by Sharon Ihle
Dimitri released her immediately. "What's wrong?"
He searched her eyes, concern reflected in the black core of his gaze, and his handsome face was so close to hers, she thought she might die from the pleasure of looking on him. She opened her mouth to answer him, but nothing came out except a slight croak.
"Surely you're not afraid of me, are you?"
"Afraid?" she echoed, so mesmerized by the nearness of this incredible man, she almost didn't recognize the escape route he'd offered. "I—yes. That's it. I'm flat-out terrified of all this."
Once she started, Shylo couldn't seem to stop talking, rattling on with words that didn't even make sense to her. "I'd appreciate it if you'd just let me be. Besides, I'm pretty sure I won't be much good at this sort of thing, and honestly, I mean, if you've just got to do this with somebody, I don't mind—"
Dimitri covered her mouth with his, swallowing the rest of her sentence along with the little bit of sanity she still possessed. Her throat, her stomach, even her hands and feet, felt as if they'd been invaded by swarms of butterflies, and Shylo reached up to try to save herself. Groping for a way out, her fingers slid over the very chest hairs she'd ogled only moments ago, and before she knew it she was exploring those sooty black curls and the man beneath them. She found rock-hard muscle, but also areas of surprising softness—and, to her surprise, a pair of firm nodules much like her own nipples. Wondering if they were as sensitive as hers, she rubbed them with the tips of her fingers. With an abruptness that startled her, Dimitri set her away from him.
His black eyes were luminous, and a mysterious flame burned at their very core. He looked as if he wanted to speak but couldn't come up with the proper words. Stunned into silence herself, Shylo licked her lips.
Dimitri's eyes hardened and he shivered.
So did she. From her head to her toes.
"It would seem," he finally said, the words, thick, "that I've managed to put your fears to rest; at least I hope I've convinced you of that, kouklitsa."
Her jersey fell to the floor along with her skirt, startling her. She hadn't even realized he'd undone the fastenings.
"I'm your husband," Dimitri said to his strangely silent wife, "and I want to make love to you. Do you understand what that means?"
Shylo thought of her years on the farm and the nasty Hereford bull who forced himself onto any cow who wandered into his path. She understood all right. She gulped. "It means breeding."
"Breeding?" Dimitri laughed as he gathered the hem of her chemise into his fists and slipped it over her head. "That seems an odd and clinical way to put it. I do not know the more romantic way to describe to make love, but I think you'll like it better if I show you instead." Dimitri smiled at her again, this time adding a little wink as he leaned over the bed to pull back the big puffy white quilt, the sheet, and the blanket. Then he patted the mattress. "Come. Sit down."
Her knees wobbling, Shylo did as he asked, but her mind was still racing with thoughts of escape. Somehow she would have to get out of this before things went any farther. She glanced down at herself, amazed to find that she wore only her new camisole and drawers, and then realized that Dimitri had dropped to his knees before her and was in the midst of taking off her shoes. When he finished that task, he rolled down her stockings and took her bare feet into his hands, warming them just before he gently kissed the instep of each. This time when she shivered, it began at her toes and traveled up the length of her body.
"You are relaxing at last," Dimitri said, still smiling as he rose.
He turned away from her and paused before the lamp, making up his mind, she assumed, whether to leave it burning or blow it out. Shylo's gaze fell in line with the front of his drawers. The fabric there was so stretched by now that all traces of the "pouch" she'd noticed before had vanished. He'd swollen up even bigger than ever, impossibly huge. With a gasp that was more of a groan, Shylo fell back on the bed and pulled the covers over her head. In the darkness of her little cocoon, she heard Dimitri chuckling lightly. Moments later she felt the weight of his body as he slid beneath the sheets beside her. Then his voice came to her again, the sound magic, black velvet caressing her from within.
"If it is darkness you prefer, so shall you have darkness."
He reached for her, pulling her close, and found her lips with his. The kiss he bestowed now was hotter than before, more urgent, but it didn't frighten her as much as the feel of his searing palms against her skin. How could she be lying here practically naked? How had it happened, when? His fingers, even hotter than his palms, tugged at the tight buttons of her new camisole, and before she knew it all six of the little glass beads had slipped loose of their moorings. Next thing she knew, she was naked from the waist up, with only fuzzy recollections of how she'd lost her clothing.
