matter what he thought, this night was a first for her, that she’d never given herself to anyone this way, never wanted anyone this way.

  There were a hundred things to say, but s
he couldn’t bring herself to say anything but his name.

  “Yes,” he said, and he lifted her in his arms again, kissed her deeply and carried her to the bed.

  He undid the garters, rolled down her stockings and dropped them to the floor. He lifted each of her feet and kissed the high, elegant arches; he sucked her toes into his mouth. Then he knelt beside her and undid the tiny hooks on the garter belt. His hands shook as he did, which was strange because while he’d never counted them, he’d surely undone a thousand such closures before. He had done all these things before, taken a woman to his bed, undressed her...and yet, when Laurel finally lay naked before him, he felt his heart kick against his ribs.

  He whispered her name and then he put one arm beneath her shoulders and lifted her to him, kissed her mouth as she curled her hands into the folds of his jacket. There was a tightness growing deep within him, one that threatened to shatter what little remained of his control. He knew it was time to stop touching her. He needed to rip off his clothing and bury himself inside her or risk humiliating himself like an untried boy, but he couldn’t.

  Nothing could keep him from learning the taste and feel of her skin.

  He kissed her breasts, drawing the beaded nipples deep into his mouth, and when she cried out his name and arced toward him, her excitement fueled his own. He ran his hand along her hip, his fingers barely stroking across the feathery curls that formed a sweet, inverted triangle between her thighs, and the tightness in his belly grew.

  “Laurel,” he said. “Look at me.”

  Her lashes fluttered open. Her eyes were huge, the blue irises all but consumed by the black pupils. She was breathing hard; her face, her rounded breasts, were stained with the crimson flush of passion.

  He had done this to her, he thought fiercely, he had brought her this pleasure. He said her name again, his gaze holding hers as he moved his hand lower and when, at last, he touched her, she let out a cry so soft and wild that he thought he could feel it against his palm.

  He rolled away from her and stripped off his clothing. His hands shook; it was as if he was entering into an unknown world where what awaited him could bring joy beyond imagining or the darkness of despair. He didn’t know which right know, and he didn’t give a damn.

  All that mattered was this moment, and this woman.

  Laurel. Beautiful Laurel.

  Naked, he knelt on the bed beside her. She was watching him, her face pale but for the glow on her cheeks, and the urgency deep within him seemed to diminish. Just for a moment, he thought it might almost be enough to take her in his arms, kiss her, hold her close and listen to the beat of her heart against his the whole night through.

  But then she whispered his name and held her arms up to him, and he knew that he needed more. He needed to penetrate her, to make her his in the way men have done since the dawn of time.

  “Laurel,” he said, and when her eyes met his, he gave up thinking, parted her thighs and sank deep into her heat.

  * * *

  Laurel rose carefully from the bed.

  It was very late, and Damian was asleep. She was sure of it; she could hear the steady susurration of his breath.

  Her clothing was scattered across the room. She gathered up the bits and pieces, moving quietly so as not to wake him, and she thought about how he had undressed her, how she’d let him undress her, how she’d wanted him to undress her.

  A hot, sick feeling roiled in the pit of her stomach.

  The apartment was silent as she slipped out of his bedroom, though the darkness had given way to a cheerless grey. It made it easier to see, at least; the last thing she wanted to do was put on a light and risk waking him.

  What in heaven’s name had she done?

  Sex, she told herself coldly. An experience, a seduction, the kind other women whispered about, even joked about. That was what had happened to her, a mind-blowing night of passion in the arms of a man who obviously knew his way around the boudoir.

  Laurel’s hands trembled as she zipped up her skirt.

  She had given up all the moral precepts she’d lived by. She’d humiliated herself. She’d...she’d...

  A moan broke from her throat. She’d become someone else, that was what had happened, and the knowledge that such a woman even existed inside her would haunt her forever.

  The things she’d done tonight, the things she’d let Damian do...

  What had happened to her? Just the sight of him, kneeling between her thighs, had made her come apart. He was so magnificent, such a perfect male animal, his broad shoulders gleaming as if they’d been oiled, his hair dark and tumbling around his face. The tiny gold stud, glinting in his ear, had been all the adornment such a man would ever need.

  And then he’d entered her. She’d felt her body stretching to welcome him, to contain him...and then he’d moved, and moved again, and a cry had burst from her throat and she’d shattered into a million shining pieces.

  “Damian,” she’d sobbed, “oh, Damian...”

