Christos's Promise. Jane Porter
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the touch of his fingers against her brow sent shivers racing through her. Repulsion, she told herself, even as the tight core of her warmed, softened. She didn’t want him. Couldn’t want him.
But when he tucked one long silky strand behind her ear, his hand caressing the ear, then the tender spot below, her belly ached and her limbs felt terrifyingly weak.
No one had touched her so gently in years.
Her need shocked her. She felt like a woman starved for food and warmth. Helplessly she gazed at him, hating herself for responding to him. “Are you quite finished?” she whispered breathlessly.
“No, not quite,” he murmured, before his dark head lowered.
She stiffened as his head dropped, drawing back against the leather upholstery. No! No, no, no. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t kiss her, especially not here, not when she felt like this. Everything was too new, too strange, too crazy.
If he felt her resistance, he ignored it, clasping the back of her head, fingers twining in her long hair. She caught the glint in his dark eyes and a hint of rich, sweet spice. Not vanilla, not cinnamon, but some other fragrance so deep, and familiar, that it tantalized her memory.
His mouth took possession of hers and she breathed him in again, reminded of almonds, sweet baby powder, the heady musk of antique roses…
Somehow it all fit, he, this, the kiss. His mouth, the warmth of his skin, the strength in his arms. Tremor after tremor coursed through her veins, creating an intense craving for more sensation.
Even as his lips parted hers, another electric current shot through her, sparking awareness in every nerve in her body. More, her brain demanded, her lips moving beneath his, her tongue answering the play of his, more, more…
The kiss deepened, and unconsciously she moved against him seeking to prolong the contact, relishing the hard plane of his chest, the warmth of his skin, the heady sweet spice of his cologne.
As his tongue sought the sensitive hollows in her mouth, the inside of her lip, the curve of cheek, blood pooled in her lower belly, her veins pulsing. This felt, he felt…
Incredible.
Muffled voices penetrated her brain. Voices. People.
Her eyes flew open, reality returning.
Cameras pressed against the limousine windows, dozens of lenses, shutters snapping. “Mr. Pateras, we have company.”
He raised his head, his mouth curving into a satisfied smile. He didn’t even give the throng of reporters a second glance. “Let them watch. After all, this is what they’ve come for.”
Panicked, she tried to bolt from the car, lunging out thinking only of running from the crowd and the cameras and Christos—
A hand clamped at her waist, biting into her skin, holding her still. “Mrs. Pateras—” Christos’s husky voice pierced her panic “—smile for the cameras.”
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