The Greek's Secret Son. Julia James
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looked down at her, seeing the loveliness of her face, of the loose, long pale hair waving like silk over her slender shoulders, seeing how the sweet mounds of her breasts were pressed against the contours of her cotton tee shirt, how her soft tender lips were parted, how her celestial blue eyes were wide, gazing at him with an expression that told him exactly what she wanted.
For one long, endless moment he stayed motionless, while a million conflicting thoughts battled in his head over what he should do next. What he should do versus what he wanted to do.
Yet still he held back, knowing that what he wanted so badly to do he should not. He should instead pull back, make some gesture of withdrawal from her, get up, get to his feet, increase the distance between them. Because if he didn’t right now, then—
Her hand lifted, almost quivering, and with trembling fingers she let the delicate tips touch his jaw, feather-light, scarcely making contact, as if she hardly dared believe that this was what she was doing. She said his name. Breathed it. Her eyes were pools of longing. Her lips were parted, eyes half closed now. Waiting—yearning... For him.
And Anatole lost it. Lost all remaining shreds of conscience or consciousness.
He leaned towards her. The hand behind her head grazed her nape, his other hand slid along her cheek, his fingers gentle in her hair, cupping her face. Her eyes were wide, like saucers, and in them starlight shone like beacons, drawing him into her, into doing what she so blazingly wanted him to do.
His eyes washed over her, his pulse quickening. She was so lovely. And she so wanted him to kiss her... He could see it in her eyes, in her parted lips, in the quivering pulse in her delicate white throat.
His lashes swept down over his eyes as his mouth touched hers, soft as velvet, tasting the sweet wine on her lips, the warmth of her mouth as he opened it to his questing silken touch. He heard her give a little moan, deep in her throat, and he felt his own pulse surge, arousal spearing within him.
She was so soft to kiss, and he deepened his kiss automatically, instinctively, his hand sliding down over the curve of her shoulder, turning her towards him as he leant into her, drawing her to him, drawing her across him, so that her hand now braced itself against the hard wall of his chest, so that one slender thigh was against his.
He heard her moan again and it quickened his arousal. He said her name, told her how sweet she was, how very lovely. If he spoke in Greek he didn’t realise it—didn’t realise anything except that the wine was coursing in his bloodstream, recklessness was heady in his smitten synapses, and in his arms was a woman he desired.
Who desired him.
Because that was what her tender, lissom body was telling him—that was what the sudden engorgement of her breasts was showing him in the cresting of her nipples that were somehow beneath the palm of his hand.
Without realisation, she was winding her hand around his waist. He laid her back across his lap, half supported on his arm as he kissed her still, one hand palming her swelling breast until she moaned, eyes closed, her face filled with an expression of bliss he would have had to be blind not to see. He lifted his mouth from hers, let his eyes feast on her a moment, before his mouth descended yet again to graze on the line of her cheekbones, to nip at the tender lobes of her ears.
He let his hand slip reluctantly from her breast and then slide languorously along her flank to rest on her thigh, to smooth away the light cotton of her skirt until his hand found the bare skin beneath. To stroke and to caress and to hear her moan again, to feel her thigh strain against him—feel, too, his own body surge to full arousal.
Desire flamed in him...strong, impossible to resist...
And yet he must. This was too fast, too intense. He was letting his overpowering desire for her carry him away and he must draw back.
Heart pounding, he set her aside.
‘Tia—’ His voice was broken, his hand raised as if to ward her off. To hold himself back from her.
He saw her face fill with anguish. It caught at him like a blow.
‘Don’t...don’t you want me?’ There was dismay in her voice, which was a muted whisper.
He gave a groan. ‘Tia—I mustn’t. This isn’t right. I can’t take advantage of you like this!’
Immediately she cried out, ‘But you aren’t! Oh, please, please don’t tell me you don’t want me! I couldn’t bear it!’
Her hand flew to her mouth and her look of anguish intensified. Her breathing was fast and breathless and she felt bereft—lost and abandoned.
He caught her face between his hands. ‘Tia—I want you very, very much, but—’
But there’s more than one bedroom in this apartment and we have to be in separate bedrooms tonight—we just have to be! Because anything else would be...would be...
Her face had lit like a beacon again. ‘Please...please!’ she begged. Her face worked. ‘This whole evening with you has been incredible! Fantastic! Wonderful! And now...with you...it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced in all my life! You are like no one I’ve ever met! I’ll never meet anyone else like you again, and this...all this...’
She gestured at the room, softly lit with table lamps, at the candles still on the dining table, the empty bottle of champagne, the glow of the lights on the terrace beyond.
‘All this will never happen to me again!’ She bit her lip, mouth quivering. ‘I want this so much,’ she said huskily, her eyes pleading with him, her hand fastening on his strong arm as if she might draw him back to her again. ‘Please,’ she begged again. ‘Please don’t turn me away—please!’
And yet again Anatole lost it.
Unable to resist what he did not want to resist, what he could not bear to resist, he swept her back up to him, his mouth descending to taste again the honeyed sweetness of her mouth which opened to his instantly, eagerly...hungrily.
She wants this—she wants this as much as I do. And, however briefly we have known each other, my desire for her is overpowering. And so is hers for me. And because of that...
Because of that, with a rasp deep in his throat, he hefted to his feet, holding her in his arms, his hand sweeping under her knees to cradle her against him as he carried her away.
Away not to the guest room but to his own master suite, where he ripped back the bedcovers to lay her gently upon cool sheets. She was gazing up at him, blindness in her eyes, her pupils flared, lips bee-stung, breasts straining against the moulding of the cotton tee.
He wanted it gone. Wanted all her clothes gone, and all his—wanted no barriers between himself and this lovely woman he wanted now...right now...
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