by Jane Porter
“Careful,” he mocked her, his voice deepening, “I might actually think you want me.”
The warmth of his breath against her cheek, the mockery in his voice, the heat of his body against hers made her crave more.
As Christos’s dark head dipped, she reached up, clasping his nape, a soft moan escaping her lips. She slid her fingers through his crisp, damp hair and inhaled his clean male scent.
His mouth parted hers, his tongue teasing the softness of her inner lip until her lips opened wider. She felt the core of her melt. Shameless in her desire, she shifted, rising slightly, encouraging him.
He pressed her backward, against the dining-room table, his kiss deepening, drawing her tongue into his mouth. He sucked on the tip of her tongue, creating a tight friction that echoed the throbbing in her belly and the ache between her thighs.
He sucked harder on her tongue before finding the inside of her lip. He bit the softness of her lip and she gasped, arching into him for relief.
“I do want you. I want you to make love to me,” she begged, her voice thick, husky with passion.
It was all the encouragement he needed. Christos swept her into his arms and carried her up the stairs, pushing open the bedroom door, through the darkened room to his bed.
He found the warm, smooth flesh of her abdomen, unbuttoning her blouse with quick, sure fingers. His palms caressed the length of her torso, tracing the edge of her lace bra beneath the weight of each breast. Her nipples tightened, peaking with feeling, yet he grazed the nipples, bypassing them to kiss the hollow beneath. She squirmed, reaching for him, struggling to unbutton his shirt.
He helped her with his shirt, peeling the fabric from his shoulders to reveal the taut planes of his chest. Her palms slid down his hard abdomen to his belt buckle and with shaking hands she unfastened the buckle and then his trousers.
He sucked in his breath when she found him, her hand wrapping around his hard satin length. He drew her hand away, whispering, “Not yet,” and lowered his own head to savor the sensitive hollow between her breasts, his tongue drawing circles of fire, around and around until she clamped her knees together in futile desire.
He finished off her blouse, pushing the silk fabric aside, and then unhooked the lace bra, sending that to the floor as well. The air felt cool against her heated skin and she reached for him, drawing him back down to her.
When his mouth covered one tight bud, she responded blindly, helplessly dragging her nails down his torso, lightly raking the carved plane of his chest, and small hard nipples.
She was slick with need by the time he knelt between her thighs. “No more anything,” she whispered, “I just want you.”
He entered her slowly, trying to give her time to adjust to his body, but she didn’t need much time, welcoming the exquisite sensation of fullness.
Her body felt lovely and alive, her muscles suffused with warmth, her skin incredibly sensitive. Every place he touched her glowed. Every kiss made her crave more.
“Am I hurting you?” he demanded hoarsely.
“No,” she answered, pressing a finger to his lovely lips, stilling his speech. “Just love me.”
And he did, bracing himself on his hands, thrusting deeply inside, first slowly and then faster, creating alternating torments of fullness and need, drawing them together, building the tension, building the reward.
His mouth returned to hers, and she answered his kiss with near desperation, lifting her hips to meet him, relishing the tenderness and passion.
She knew then she’d always love him, heart and soul, or the part of her soul not destroyed with Alexi.
“Christos,” she whispered urgently, drawing him deeper inside her, opening her mouth, giving him all of her body since he wouldn’t take her heart.
The vivid swirling sensations built to a feverish pitch, his thrusts harder, faster, and for long mindless seconds she was at an insurmountable peak, nearing climax, her body warm, damp, straining against his, but not yet set free.
Christos plunged into her yet again, moving deeply, and suddenly she was his, all his, exploding in brilliant, breathtaking pleasure. Her pleasure sent him over the edge, and they came together, their bodies shuddering with rippling sensation, satiated and exhausted.
Still tangled together, her heart racing wildly, Christos kissed her again, long and hard. “Mine,” he whispered against her mouth. “Remember that.” And then his tongue rasped against hers in one final mind-spinning kiss that drew shivers down her spine, warmth from her belly, and flexed her toes.
He settled her to one side of him, pulling her hip in against his, one palm cupping her breast. For a long moment neither moved, nor spoke, their warm, weary bodies relaxed.
Alysia felt herself spiral down, down, down, but she never crashed, just floated in lovely suspended sensation, aware of Christos’s fingers trailing in the curve of her lower back, and gently caressing the swell of her hip.
“You are worth all the ships in the world,” he murmured, his voice husky, and she turned her head to look up at him, surprised by his words, but before she could ask him what he meant, he was breathing deeply, black lashes fanning his cheekbones. He was asleep.
They made love again later, toward the end of the night. Neither spoke, their bodies communicating in wordless expression. But later, after they’d recovered from the intensity of the physical pleasure, Christos pressed a kiss to the top of her head and eased out of bed.
“Where are you going?” she asked, sleepily sitting forward, sheet drawn to her breasts.
“Work.”
“Now? It’s so early!”
“It’s five. I’ve a lot to do. Better to get started.”
She sat up higher, pushed a fistful of hair out of her eyes. “Can I come?”
“No. Go back to sleep. You need the rest.”
She pushed back the bedcovers, pressed her hands to her knees. “I could help you. You could put me to work.”