Dimitri folded her in his embrace, squeezing her tighter and closer than ever before, then suddenly he ended the kiss, gasping for air as he pulled away from her mouth. Shylo felt as if she were suffocating, the atmosphere beneath the covers stifling, depleted of oxygen. Using her arms like a swimmer, she exploded up through the surface of bedding. Dimitri popped out beside her in the next moment, and then the two of them were laughing together, wrapped in each other's arms. Acting, she thought with alarm, like a pair of lovers.
"Sometimes," Dimitri said when he'd regained his breath, "too much darkness is not a good thing." Then his dimples receded and his expression grew solemn. "It's time, kouklitsa. Time that I made you mine."
He was looking at her in the strangest way, his features bathed in a thin sheen of perspiration, his gaze liquid fire, pinned to her breasts. It wasn't until then that Shylo realized her torso was completely uncovered, exposed to him. Her first instinct was to cross her arms and hide herself, but instead of fleeing or diving back under the covers, she found herself fighting the impulse. What had she become? She actually liked the way he was looking at her. And the way that, in turn, made her feel.
Dimitri removed the few pins still holding the remnants of Shylo's coiffure together, and then fanned out her disheveled tresses along her back and shoulders. "I love the color of your hair," he murmured, "especially the way it looks in the sunshine with little sparkles of red in it. It is beautiful and different, like you."
Shylo had to swallow the urge to laugh over that as she thought back to the disaster she'd made of Cassie's hair, trying to achieve just that affect. Had she really possessed what she'd been looking for all this time but had been too blind to see it? Dimitri gathered her in his arms, and as he fit her body beneath his, she forgot about vanity and hair disasters as a sudden wave of new sensations swept her away.
He nuzzled the spot behind her ear, his hot breath blowing through the hair he'd said he loved so much, and Shylo nearly cried out, so intense was the pleasure of his touch. She shouldn't let him do this, she knew that this was wrong, but she couldn't bring herself to say the word stop. She struggled to find the strength, but now Dimitri was spreading hot kisses down the side of her throat, touching her breasts in a way that made her feel funny inside, wicked like the kind of woman who'd let a man do just about anything to her.
God forgive her, thought Shylo, she liked Dimitri's touch even more than the way he'd been looking at her, no matter how wrong it might be. Besides, even if she wanted to, she no longer had the strength to resist him—and if it meant she'd rot in hell for the rest of her days, so be it.
Dimitri raised up on his elbows. "For such a talkative woman, you're very quiet. Do you still have reservations?"
"I—no. I trust you, Dimitri." Her mind was chaos, but she managed to toss something she figured a real lady of high morals might say. "Just leave my nuptials out of it, if you can."
The moment the words I trust you, were out—the sweetest phrase he'd ever heard from anyone—Dimitri had all the permission he needed to consummate his marriage, at last. Shylo's final words, something about nuptials, rang in his ears as he worked her drawers down over her hips, but he couldn't make much
sense of them. Was she talking about paperwork? A marriage license? How could she be interested in legal documents at a time like this? He wasn't. He sure as hell wasn't. In fact, he thought with a full measure of panic, if he didn't join with his new wife soon, there wouldn't be much reason to try.
Driven on by almost unrestrained lust, Dimitri tore off his own drawers, and then flung back the sheet that had covered their bodies. Shylo didn't seem to notice. Her eyes were closed, her arms outstretched as if waiting for him. He drank greedily of her nakedness, a sight worth all the treasures of Rome, then fell on her mouth for one passionately deep and satisfying kiss. Using his hands as guides, he followed them down the curves of her body, strewing kisses across the mounds of her breasts and down the gentle slope of her navel. Shylo began to writhe beneath him then, calling out his name through her moans, and when he kissed the tender flesh at the backs of her knees, she nearly bucked him off the side of the bed.
