by Jane Porter
He shifted, easing slowly out of her and then with a kiss on her neck, entered her again, filling her once more, making stars sputter against her tightly closed eyes.
And he made love to her without a word, without another kiss, just moving inside her slowly, deeply to pull out and enter again, and again, and again.
He felt long, hard, thick, and yet his skin was as smooth as silk, his hips hard and narrow, in her hands. She clung to him as he moved inside her, scarcely daring to breathe, caught up in the pictures he was painting in her head. Him, her, the constellation of stars.
She felt him tense, a soft groan coming from his lips, and as he surged forward, deeper into her, she felt herself step out into the darkest night and fall, silently, blindly into waves of sensation. She rode the waves with desperation, clasping Christos’s shoulders, burying her face against his broad chest.
There was no one but them. No place but now. Nothing but this.
Him, her, his body still straining, his hands now cradling her head.
She’d never come before. Never had an orgasm.
“I’m sorry,” Christos said thickly, untangling his limbs, his skin still damp, his black hair disheveled. He drew away, rubbed his face with one hand, stood up.
He was sorry and he was done. So that’s how he felt. It wasn’t what she’d imagined, wasn’t what she’d experienced. Nothing beautiful for him. Just a physical act. A form of exercise.
She sat up slowly, realizing they both still wore their shirts but not pants.
Thank goodness she’d just had her period. Thank God she shouldn’t be fertile now. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, conceive.
He stepped into his underwear and then his pants. “Did I hurt you?” he demanded, his voice pitched low, almost rough.
“No.” She wanted to tell him it had been incredible, that even without love, it was the most sensual experience of her life. She’d answered each of his thrusts by lifting her own hips, wrapped her arms around his neck to draw him even closer, wanting it all, wanting him. But now…no pants, the dampness of him inside her, the obvious disgust on his face…
Good thing there was no love between them, no love lost, either.
What had they done? What had she been thinking?
Christos raked a hand through his dark hair, attempting to comb it into submission. “Dress. It’s time to go. My driver is downstairs waiting.”
He didn’t speak on the short drive home. He felt Alysia’s revulsion. It mirrored his own.
He was appalled by his actions, stunned that he’d forced himself on her. He’d taken her without regard to her feelings, or her needs.
Christos was grateful when the limousine drew in front of his estate, the palatial marble villa rising from behind iron gates and exotic greenery.
The gates magically slid open and the car continued up the driveway, the powerful engine vibrating like a great beast. He couldn’t wait to get out of the car and as far from Alysia’s accusing eyes as possible.
He’d promised to respect her, promised to never force himself on her, and yet what did he do but throw her onto the ground and bury himself inside her?
Alysia cast a desperate glance behind her at the high wrought-iron fence and gatehouse before turning to face the dozen employees gathered on the villa’s front steps.
Christos nodded at them and then gestured toward Alysia, his expression grim. “The wife,” he announced curtly, before continuing up the sweeping circular staircase, leaving her to follow like a child in disgrace.
She flushed, and wordlessly trailed after him, aware of the cool scrutiny of his employees.
Reaching the top of the stairs Christos showed her into a lofty room that was obviously his own private quarters. Desk, leather armchairs, reading lamps.
He closed the door, motioned her to one of the leather chairs. She sat gingerly on the edge of one, wondering what would come next.
“I’m sorry I lost my temper. I behaved like a brute. It won’t happen like that again.” His speech was sharp, and short. He leaned against the shut door, his arms crossing over his chest, muscles tight, tension emanating from him in great silent waves. “Your father warned me you’d try to run away. He said you’d go the first chance you got. I thought I was prepared. Yet I let down my guard at the party.”
She squirmed inwardly realizing how humiliated he must have been at Constantine’s. Everyone looking for her. Everyone aware that his new bride had deserted him.
“Your father called,” he continued. “He offered his services, apologized for your behavior.”
She ducked her head, even more mortified. Her father calling to offer his services!
“I told him no thank you, of course.” Christos’s dark gaze met hers, his expression flinty. “I said you’d be back in no time and soon fulfilling your duty, providing me with sons.”
Her heart beat faster. Her throat threatened to seal close. And still she didn’t speak so he plunged on. “We will make love until you conceive. We will start that family. You will prove to your father—and the other Greek ship owners—that my faith in you isn’t misplaced, that you know and accept your responsibility.”
“No.”
Her voice was but a whisper and yet he heard it. “No what, Alysia?”
“No, I will not give you children.” She lifted her head, looked him in the eye. “No sons. Not even daughters. No heirs.”
“Is this a philosophical issue for you? Part of your rebellion against Greek society?”
“A personal issue.”
“Ah, then we can work through this.”
“No, we can’t work through this. You married the wrong woman. You chose the wrong wife. A hundred women could have filled my position. A hundred women would have begged to bear your children. I, on the other hand, will not.”
His smile had all but disappeared and she slid instinctively backward, hips hugging the chair, even though he hadn’t moved from the door. “I have tried to be patient, Alysia, tried to understand your feelings, but my patience is about gone. We need to move forward. We need to start our future.”
