The Santorini Bride. Anne McAllister
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his muscles tense, could make him bite his lip as he attempted to rein in his passion, to control his desire.
Martha didn’t want him to control it. She wanted him to lose control just as she had in the shower. She wanted to bring him the same pleasure he had brought her.
And so she became bolder. Her hands found him, stroked him, touched him—until he could stand it no longer.
And suddenly he was over her, sliding between her legs and plunging in and—
Martha stiffened in shock.
And so did Theo.
At her body’s sudden resistance, he went rigid and—for an instant—absolutely still. Even in the moonlight his astonished, incredulous expression was one she would never forget for the rest of her life.
And then it was replaced by one of desperation, as he could no more control his expression than he could control the need that swamped him.
She knew he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. Which he probably did, but it was too late. Theo shattered in her just the way she had shattered in the shower.
And then, still trembling, he rolled off the bed and onto his feet, glaring down at her and demanding furiously, “What the hell d’you think you were doing?”
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