by Sara Craven
He paused. ‘And now, if you are quite recovered, we shall order our food. Do you like seafood? Because the souvlaki with langoustines are particularly good here. And I can recommend the chicken in walnut sauce, or the beef with capers to follow.’
And how could she maintain the required façade of indifference, when it was all she could do not to lick her lips and sob in anticipation of the culinary wonders to come?
The waiter brought dishes of hummus and tzatziki with a basket of freshly baked bread, and a bottle of crisp white wine.
The skewered and grilled langoustines appeared on a bed of golden rice with a side salad, while the chicken that Natasha had asked for and Alex’s choice of beef came with baby potatoes baked in their skins, okra and green beans.
Natasha ate every scrap put in front of her, and drank her share of the richly flavoured red wine which had succeeded the white, although she tried to protest at one point when the waiter arrived to refill her glass.
‘Do you want me to be drunk, after all, kyrie?’ she asked Alex, lifting her chin.
‘By no means, matia mou.’ He smiled at her. ‘Just—a little more relaxed than you were when the evening began.’
But she shook her head resolutely when Alex suggested dessert, although, when his baked figs arrived, stuffed with nuts and spices and drizzled with honey, she found herself accepting the first taste he offered to her on his spoon.
Pure temptation, she thought weakly. And wondered, with sudden shock, whether she was referring to the figs or to the man beside her.
Because she had relaxed, and she knew it. Although she was sitting close beside him, he’d not attempted even a vestige of an amorous overture. In fact, there’d been times when she’d almost felt secure in his company, as if he was someone she might really want to be with. And, most astonishing of all, he’d actually made her laugh. More than once.
But of course he had, she thought dazedly. This is how he operates—the secret of his success with women.
And I, like the world’s biggest fool, am making it so pathetically easy for him.
‘Is something wrong?’ His quiet question brought her back to the here and now.
‘How could there be?’ She smiled coolly at him. ‘This is a place in a million, Kyrios Mandrakis. I shall remember this fabulous food when I’m back in London trying to grab a sandwich.’
‘Along with many other pleasant memories, I hope,’ he said sardonically, and signalled for the bill.
If he’d been playing games with her, this was the signal they were over, she thought as she rose, collecting her wrap and purse.
She was shaking inside again as she walked back through the restaurant, pausing while he responded to greetings from other diners, and shook hands with a large, calm faced man in the blue checked trousers and white tunic of the chef, who had emerged from the kitchen to speak to him.
A royal progress, she thought, gathering her fragile defences, for Alexander the Great displaying his latest conquest.
Quite apart from her choking trick, she’d been aware all evening of the attention their table was receiving and not just from the staff. Most of it had been discreet, but a few people had stared openly.
But this presumably was how her life would be lived for a while—in the public eye—and there wasn’t a single thing she could do about it.
As they walked back to where the boat was moored, Natasha caught one of her ridiculous heels on an uneven paving slab, and stumbled.
In the next instant, Alex was at her side. ‘Take care, pedhi mou,’ he cautioned, lifting her off her feet and into his arms. ‘A broken ankle would not suit my plans at all.’
As he carried her along the harbour, Natasha said breathlessly, ‘Put me down. Put me down at once, do you hear?’
‘Why should I?’ he countered, laughing, before adding more huskily, ‘Ah, God, but you feel so good in my arms.’
The flash seemed to come from nowhere. Natasha flinched, but Alex’s stride did not even falter as he rapped out a harsh expletive.
Iorgos pounded past, his face like thunder, but came back shaking his head as they heard the departing roar of a motor cycle.
A few minutes later, as they sat in the bows, watching the Selene drawing ever closer, Alex said softly, ‘I am sorry for that, agapi mou. The Leda has a blacklist of reporters and photographers to protect its clients. But I think tonight that someone sitting near us used his mobile to tip off the Press. He seemed over-busy with it at times. If so, I have just given them the picture of the year.’
‘Why apologise?’ She stared rigidly into the darkness. ‘It will serve to establish my exact place in your life, which is exactly what you intended to happen. You told me so.’
‘That is true,’ he said. ‘But I meant it to be in my own time, and in my own way.’
Yes, she thought bleakly. That was always how it would be, from the first moment of taking to the last, when she would be banished from his life forever.
Suddenly and shockingly, she experienced the taste of tears, thick and acrid, in her throat.
And thought, fear twisting inside her, This is madness….
CHAPTER NINE
BUT it was not the evening’s only madness, Natasha thought, as she stood at the window in the saloon, staring numbly at the lights of Mykonos, glittering and sparkling in the distance.
Because, for one brief, incredible moment, while she was being carried in Alex’s arms, she’d known an almost overwhelming impulse to put her arms round his neck and bury her face against the curve of his shoulder.
And, but for the unknown photographer’s intervention, she might even have done so. Which would have been a disaster of untold proportions.
What’s happening to me? she thought desperately. I don’t seem to know myself any more. And this at a time when I need every atom of strength—of resistance—that I can summon.
That’s what I should be concentrating on in these last few moments while I’m still alone—protecting myself, building a wall against him.