Chuckling huskily over the lust he'd unearthed in his reluctant bride, Dimitri slid his fingers up the inside of her thigh, halting just before he reached the apex of her legs to stroke the ultrasoft skin there. His mouth followed as he raised his hand higher, his fingertips barely skimming the thick sable curls between her legs. Then he moved to the other thigh in search of that most exquisite softness there.
Half out of her mind with need, Shylo arched her back and looked down the length of her body to where her husband lay between her legs. He glanced up at her, the devil shining in his dark, dark eyes, and lightly kissed her where she ached the most. Shylo's head fell back on the pillow with the sharp, exquisite pleasure of it all.
"All right, all right," she said, panting so hard, she could barely breathe. "Forget everything I said about not touching my nuptials. Just do it—do it now."
Although he still didn't understand what she was talking about, Shylo's suddenly eager body was all the encouragement Dimitri needed. He pushed her legs apart and fitted himself between them. The groan Shylo uttered as he stroked her most sensitive self was hoarse and guttural, a siren that called his own lusty juices to life with a vengeance.
Raising his hips, Dimitri slowly eased his way inside of her, fighting against his release every inch of the way. As he broke through Shylo's maidenhead, Dimitri could almost swear he heard the strains of the clarion trumpeting the "Hasaposerviko," a wedding song that started out slowly and sensuously, then built to a rapid and resounding climax. He fought against the urge, tried to think of other things, but Shylo's body egged him on, her sweet voice crying out with pleasure. When she called his name in ecstasy, it was the final push that sent him over the edge. A tremendous shudder passed through him along with his seed, and he roared with an impulsive and savage triumph. Then he collapsed against his wife's soft body.
Shylo, who was just getting the hang of this love- making business, didn't know what had gone wrong. But something had. She tapped her husband's shoulder, trying to rouse him. "Dimitri? Are you all right? What happened?"
Stricken as he realized how truly out of control he'd become, he glanced up into Shylo's wide blue eyes. "Don't worry," he said. "I'm all right. I just need to have a short rest."
"Oh."
He hadn't been entirely truthful with her, Shylo knew that without a doubt. Something had gone wrong. Was it something she had done—or hadn't done? Had he hurt himself physically? Lord knew it hadn't exactly been as smooth or painless for her as his kisses had been. In fact, he'd hurt her a little, and she still felt some tenderness between her legs.
Also, she had to admit, there was this delicious ache, a swollen sensation that made her want to move her hips and rub herself against Dimitri some more. Made her want to be a nasty wicked woman all over again. Was this what became of women who gave themselves to men they weren't really married to? Would she truly rot in hell for the sins she'd committed here in this bed? Or was she paying already?
Shylo turned her face toward Dimitri's to check his breathing. He'd calmed down considerably, but his breath was still coming in erratic gasps. Lord, what if she'd almost killed her make-believe husband with her wanton and completely unladylike behavior? Dimitri had hardly been able to move since she'd screamed like some wild thing and twisted beneath him like a common barn cat. Oh, God, what if that was it? Tears rolled down her cheeks at the thought of how badly her sins might have hurt him. Shylo sniffled, struggling to hold them back, and then he spoke to her, his voice a warm caress.
"Don't cry, kouklitsa." Even though he hadn't quite recovered yet, remorse brought Dimitri out of his lethargy and up to her side. "I'll make it up to you. I promise."
Make it up to her? What did he mean by that? "I'm afraid I did something wrong. I'm not exactly sure what, but I know that I—"
He pressed a fingertip against her mouth, then replaced it with his lips. Dimitri nuzzled her more than kissed her, speaking against her skin as he tried to reassure her. "If you did anything wrong at all, it was that you felt too good to me. This time is for you. Only you."
Shylo still didn't know exactly what he meant, but she never got a chance to ask him about it. When she opened her mouth to speak, his fingers found that most sensitive place again, the wicked part of her that would have promised him the moon and more if only he'd keep stroking her there. Then he lowered his head, moving his mouth down the column of her throat, and wrapped his lips around the crown of her breast. When the tip of his tongue began to tease the nipple beneath, matching the ever-increasing rhythm of his fingers below, Shylo thought she'd go mad from wanting something, anything, to release her from the sweet agony of this terrible desire. A low, guttural oath reached her ears, a forbidden cuss word she was pretty sure had come from her own mouth, but even that didn't stop her from shouting or from begging Dimitri to do something for her, anything, but to please just do it.
