by Julia James
His kiss deepened, and now she was lying on her back. She did not know how, knew only that her hands were being taken and lifted over her head. He was arched over her, his mouth still moving on hers, but now his lips lifted away and he was gazing down at her as she lay beneath him, his hands holding hers. Her narrow skirt had twisted around her limbs, so that she could not move them, but she did not want to. She wanted only to lie here in the warmth, with the strange, overpowering headiness in her senses. She lay still, gazing up at him. His eyes bored into hers, and she gazed upwards into pools of night.
His hand was at her waist, gliding upwards beneath her top, skimming, so lightly, the surface of her skin beneath her breasts. Her breath caught again, and then he was easing the material upwards, lifting it over her head, peeling it off, casting it aside. And then, his task done, his gaze returned to her.
She lay, hands caught in his, hair streaming loose over the fleece of the rug, bared to his view, his touch.
Arched above her, Angelos gazed his fill.
She was his.
Now—this night, this moment—now. The waiting was over—fulfilment was now. Emotion surged in him—desire flowing like an unstoppable tide as she lay beneath him, her body his at last. So incredibly, extraordinarily beautiful—the extreme slenderness of her torso, the incredible grace of her shoulders, her arms, and the high, rounded, exquisite breasts.
Past and present merged. But this time he did not have to deny himself—did not have to put her away from him, thrust her from him with harsh, contemptuous words. No need for that now. And from her there was no more hatred, no more wariness, no more hostility. No more defences.
Only the warm, soft ardour of her body, the longing in her eyes, her touch.
This time she was his, completely.
His hands lifted to her breasts, shaping them with the tips of his fingers, while the unnamed emotion creamed within him. The coral tips hardened at his touch, and she gave a low, helpless sound in her throat that sent the blood surging in his body. Her eyes were glazed, unfocussed now, and her aroused lips were softly parted.
The languor of desire was upon her.
Waiting for his possession.
Slowly he lowered his head once more. But not to taste her lips. As his mouth grazed the straining peak of her breast he heard that low noise in her throat again. Arousal quickened in him.
And in her.
He could feel it—feel the sudden tensing in her body, feel her wrists pulling against his as her body tautened like a bow. He suckled her again, more strongly, and felt again that torsion in her spine, the low moan in her throat. He moved his mouth, trailing across the satin skin to the slight valley between her exquisite breasts, allowing himself for a little while no more than the pleasure of her flawless bloom, before reaching for her other peak, laving and arousing it, until he could feel her move restlessly, wrists flexing against his hand.
And then suddenly he could wait no longer. He had waited so long for her, but no longer. In a movement as swift as it was sudden he scooped her up, lifting her slight weight into his arms as he got to his feet. Her eyes flared, but he was already striding from the room, sweeping her up the stairs, her bared torso crushed against him, her head on his shoulder and her hair like a banner streaming over his arm.
Beautiful—so incredibly beautiful …
Emotion surged in him again, and his arms tightened around her. He took her to his room, pulling back the feather duvet and lowering her down. Then, with ruthless control of his own impulses, he stripped the clothes from his body, impatient, urgent.
Then he was there with her again. More words came from him—he knew not what—knew only that as she lay there, the dark swathe of her skirt twisted around her limbs, her pale, high breasts still peaked, aroused, the extraordinary beauty of her face still transfigured, that his arousal was so intense he must exert every strenuous effort to control his own desire for her.
But it was hard, excruciatingly hard, to do so! With punishing slowness he eased her skirt from her, and as his eyes went to her his breath caught. Her breasts alone had inflamed him, but to see her slender, naked body, all for him, was beyond pleasure. Beyond anything he had ever known.
Slowly, sensually, his hands smoothed down her silken body.
She was mindless, hazed with arousal, her body a mesh of sensation—sensation such as she had never known before. Her breasts strained, their peaks aching with desire. But his hands had left them, gliding down her flanks sensuously, sinuously, flaring over the line of her hips. At the vee of her thighs, his thumbs met. Slowly, watching her all the time as she gazed blindly up at him, as the world swirled slowly around her in sinuous whorls of pleasure, she felt the pressure of his thumbs indent, bear down.
Instinctively, she parted for him. A need as old as time. An ache as deep as her core. She was melting, she could feel it, liquefying as the soft, glistening folds of her flesh parted for his exploring, sensual caress. It was like being taken into another world! How could there be such sensation? How could anything feel so blissful, so beautiful, so exquisitely pleasurable? And the pleasure was increasing—building remorselessly, like fire licking through her veins, inflaming her, possessing her.