He approached her quietly, crouching at her feet, his palms sliding up her shins, over her knees, electrifying her legs. Awareness exploded in her middle, tension coiling in her lower belly making her thighs tremble.
Christos’s dark gaze momentarily met hers and he smiled—if the slight twist of lips could be called a smile—acknowledging her unwilling response.
His palm shaped her outer thigh and followed with his body. She felt the press of his chest against her knees as he parted them, moving between her legs.
Blood pumped through her veins, heat searing her face, shredding countless nerve endings beneath her skin. It shocked her that she could still want him, shocked her that she could feel so raw and physical even after what had taken place at Lilia’s apartment.
“Not again,” she gritted as his thumbs caressed the lean line of her thigh.
“And just what do you think I’m going to do?” he drawled, his voice never more husky, never more American than now.
Her mouth felt so dry that it cleaved to the roof of her mouth. She stared into his face, drowning in sensation, painfully aware of the size distinction between them.
“You’re going to want more…sex,” she retorted, her voice more breathy than angry, her body so traitorously warm she despised herself.
“I’ll take more time, this time, I’ll take it slow.” He dropped a fleeting kiss against the side of her neck, just beneath her earlobe.
She tried to kick him again. He held her tighter. “You are the worst kind of man.”
“The worst kind? Lower than your father?” He pressed another equally brief, equally tantalizing kiss to the outline of her breast, just brushing the taut, aching nipple. “That is a shame.”
Warmth surged through her, traitorous warmth and she wanted to weep with frustration. She couldn’t believe she’d want a man she hated so much, and yet her body, her stupid wretched, needy bo
dy was responding to him in hungry, wanton desperation.
His lips found her nipple again, closing around the exquisitely sensitive bud, suckling it through her blouse. She squirmed helplessly, fire and need rolling through her in great waves. For a half second she clung to him, closing her eyes and giving herself over to the pleasure of desire. She allowed herself to feel it all—the throb of his muscular body, the heat simmering beneath her skin, the insistent need between her thighs—and then when the craving became too strong, she wrenched away, rolling out from beneath Christos’s arm to stand across the room, facing the window.
“You don’t like me, I understand that,” he said quietly, his voice devoid of all emotion, “but we’re married. We have to make this work.”
She squeezed her eyes closed as if to shut out his voice. “You will never get what you want from me.”
He rose, yet he didn’t leave. She felt his presence as if he still held her in his arms. “I don’t know what happened between you and your first husband, but Jeremy Winston did something to you—”
“No.”
“He put a curse on you, froze your heart, trapping you like Sleeping Beauty in the tower.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know enough. I know your marriage ended with heartbreak. I know you spent nearly two years in Switzerland, after you left the Sanatorium, trying to find yourself again.”
Alysia’s head felt light, so light that it tingled at the top. “I can’t talk about it.”
“Why not? What happened, Alysia?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Something did—”
“No!”
“Something so dark, so terrible—”
The words surged around her, words sweeping, blurring until the room spun with words and she heard nothing more.
Christos had called a doctor and the doctor, after a thorough exam, recommended rest, vitamins and more iron. Women, the doctor said, are often anemic and if they wanted to conceive, it would be wise for Alysia to increase her iron intake.
“I’m not that anemic,” she protested, a day after the doctor had been called, and facing her third steak in a row. “I can get iron from spinach. I don’t have to eat a platter of steaks.”
“We can’t have babies if you’re not strong.”
“I am strong, and I don’t have to gorge on meat to conceive. Now back off with the bully routine. I won’t be intimidated.”
Christos visibly fought to control his temper. “I’m not trying to intimidate you. I just want you to be careful.”
“I am careful. I’m also bored. I’d like to get some fresh air. If that’s all right with you, of course.”
He muttered something beneath his breath and shook his head, obviously eager to end the discussion. “You may go to the pool. I’ll have the maid put towels on a lounge chair for you. But don’t stay out in the sun too long. You don’t want to burn.”
Alysia dragged the chaise lounge from beneath the umbrella closer to the pool where she could enjoy the sparkle of the sun on the clear, aquamarine water. She’d brought a book downstairs with her but it turned out to be a rather dry historical account requiring more concentration than she could muster at the moment. After a half hour of reading, she tossed the hardback aside and gave herself over to the pleasure of nothing.
The sun felt wonderful on her back and unhooking the bikini top, she wiggled into the towel, drinking in the steady warm sunshine and promptly fell asleep.
Sometime later, she had no idea how long, she felt a touch, a lovely caress, like feathers or velvet dragged gently across her bare spine.
Sighing she nestled into the towel, not wanting to lose the delicious sensation. The leisurely caress repeated itself, and her lower tummy tightened, warming. She breathed in slowly, not wanting to open her eyes and lose the dreamy sensation.
The velvetlike touch played at the edge of her bikini bottoms, lingering over the line of skin just above the patch of fabric. She wiggled a little, teased by the touch and yet disappointed by the brevity.