He pushed up between her legs again, this time thrusting into her with abandon, and Shylo welcomed the relief of the new sensation, the easing of the fierce ache inside of her. Her respite didn't last long. The moment Dimitri began moving rhythmically again, with ever longer and deeper strokes, Shylo leapt to a new level of desire, one that lifted her to the very peak of fulfillment, then left her dangling there, frustrated and half out of her mind.
"Oh, God," she cried. "I don't know what's happening to me. Help me, Dimitri, help me."
With whispered words in a language she didn't understand, he drove his hand between their bodies, working his fingers into her damp curls, then dared her with both his voice and his touch to let go, to fly over the edge. The world exploded inside of Shylo after that, raising her higher and farther than she'd ever dreamed was possible. Her body seemed to melt at the core, merging and uniting with Dimitri in a union so perfect, so pure, the experience was almost ethereal.
As Shylo slowly tumbled down from those dizzying heights, her nerves, her mind, her heart, all tingling with a euphoric kind of joy, she felt as if she'd captured the moon and the stars deep within her, the answer to the universe and all its puzzles. When the last falling star inside her body finally flickered and died, she owned the darkness, too—and a sense of peace she'd never known before.
* * *
Late the following morning, as Dimitri slumbered through his second "rest period" in as many hours, Shylo leaned up on one elbow and took her first real glance of their room. It was huge, and so lavishly furnished, she could hardly believe it was real. Although she'd yet to venture out there, she vaguely remembered passing through a wide foyer and living room containing several puffy white chairs and couches. Here, in the separate bedroom, his and her dressers, washstands, and other Victorian furnishings were made of walnut and topped with imported marble. A small settee nestled in front of the fireplace was upholstered in snow-white velvet, and the canopied four-poster bed was draped in Nottingham lace accented with gold threads.
If all that weren't enough to dazzle a farm girl from Kansas, the bridal chambers featured a completely separate dressing area and bathroom, the latter off
ering cold and hot water piped right into the room, a sparkling enameled tub with gold fixtures, and a private privy. Shylo was impressed by her surroundings all right, but as she stared down at her husband, his features illuminated by the light filtering in through the lace curtains at the bay window, it all seemed terribly trivial. The real riches in this room, she realized with a start, were lying right beside her.
The sheet hung low on Dimitri's hips, exposing most of his flat stomach, all of his torso, and every handsome angle of his flawless face. Waves of his tousled hair, its ebony color stark against the soft white pillow, dipped down over his forehead to cover one eyebrow, making him look boyish and innocent, the exact opposite of what she now knew him to be.
All that and a Greek god, too. He was a man any woman would be proud to call husband or even... lover. A man who could warm even the coldest heart, coaxing it to blossom with love. He'd done that much to her, Shylo thought, even though she didn't truly believe in such nonsense. But there was no denying by morning's light that she loved him, if only just a little.
She giggled at the thought, then reached across Dimitri's chest and picked up the silver platter of fruit he'd ordered for them earlier. Along with the other appointments in the bridal suite, the hotel offered a bell that was wired directly to the manager's office. If they were hungry, or thirsty, or just wanted a copy of the San Diego Union or Daily Bee, all they had to do was push the buzzer, and moments later a member of the hotel staff would knock on the door to their suite and see to their needs. Feeling wickedly spoiled, Shylo plucked a fat orange slice from the still bountiful selection of fruit and dragged it slowly across her husband's mouth.
His tongue darted out, and as he licked his lips Dimitri said, "Grapes, woman. If you're going to seduce a Greek man with fruit, you must use grapes. Or kumquats."
She laughed and popped the orange slice into her own mouth. "Umm, I feel so wicked lying here with you, naked, eating in bed. Wicked and nasty. Do you suppose I'll go to hell?"