  “I know,” he’d whispered, his mouth on hers, and then she’d felt him beginning to move again, and she’d realized he was still hard within her. The flames had ignited more slowly the second time, not because she’d wanted him less but because he’d made it happen that way, pulling back, then easing forward, filling her and filling her, taking her closer and closer to the edge until, once again, she’d felt herself soar into the night sky where she’d blazed as brightly as a comet before tumbling back to earth.

  She’d found paradise, she’d thought dreamily, as Damian’s arms closed around her. She’d blushed as he whispered soft words to her and when, at last, he’d kissed her forehead, and her mouth, and held her close against his heart, she’d drifted into dreamless sleep.

  Hours later, something—a sound, a whisper of breeze from the window—had awakened her. For a moment, she’d been confused. This wasn’t her bedroom...

  And then she’d remembered. She was in Damian’s arms, in his bed, with the scent of him and what they’d done on her skin, and suddenly, in the cold, sharp light of dawn, she’d seen the night for what it really had been.

  Cheap. Tawdry. Ugly.

  Paradise? Laurel’s throat constricted. A one-night stand, was more like it. She’d gone to bed with a stranger, not just gone to bed with him but—but done things with him she’d never...

  ...felt things she’d never...

  “Laurel?”

  She gasped and spun around. The bedroom door had opened; Damian stood in a pool of golden light that spilled from a bedside lamp. Naked, unashamed, he was a Greek statue come to life, hewn not of cold marble but of warm flesh. There was a little smile on his lips, a sexy, sleepy one, but as he looked at her, it began to fade.

  “You’re all dressed.”

  “Yes.” Laurel cleared her throat. “I—I’m sorry if I woke you, Damian. I tried to be quiet but—”

  God, she was babbling! She’d never sneaked out of a man’s apartment before, but she’d be damned if she’d let him know that. Anyway, there was a first time for everything. Hadn’t she proved that tonight?

  “I apologize if I disturbed you.”

  “Apologize?” he said, his eyes narrowing.

  “Yes. Oh, and thank you for...” For what? Are you crazy? What are you thanking him for? “For everything,” she said brightly.

  “Laurel...”

  “No, really, you needn’t see me out. I’m sure I can find my way, just down the stairs and through the—”

  “Dammit,” he said sharply, “what is this?”

  “What is what? It’s late. Very late. Or early, I don’t really know which. And I have to go home, and change, and—” The quick, brittle flow of words ended in a gasp as he reached out and brought her against him. “Damian, don’t.”

  “Ah,” he said softly, “I understand.” He laughed softly, bent his head and took the tip of her earlobe gently between his teeth. “Morning-after jitters. Well, I know how to fix that.”

  “Don’t,”
she said again. She could hear the faint rasp in her own voice; it said, more clearly than words, that though her head meant one thing, her traitorous body meant something very different. She could feel him stirring against her and a warm heaviness settled in her loins.

  “Laurel.” Damian spoke in a whisper. He wasn’t laughing now; he was looking at her through eyes that had darkened to silvery ash. “Come back to bed.”

  “No,” she said, “I just told you, I can’t.”

  His smile was honeyed. Slowly he dipped his head and kissed her, parting her lips with his.

  “You can. And you want to. You know that you do.”

  She closed her eyes as he kissed the hollow of her throat. He was right, that was the worst of it. She wanted to go with him into that wide bed, where the scent of their lovemaking still lingered.

  Except that it hadn’t been lovemaking. It had been... There was a word for what they’d done, a word so ugly, so alien, that even thinking it made her feel unclean.

  His hands were at the top button of her blouse. In a moment, he’d have them all undone, and then he’d touch her, and she wouldn’t want to stop him...

  “Stop it!” Her hands wrapped around his wrists. His brows, as black as a crow’s wings, drew together. She’d taken him by surprise, she saw, and she made the most of the advantage and pressed on. “We had—we had fun, I agree, but let’s not spoil it. Really, we both knew it was just one of those things that happen. There’s no need to say anything more.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I thought we might—”

  “Might what? Work out an arrangement?” She forced a smile to her lips. “I’m sorry, Damian, but I’d rather leave it at this. You know what they say about too much of anything spoiling it.”

  He was angry, she could see that in the flush that swept over his high cheekbones. His ego had taken a hit but that was too damn bad. What had he expected? An if-it’s-Tuesday-it-must-be-your-place kind of deal, the sort he’d no doubt had with the blonde?