One Kiss in... London. Carol Marinelli
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on her ear and then on her mouth and he kissed her in a way that she wanted, a fierce, deep kiss, his arms wrapped around her. She could feel the roughness of his thighs between hers; but his kiss was so urgent it claimed most of her attention. It was a kiss she had to race to keep up with, a kiss that bruised her mouth and scratched at her face, and she would not have had it any other way for even a moment.
His kiss was so hard it took away her breath and demanded her mind, so much so she could not fear those first explorative probes, and then his kiss stopped and she felt a sear of pain as he entered and, even stretched by his fingers, still it hurt more that she had thought it would. Her breath clamped in her throat as she bit down a sob, and then he moved when she prayed that he wouldn’t and then he moved back and then in deeper again, and then it hurt, but not as much, and then his mouth was there at her ear and then she wasn’t hurting. His words soothed, his endearments real, said as if he were her husband, and then when he moved faster within, Connie moved, too, forgot forever that once she’d been hurting and rose and wrapped around him.
She welcomed him in deeper. The last rapid thrusts from Nico, a signal her body heeded, and with him she went to a place that would live forever in her heart. The sound of his release met her scream and she wanted to stay there, with Nico, in the place they had created. But the pulse of her body slowed and slowly she remembered to breathe again, and a little later, when surely she should go back to her room, surely it would be dangerous to fall asleep, she let her body rest when he rolled into her. She would sleep a while in his arms and be with Nico on her wedding night.
He could hear the clock chime five times and for once fought the instinct to instantly awaken. He wanted to pull her warm body towards him, to make slow predawn love, not face the morning and the thoughts that last night had plagued him.
Nico reached for her body and then fought to resist: there was something too intimate about making love in the morning. In the long run he had found it better to leave things at last night, and this morning he chose to uphold his finding, because if had her again, he might then persuade her, might encourage her to stand up to her family, at what cost to her, though?
He looked over to where she slept deeply beside him.
How could he tear her from everything she knew, even if she didn’t like it, with promises he knew he could not keep?
So instead when he moved it was to wake her.
‘You should go back.’
It was a cruel awakening.
She wanted to stay in her dream, her wedding night, with this gorgeous man beside her. She did not want to go back, but she knew that she had to so she climbed out of the bed, pulled on her clothes and the dress he had so lovingly taken off. She wanted him to halt her.
Wanted him to tell her that she didn’t need to go back, but she knew that it wasn’t his place to, that she could only make that decision by herself.
‘Thank you.’ It was a strange way to end such a passionate night, but when Connie thought how it could have been, how wretched she had felt on the stairs last night, how without him she might never have known such bliss, her words were indeed heartfelt.
‘Constantine …’ As she walked out of the door he called out and she froze for a moment, the silence in the air shifting, because if she turned around she would be back in his bed and somehow they both knew it.
It was not for him to save her.
‘It’s Connie.’ She opened the door and forced herself to walk out, to walk the agonising steps to her suite. In her bedroom she showered and put on the beautiful lace nightdress she had chosen for her wedding night, and climbed into the cold empty bed.
This would be her life if she stayed with the lie for even a day, Connie knew it. She was more grateful than Nico could ever know for their night. It had been so much more than sex—it had shown her how life should be.
Could be, Connie thought with a shiver of fear, but that would mean hurting so many people.
HE WOKE before he jumped.
Had trained himself to open his eyes as soon as the lurch in his chest appeared, rather than have the beauty in his bed feel the jerk of his body beside her.
It was that or sleep every night alone, and Nico had no intention of doing that.
He hadn’t had the dream in ages, but when Constantine had left and he had drifted back to sleep he had almost anticipated it—for yesterday something had stirred within him. The walk last night through the streets of Xanos had felt like a return to his familiar dream.
Where he lay paralysed, yet watching himself walk, talk, breathe, live.
A dream where his arms and legs were motionless, yet there he was walking around.
He hated the dream, hated lying there motionless, unable to move, unable to communicate with the version of himself he was watching.
Nico rolled over and her scent was there in bed beside him—and there was regret for not making love to her this morning, for not breaking his steadfast rule. For once he was tempted to close his eyes, to give into his body and slip back to his thoughts, but he had trained himself too well and instead got out of bed and showered and dressed. He didn’t shave and neither did he dress carefully, just pulled on the trousers he had worn last night and topped them with a black fitted shirt.
He toyed, only momentarily, with joining his family for breakfast, but not exactly relishing the prospect he decided otherwise. Given London was two hours behind them, he was for once kind to the long-suffering Charlotte, who arranged all his travel and other things, and he rang down himself to ask the concierge to arrange transport to take him back to the mainland. He didn’t want to go to Lathira and he certainly wasn’t going back on that ferry.
‘To where?’ the concierge asked, ‘and will you need a connection?’ for he could arrange a helicopter or seaplane to Volos and then a flight to Athens. For a beat of a moment Nico wished he’d rung Charlotte, for he didn’t actually know where he was going. Always his time was accounted for and he did not like the feeling this unexpected day off gave him. He had properties everywhere but they were all investments. His job was so global he preferred hotels. His yacht was moored in Puerto Banus in Spain, which was perhaps becoming his base, for Nico was half considering buying a property there, not as an investment, though, but as a home.
‘Just get me to Athens,’ Nico said and rang off. He would decide later, because, after yesterday’s episode, a day on the ocean did not particularly appeal.
It never entered his head he would see her that morning—surely the facade should mean the happy couple breakfasted in bed, but as the lift doors slid open there she was with Stavros. She looked stunning and groomed, every bit a Lathira wife—her make-up immaculate, no trace of last night’s crying evident, the elevator fresh with expensive fragrance, when Nico would have preferred the scent of her sex.
‘Kalimera.’ Nico greeted them and for the first time in his entire life he felt heat in his neck, in his ears and, as the liftman pressed the button, Nico found out how it felt to blush.
Not that Connie saw it.
Her own face was surely purple, her eyes staring down at her brand-new shoes. Stavros, unaware of the new charge in the air, stood beside her—but there was absolutely no guilt on her part. Her so-called husband had, after all, been with a lover of his own on their wedding night. Instead the burn in her cheeks was solely down to Nico, her body flaming in instinctive response, her cheeks firing at the memory of his mouth, his hands and all he had, last night, taught her to be.
‘Kalimera,’ Stavros said and nudged her, the dutiful wife, who must, he had told her, always perform, always look the part, entertain … And she opened her mouth to extend the greeting, to speak as she should, to act as she should, to greet her lover as a guest, and in her first act of defiance this morning