As they came back on board, Alex had paused for a quiet word with Mac Whitaker, but instinct told her their conversation would not be prolonged. That this might be her last fleeting opportunity for any real privacy, emotional or physical.
As she entered the saloon, she’d dropped her wrap and purse on the sofa and kicked off her shoes, before making her way barefoot into the bedroom.
The setting was exactly the same as the previous night, she noted, her heart lurching, with the bed cover turned down in invitation, the shaded lamps lit and yet another pretty nightdress laid out for her in readiness. All of it telling her plainly that she was expected to be waiting for him submissively in bed.
And only half an hour before, she might have been able to do just that. Could have managed, somehow, to lie back as planned, close her eyes and endure whatever he wanted from her, comforting herself with the reflection that nothing lasted forever.
Instead, thanks to that instant of unwelcome self-revelation, she’d found herself backing away into the saloon, and now she was standing here as if rooted to the spot, her mind whirling in a spiral of conflict that she was unable either to control, or to understand.
And she was frightened, too.
But was she more afraid of him or of herself? That was the question burning into her brain, and she was still struggling to find the answer when, although she’d heard no sound, she suddenly knew beyond question that she was no longer alone.
Once again her emotional antennae seemed to be working overtime, she thought, dry-mouthed, aware that her skin was tingling.
She saw his reflection in the window as he came silently to stand behind her. His arms slid round her waist, drawing her back against him. For a fraction of a second her body stiffened in resistance, then, in spite of herself, began to relax as the warmth, the nearness of him invaded her consciousness, dispelling the tension that seemed her only armour.
But, at the same time, forcing her to realise, with shame, ho
w easy it would be to stay like this, resting in his embrace, her head leaning back against his chest. How, in some totally unbelievable way, she felt…almost safe….
But there was no sanctuary in Alex’s arms. He was a ruthless sexual predator, and she must never forget that for a minute, she reminded herself, swallowing. Or overlook the fact that it was entirely because of him that she stood in need of a refuge in the first place.
But it was so difficult to remember all these vital factors or even start to fortify her weakening defences against him when he was turning her without haste to face him, one hand capturing her chin in order to raise her trembling mouth for his kiss.
Especially when his lips were so warm, and compellingly, insidiously gentle as they explored her own. As if, she thought dazedly, this was the first time he’d ever held her—touched her. And, even more strangely, as if her innocence were still a gift for her to bestow, and he was seeking her willing consent.
When he lifted his head, she swayed in his arms, feeling almost bereft, as the deep, powerful ache of unfulfilled desire slowly reawakened inside her. Reminding her with shaming candour that this was not the first time he had made her want him, against her will and judgement.
He was looking down at her, his eyes gravely searching hers, as if he knew and understood her inner struggle.
He said quietly, ‘Shall I call Josefina to help you with your dress?’
It was the last thing she’d expected to hear. She said uncertainly, stammering a little, ‘But you—d-don’t you want…?’
His mouth twisted ruefully. ‘Veveos, agapi mou. Of course. But this time I am taking nothing for granted.’
For a heartbeat, she stared back at him, her eyes widening, as she realised he was telling her that surrender would not be imposed on her.
That, astonishingly, it was hers to give or to withhold.
And knew, without hesitation but also without pride, that her body had already made the choice for her. That, somehow, during the forty-eight hours between that first night in Athens and this moment, the need that he’d aroused had become frank necessity and could no longer be denied. And that she was right to be scared.
She said in a small, husky voice that she barely recognised, ‘Then the answer is…no. I—I don’t require her.’
She put her palms flat against his chest, absorbing the strong beat of his heart, feeling it echo in her own pulses, then, without haste, slid her hands upwards until they were resting on his shoulders, holding him, her fingers grasping folds of his shirt to steady herself, because her legs were shaking under her.
He said hoarsely, ‘Ah, sweet God,’ and pulled her closer, his hand in the small of her back, his kiss deepening into open yearning, as he coaxed her lips apart to admit the silken fire of his tongue into the moist inner sweetness of her mouth.
Natasha yielded, all her initial shyness and reserve overtaken and overwhelmed by her breathless, shaken response. As their mouths clung and burned she found that her small breasts were feeling strangely heavy, the nipples hardening to taut, aching peaks.
Alex’s lips were caressing her forehead, her eyes and her flushed cheeks, brushing away her dishevelled hair so that he could reach the sensitive hollow beneath her ear and caress it with his tongue.
Then he framed her face in his hands and took her mouth again, in one long, sensual, draining kiss, before letting his lips travel slowly down her throat, over the frantic, crazy pulse, to move lingeringly over the slight curves of her bare shoulders.
She felt his hand unfasten the hook at the back of her dress, then tug gently at the zip so that the black taffeta slid down just far enough to release her breasts from their confinement.
Revealing them to the hunger of his eyes.
And their swell to the sensuous plunder of his hands, and mouth.
Eyes closed, Natasha lay back against his supporting arm, her breathing ragged as his fingers stroked and cupped the soft mounds, while his tongue circled and tantalised her engorged nipples, creating a pleasure so acute it was almost pain.