She moved against him. She could not stop herself. Again it was instinctive, insistent. Her hips lifted to him, her head moving restlessly on the pillow of her hair, her hands lifting to close over the cusps of his bare shoulders, to tighten. He was murmuring to her, but she could not hear, could only feel—her whole body was nothing but sensation, a pool of living fire, consuming itself as the exquisite caresses aroused her so that the heat fanned her skin, dissolved through her flesh, became one with it. Each touch was bliss—bliss upon bliss. Deeper, more arousing, reaching into her core, so that the muscles of her thighs strained, hips lifting, wanting more … more …
Then there was yet more sensation—and she rippled with the pleasure of it, gasped at her sensitivity to it. Her breathing was shallow, urgent—her lips parted, neck arching back. The fire licking in her veins was melting her, dissolving her, flushing through her like an unstoppable tide—a wave that was building, building. And she wanted more, more—it was unbearable, unbearable …
And then it broke—broke in a wave of sensation so intense, so absolute, that she cried out. She could not stop herself—could only ride out on the wave to the uttermost ends of the universe as her body buckled and convulsed, with wave after wave, scorching and searing. She was blind, deaf—insensible to anything, everything, that was not this incredible, unstoppable tide that was going on, and on, and on …
Angelos stilled, his whole focus on the visible expression of the orgasm flashing through her body. Her head was threshing, hips straining, her eyes blind, and across her breasts and belly the flush of desire consuming itself flared hotly. His stillness lasted a few seconds only. Then, with an urgency that was unstoppable, he reached for a silvered packet. Moments later he was ready for her. Ready to take the same pleasure he had given her—would give her now again. Arching over her, he gazed down once more. Her beauty inflamed him. The intensity of her response to him was like a light within her glowing body. She was possessed by desire.
And now to be possessed by him.
Slowly, exquisitely, he eased into her.
She was tight—tight like a sheath made for a sword—and for a moment he had to still, for his arousal was so intensified by the pressure that he had to pause. She, too, he realised dimly, had stilled as well, her hands folded over the cusps of his shoulders, fingers suddenly indenting into his skin. A noise had come from her—inarticulate, like a gasp, a cry. It seemed to trigger him, and he moved deeper within her.
Oh, but she was tight! A thought flashed in his mind—absurd, impossible. He thrust it from him as sensation overpowered him. She was sheathing him so tightly that it was an exquisite torment to be so full within her. And yet he must ensure her pleasure, too. He gazed down at her. Her eyes were shut, the intensity of the expression on her face
as if the world had stopped for her. At his shoulders he could feel the pads of her fingers, her nails pressing deep into him. As if she, too, were under the same exquisite control that he was exerting on himself.
Well, he would release that control—release it in her—and then finally, finally, in him.
Every muscle in his back straining, he began to move.
He watched her expression change. Her eyes still did not open, and he knew their focus would be inward, extracting every last gram of sensation from his possession of her. Just as he was doing. His movements were minute, under his absolute control. He could feel sweat beading along his spine with the effort it took to control his own reaction, his own overwhelming urge to plunge deep within her to reap his own satiation.
But she must find hers first. Her body was still in that state of absolute arousal he had engendered, and now he must take it that final step. He moved again, feeling her tightness flex around him, hearing once again that high, unearthly sound in her throat. He was on the edge, on the blade of a knife, as he moved to intensify the pressure not of her tightening around him, but of him against that most sensitive place within her, where the mesh of nerve endings created the physical locus of consummation. The high, helpless gasp came again, and he could feel, as if in slow motion, each nail indenting into his flesh. Feel simultaneously the slight but fatal tilting of her pelvis, sending him hurtling over the edge of the knife blade.
He surged within her, and in the sheeting sensation that engulfed him he realised that it had happened to her as well. That cry was coming from her again, with unbearable intensity, and he surged again, peaking within her in hot, unstoppable satiation, feeling as he did so the threshing convulsion of her muscles enclosing him, drawing him into her more tightly yet as he swept her body against his, feeling her convulsing and trembling within his clasp.
It went on and on, the incredible, unstoppable release, with an intensity of sensation that drenched through him. Had he ever, ever felt this way before at such a moment? Ever felt this extremity of satiation?