“You know nothing about the industry.”
“So teach me.” She was warming to the idea, realizing she could try to win him over. Christos was like her father. He equated business with success, and he respected successful people. If she could find a way to be useful, contribute to his business, he might see her as more than Darius Lemos’s spoiled daughter.
He might realize she had a brain. He might respect her.
He might even fall in love with her.
“Please, Christos, give me a chance.”
“This is not a good day for show and tell. Today I have important conferences scheduled. Union bosses waiting to rip my head off. It’s a day of hard bargaining, a little bloodletting—hopefully not my own. You’d be in the way. You’d be a distraction.”
His good mood quickly evaporated as his wife flung herself from bed, her slim figure lunging at the floor, grabbing for her clothes. “I wouldn’t be a distraction. I wouldn’t get in your way. Christos, please.”
“Alysia, be serious.”
Her hands shook as she picked up her panties and stepped into the tiny scraps of satin. “I am. Completely serious.”
“Alysia, you’re a woman.”
Daggers flashed in her dark blue eyes and with a furious glance in his direction, she yanked her white silk blouse over her shoulders, forgetting her strappy lace bra, the fabric hugging her breasts, outlining the full, round shape. “I can’t believe you just said that!”
“I watched my mother slave on her knees in other people’s bathrooms. She worked her fingers to the bone and I vowed that when I married, my wife would never work, never be humiliated like that.”
“I want to go into the office, not clean bathrooms.” Her full, swollen nipples pressed tautly against the thin silk fabric and he felt his body harden, responding to her beauty and passion, unfazed by her anger.
“No. I will provide for us because I can provide for us. That is how it should be, and that is how it will be. Understood?”
With a strangled oath she flung her navy s
kirt at him. He caught it easily.
“Then go!” she spat, tossing her head, long silky hair swinging over her shoulders. “Do whatever it is you must do, but don’t expect to come home and find me waiting!”
He stopped where he was, two steps from the foot of the bed, desire dying. He hadn’t heard right. She was threatening him again. Unbelievable.
One of his hands circled her slim upper arm and he dragged her toward him. Her bare legs kicked, her hands pounded on his chest. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
Anger swept through him, anger and impatience. He tilted her head back, holding her face captive beneath his. His kiss was an assault as much as it was an insult. He kissed her hard, a savagery in the rake of his tongue and grind of his lips. He wanted her to feel his wrath, wanted to remind her that in this house, he was the man, and she, the woman.
But even as he probed her mouth, his hard embrace gentled, his fingers releasing her chin to cup her cheek. She felt unbelievable in his arms, tasted like honey and crushed almonds. She was sweet and damn it, she was his.
She’d been his ever since she’d interrupted her father’s meeting all those years ago. He knew then he wanted her, wanted her to be his. He’d protect her. He’d cherish her. He’d keep Darius Lemos from hurting her again.
Alysia’s swollen mouth trembled beneath his, her slim body quivering against his bare chest. His kiss softened and he caressed the length of her neck, stroking her satiny skin, her body shuddering at each slow, lingering touch, playing her tenderly the way one would play the violin. She was melting in his arms, melting into him, and gently he released her.
He exhaled slowly, his breathing ragged, his heart pounding with the same fierceness that it surged through his limbs, gathering in his groin. God, he wanted her, wanted to take her and taste her, make love to her until she surrendered completely, admitting that she wanted no one but him, no life but theirs.
But she wouldn’t meet him, not even halfway, and as much as he wanted to kiss her senseless, there wasn’t time.
His brows flattened as he pressed the tip of his finger to her quivering mouth. “Do not, my rebellious wife, threaten to leave me again.”
She heard the hardness in his tone and realized she’d pushed him too far. Shivering, she drew her blouse even tighter across her chest, wanting him yet again, craving him still. She should have more pride, want more from him than just sex, but desperate woman that she was, she took whatever he gave her, even the crumbs from his table.
Disgusted with herself, she lashed out. “I gave you what you wanted. You wanted me to perform my wifely duties, well, I did. I serviced you. Now give me what I want.”
Christos stared at her, stunned, his expression revealing hurt, and betrayal. Then his dark eyes shuttered, leaving his chiseled features starkly remote. But she’d seen enough in his eyes to know her barb hit home. She’d wounded him.
Instead of joy, she felt remorse, and fresh shame. Before she could apologize, he was walking away, putting distance between them.
He headed for his bathroom, flicked on the lights and heat lamp before turning on the shower. She followed him into the bathroom, unsettled by what had just taken place between them.
The cold tile floor curled her toes. “Christos—”
Steam rose from the open shower door, fogging the white tiled bath. Christos turned to look at her. He was naked but completely uninhibited. “We have an expression in America. It’s called ‘low blow.’ It means, you’ve hit below the belt. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She swallowed hard, wondering how something so lovely, what took place in his bed, could now turn into something so ugly. “Yes, but—”
“Hitting below the belt is not acceptable. Not in this marriage. Not ever.”
“I’m sorry, but you—”
“Like a child. So defiant. So unwilling to bend.”
“Is that how you accept an apology?”
“Is that how you give an apology?”
She couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand the way he made her feel so inadequate. “I hate you,” she whispered, tears starting to her eyes. “I hate you and everything you stand for.”
“Trust me. At the moment, the feeling’s mutual.” His dark lashes lowered, concealing his expression. “It didn’t have to be like this, Alysia.”
Tears shimmered in her eyes as she flung her head back. “Is that an apology?”
“No. A statement of fact.”
“Why didn’t you marry your good American-Greek girl and leave me in the convent?”
His mouth flattened, his dark eyes narrowing as his gaze raked her half-naked body. “I couldn’t.”
“You and my father are exactly alike. You love money before all else!”
“I tried to love you. But you won’t let anybody near you. You won’t allow someone to be kind—”
“Is that what you were showing me in bed? Kindness?” She laughed, her voice high and strained, a hint of hysteria in the thin pitch. “Well, from now on, I can do without your acts of kindness.” She balled her hands into fists. “Call a spade, a spade. Our marriage is nothing but a business deal. Dollars. Numbers. A bank account. What happened in there, in that bed, was nothing more than a business transaction.”
His cheekbones jutted against the pallor of his skin. His nostrils flared with each short, ragged breath. “Fine, it’s business. But it’s an ongoing business. I’ll take you when I want, and how I want, and to hell with the kindness you despise.”
He pulled her into the shower with him, holding her beneath the blast of jets, water soaking them both, drenching her blouse, outlining her breasts.
Turning, he shifted her body behind his to take the brunt of the water. Clasping her face in his hands, he covered her mouth with his, lips parting her, tongue stabbing at her mouth’s softness, taking her without pretense of tenderness.
The water beat down around them, splashing their bodies, dripping down their legs.
When Christos finally lifted his head, he slowly pressed a kiss to the corner of her throbbing mouth. His black eyelashes were spiky wet, his jaw glistening with water. “From now on I’ll expect you to be ready for me, just like my banker’s always on call, ready for my business.”
“You’re an ass,” she whispered, hurt, and yet hungry for more skin, more pressure, more of him.
“And you’re my wife.” He unbuttoned her soggy blouse, dropping it in a puddle at their feet.
She tried to climb out of the shower. He pulled her back in, blocking the door with his body. He picked up a bar of soap and began lathering it between his large hands. He worked the soap into thick white suds, and then held the bar above her body. The foaming suds spilled from his hands to her shoulders and dripped down her breasts.
His gaze lowered, his burning gaze following the path of the bubbles as they slid down the sweep of breasts, her taut aching nipples peeking through soapy foam.
Reaching out to her, Christos traced the bubble path, his firm sudsy palm against her breast and distended nipple. He drew his hands across her, spreading the soapy lather down her flat abdomen, into the soft mound at the apex of her thighs. He washed her clean, rinsed the soap off, and lifted her chin. “I’ve washed you, I’ve made you mine. Your life, Alysia, is with me.”
Shivering, she left the shower and wrapped a towel around herself and squeezed the extra water from her hair. Christos stepped past her, his hips bumping her bottom and she quickly moved out of the way. Reaching across her, he pulled a towel off the bar. “You have a half hour,” he said flatly, no expression in his voice.
“A half hour?”
He looked at her with anger, and scorn. “Until we go. I won’t leave you here and give you a second chance to run away. So you win, Alysia. You’re going to work with me even though I don’t like it one little bit.”
CHAPTER TEN
DURING the helicopter ride into the city, Christos avoided looking at her, and she kept her chin firmly
lifted, refusing to let him see that her hard-earned victory tasted terribly bitter.
She’d wanted to be a part of his world, but not at this price. Never at this price.
The moment they arrived at his office, walking through the frosted glass doors into a modern office furnished in navy, burgundy and cream, they joined a meeting already in progress and remained in the conference room all day.
Christos didn’t glance her way during the three-hour-long discussion with the shipworker’s union boss. And the discussion, so heated that at times she feared the union boss would come to blows, made her incredibly uneasy. But Christos remained utterly calm. He addressed the others without rancor, and yet he didn’t bend, nor did he compromise.
The meeting adjourned for ten minutes so all could move around the room, use the bathroom, stretch their legs. Christos stood up, walked to the phone on the corner table, a table just inches from her chair, and made a series of brief phone calls without once looking at her.
Concluding his calls, he returned to his chair, again without a glance in her direction.
It was as if he was telling her, without so many words, that she could push him all she wanted, but that would never change the way he felt about her. He despised her. Clearly she meant nothing to him.
A bitter pill for a bitter victory.
They were silent on the ride home in the helicopter, landing on the cement pad in Christos’s estate only twenty minutes after having taken off from the Manhattan skyscraper.
A car waited for them at the landing pad, driving them the short distance to the house. Mrs. Avery opened the door, welcomed them cheerfully, offering an appetizer tray and cold drinks.
Christos took his glass, and Alysia’s, thanking Mrs. Avery with a warmth that Alysia couldn’t miss.
“Mr. Pateras, your mother called late this afternoon to let you know your father had to work late tonight. She didn’t think they’d be here much before eight.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Avery. I know you’ve had a long day. Please don’t feel you need to stay.”