She had never imagined she could feel like this, she thought in some fainting corner of her mind.
Never dreamed how completely her body could melt—dissolve under the force of its own yearning.
Never believed either that sheer longing could make her moan softly and uncontrollably until she was silenced by his kiss.
His mouth still locked to hers, Alex picked her up and carried her into the next room, settling her on the bed in a tumble of black taffeta before coming to lie beside her.
He kissed her again, his tongue moving softly, beguilingly against hers, while his hand pushed back her rustling skirt to find her knee and caress it lightly, before moving upwards, his fingertips tracing patterns on the soft, vulnerable flesh inside her thighs as he enticed them into parting for him.
She was being edged quietly and inexorably towards some brink. She knew it, and feared it, suddenly aware that this time his possession of her would be very different. That he was not asking for the mere capitulation of her body but the total abandonment of her will and senses. And that nothing less would do.
She tried to say ‘No’ but the only sound that emerged from her throat hung between a gasp and a sigh as his hands brushed aside the lacy barrier of her briefs, to discover, with a soft murmur of satisfaction, the reality of her molten, scalding arousal.
He had spoken of pleasure, and it was here—now—in the lingering, voluptuous movement of his fingers against her secret flesh as they explored her slowly and deeply, gliding, stroking and tantalising, seeking a response she was powerless to deny.
As he sought her tiny hidden bud and awoke it to aching, delicious excitement, Natasha was lost and drowning in a maelstrom of sensation she had never dreamed could exist.
Alex was kissing her breasts again, taking each hardened peak in turn between his lips and suckling them with deliberate eroticism, every flicker of his tongue piercing her with renewed and astonished delight, and creating tiny, tremulous quivers far, far within her.
At the same time his fingers were becoming more adventurous and far more purposeful, questing ever more deeply, and thrusting up into the slick wet heat of her with deliberately sensual intent.
She moaned softly and his lips returned to hers once more, passionately stifling the tiny sound. Then asking. Demanding.
The last vestiges of control were slipping away, her body writhing frantically as she reached for the unknown, conscious of nothing but his mouth possessing hers and the subtle urgency of his fingers forcing her to the outermost margins of extremity.
The soft trembling inside her was changing—growing into a harsh pulsation spiralling upwards. And as her body lifted towards him in an arc of pure abandonment she heard her voice, wrenched and hoarse, gasping, ‘Alex—oh, God—Alex…’
In the next instant she reached the summit, and her entire being splintered into spasm after spasm of raw, uncontrollable pleasure.
Afterwards, when a measure of sanity returned, and she could breathe again, she found she was weeping a little—something else she had not anticipated—and Alex wrapped her closely in his arms, his voice a soothing murmur as she buried her flushed, damp face against his shoulder.
She heard the faint rasp of her zip, and realised he was removing her dress, and that even if the reality of being once again completely naked in his arms was still a difficulty for her she felt far too languid and boneless to protest, as Alex lifted her deftly and expertly from the crumpled taffeta and discarded it.
He moved away slightly and she became aware that he was undressing too, rapidly shedding his clothes and tossing them to the floor, so that when he came back to her there was only the graze of his skin, bare against her own, as he kissed her and began to caress her, his hands moving slowly, almost reverently over her body, seeking every curve, every hollow, each plane and angle as if he was learning her afresh through his fingertips.
As his mouth rediscovered her breasts, Natasha foun
d, to her amazement, that her nipples were already hardening again under the stroke of his tongue. That her entire body, all too soon, was rousing itself from its post-orgasmic languor, her senses stirring, her flesh shivering and burning not just to answer his touch, but to actively crave it.
To crave him, she realised with shock as she felt the jutting hardness of his erection pressing at the apex of her slackened thighs, and her body clenched, fiercely, almost desperately with the need to have him inside her again. To be known completely once more—but, this time, to know in her turn.
She stretched herself against him, beneath him, her hands seeking the essential maleness of him, then, as instinct took over, holding him, cupping him, stroking his urgently responsive shaft with fingers that were shy, even hesitant at first, then increasingly confident, encouraged by his soft groan of pleasure.
‘Wait.’ He breathed the word unevenly, turning away from her to reach for the drawer in the night table, extracting a small packet, tearing it open and making swift, deft use of its contents.
Then he came back, pulling her close. He kissed her again, his mouth capturing hers with unconcealed yearning, before whispering huskily, ‘Take me, my lovely one. Take me now.’
He slid his hands under her pliant thighs, lifting her slightly, and she obeyed, giving a faint moan as she guided him into her moist, hungry depths and felt the vital power of him filling her—making them one with a heart-stopping sense of completion.
As if, she thought wonderingly, her body had been created for this moment alone. And for this man….
Alex paused, looking down into her widening eyes. He said unsteadily,
‘Ah, Christos, you feel so sweet, just as I always dreamed—always knew it would be…’
He began to move inside her, slowly and gently, as if he was deliberately reining back his own needs in favour of hers. Something else, she thought dazedly, that she had not expected.
And heard him add softly, ‘If I hurt you again, then you must tell me.’