Suddenly it clasped her bottom, no tentative touch, but a large hand firmly cupping the curve of cheek.
This was no dream.
Alysia leaped up, snatching her bikini top even as she struggled to cover herself. “Christos!”
The tall shadow shifted, creating a sliver of sunlight where darkness had been. He sat down on the lounge chair next to her. “You should have put lotion on. You’ve been out here hours and burned yourself to a crisp.”
She glanced at her wrist, no watch, and then up at the sun. It had moved. A great deal, actually. A quarter of the way through the sky. “What time is it?” she demanded, struggling to get her bikini top back on without exposing herself.
“Quarter to four.”
“What?”
He watched her fumble with the flimsy fabric with interest. “Perhaps I should help you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“You need to put something on the burn. You don’t want the skin to blister.”
“It’s never blistered before.” Yet her trembling fingers made it almost impossible to adjust the scrap of fabric across her chest. She had a horrible sensation that one nipple, or the other, would pop out at any moment.
“Alysia, I have seen breasts before.”
“But never mine.”
His lip curled, a black eyebrow winged. Laughter tinged his husky voice. “I’m sure I can handle the shock.”
Of course he’d say something smart like that. He was a born wit. Jumping to her feet, she grabbed her towel and slid into her robe with just the briefest flash of flesh. “Unfortunately I don’t think I can.”
The silk robe felt ice-cold against her hot back and she winced as she tied the silk sash around her waist. “What time is dinner?”
“Drinks at seven. Dinner at nine.”
She’d promised to be there, had planned on meeting him, but Alysia hadn’t counted on the extent of her sunburn. It was a livid sunburn.
The warm bath had helped, at first, but as soon as she’d lightly toweled off, her entire backside, from shoulders to her insteps, felt like fire.
She couldn’t even pull a pair of panties on without tears starting to her eyes. Her bra straps sliced into her now-blistering shoulders. Nothing in her closet looked comfortable. She stripped off the bra, stripped off the underwear and carefully crawled between cool bed sheets.
To hell with dinner. She’d stay in bed instead.
Too proud to summon Christos, she simply didn’t show up downstairs at seven.
Quarter after seven, he arrived at the bedroom door.
He didn’t bother to knock. He just walked straight in. “Knowing your penchant for running away, I thought I’d check to see if you were still with us.”
Alysia drew the bed sheet toward her chin. “As you can see, I’m still here.”
“But in bed.”
“Yes.”
“Is that, by happy chance, an invitation?” His teeth flashed whitely in a crooked grin.
“No.”
“But you appear naked.”
“Because I’m too sunburned to dress.”
“Show me.”
Her stomach did a slow, peculiar curl. Heat prickled across the curve of her cheeks. “You want proof?”
“Please.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
PRICKLES of awareness touched her spine, contrasting with the fever raging in her skin. Alysia struggled to deny the feeling. “I’m not going to pull the covers down just so you can see a sunburn.”
“You haven’t been in the sun for over a year. You could have second-or third-degree burns.”
“You’re exaggerating. I might be a little sore, but it’s just a sunburn.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Christos stalked to the edge of the bed and wrenched the covers from her clenched fingers, peeling the sheet back.
Alysia rolled over onto her stomach to protect her front
, humiliated by his impersonal scrutiny. “Just a sunburn,” she gritted, “I told you. Now will you please allow me some privacy!”
“You’re fried to a crisp,” he answered, touching the middle of her back.
She couldn’t help wincing. It hurt, badly. “Please. The covers.”
“Not until I put something on your skin first. I’ve some aloe gel with a topical anesthetic in it that should help.”
“Can you at least let me cover my…bottom.” She felt his gaze move to the aforementioned and she blushed from head to toe, acutely embarrassed.
“You are modest,” he drawled, heading to the bathroom and returning with a hand towel and tube of ointment.
He spread the small towel across her bottom, going to great lengths to adjust it just so, his long fingers brushing the curve of her cheek not just once, but repeatedly, as he slid the small towel up, before tugging it down. To the left. Up a hair. Down a bit, and over to the right.
He was manhandling her and she found it degrading. But that didn’t seem to keep her from responding, each brush of his fingers, each slip of the towel sending fiery arcs of feeling through her veins, coiling need in the deepest part of her, a need so strong, so insistent that she throbbed from the inside out.
“That’s enough!” she snapped, finding his touch nearly as unbearable as the ache spreading from her womb into her limbs.
His fingers trailed across the dip in her spine, and tugged the small towel higher on her cheek, leaving the underside of her bottom exposed to air. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your modesty.”
“Then perhaps a bigger towel would have been more helpful,” she gritted from between clenched teeth.
“I was afraid a bigger towel would irritate the burn.”
The cool air seemed to caress her exposed bottom and it took every bit of her self-control to not wiggle. Part of her felt humiliated and another felt shamelessly excited. “You’re the one irritating the burn.”
He merely laughed softly, the husky sound reverberating from his chest. Unscrewing the cap from the ointment tube, Christos took a seat next to her on the bed.