Then, after an eternity of sensation, it was ebbing from him, draining him of all his strength. He folded down, still with her body in his arms, taking her with him. She was ebbing, too—he could feel it. Her body was still giving little tremors in his arms, and the soft little cries in her throat made him clasp her more tightly yet.
His hand was stroking her hair, soothing her. He was murmuring to her—words he hardly understood himself, hardly heard beneath the tumult of his heartbeat. She lay in his arms, so still, her satin skin dewed with moisture. He could feel the pulsing beat of her heart, so close to his …
His voice, when he spoke, was low and resonant.
‘I have the final truth about you now—no more denial. You said you could not bear me to touch you! But this … this…’ his mouth lowered to hers one last, lingering time ‘… this tells me the truth. At last …’
His kiss was slow, and sealing, and then, his eyelids heavy with the aftermath of desire fulfilled, he felt his vision dim, his heart-rate slow, and with her warm and folded in his arms he gave himself to sleep.
CHAPTER NINE
ANGELOS stirred drowsily. Something was wrong.
He was alone.
Instantly his eyes sprang open.
She had gone.
In one lithe, fluid movement he had jack-knifed up out of the bed, eyes casting around in the dawn light that was reaching the edges of the curtained windows, then was striding into the en suite bathroom.
Not there.
He frowned. Had she gone back to her room? Ripping a towel from the rail, he wrapped it cursorily around his hips, went out on to the landing, opened her bedroom door. The bed was unused, unslept in. Her en suite bathroom empty.
Where the hell was she?
Emotion spiked in him. He didn’t know what it was, and he wasn’t in any kind of mood to be introspective. He was only in the mood to find her.
Without thinking, he slid back the glass doors to the balcony, but there was no sign of her there, either, in the chill early morning. Frustration bit in him—and incomprehension. He thrust back from the balustrade to head indoors, his gaze unconsciously sweeping out across the precipitous slope beyond. But even as it did so his muscles froze. His whole body froze.
There, on the descending slope far to the left of the chalet, where the curve of the road indented, he saw a lone figure, heading down the side of the mountain. Walking rapidly, haltingly, hurriedly.
For an endless moment time stopped. Then, disbelievingly, he realised who it was.
He wheeled around, heading back into his own room, yanking open the doors further along the balcony, knowing he had to get dressed with the least possible delay. But even as he threw open the doors of his closet his eyes went to his empty bed, the quilt thrown back.
And time stopped again. His gaze froze as he stared at the exposed sheet.
Disbelief knifed through him.
And much, much more.
Within minutes he was dressed, booted, kitted up—and in pursuit.
Thea was walking. Walking as fast, as urgently as she could. Her head was throbbing, her heart was pounding, skin clammy. She felt sick and cold—so cold—despite the windproof jacket. She had to make the road—make it as fast, as speedily as she could down the unfamiliar track that was a much more direct route to the road below than the hairpin track up to the chalet. But it was a treacherous path, she discovered. Hardly there in places, narrow and precipitous. Her leg muscles were cold, resistant after the previous day’s long trek, and her legs were not all that ached.
Between her thighs aching pain made each step a torment.
But it was a pain she welcomed. Punishment. Punishment for what she had done.
No! She must not think of that. Time enough to think of that—dear God, time enough! Now, all her strength must be on what she was doing now.
Escaping.
Her legs were trembling, there was dull, raw ache in her pelvis, sick muzziness in her head and clawing at her stomach, sick breathlessness in her lungs. Desperately, she hurried on. Sometimes her footing on the dew-drenched grass slipped, scaring her, but she recovered and pressed on. Always. The light was growing brighter all the time, the sun fingering over the far mountain. Day was here, and time was running out. She quickened her pace, half stumbling.
She dared not look back.
The path was getting steeper, the slope convex now, so she could not see the road below any more. But it must be there, and she must press on—press on. She was desperate for water, but had brought none with her, not daring to waste time filling a water bottle. Her mouth was parched, and the throbbing in her head had worsened. Acid was pooling in her stomach. Her gullet felt raw and scraped, her breath knifing through her lungs.
How long she walked she did not know—only knew that her thoughts were an agony. An agony of loathing.
For Angelos Petrakos.
For herself.
How—how had it happened? The question seared like a brand in her head. How had she let it happen? Memory stabbed like knives piercing her, twisting in her stomach.
I let him do it to me—I let him do it to me five years ago—just stood there while he touched me, kissed me, caressed me … then called me a whore … a whore …
Her throat clenched with pain. With shame. How could she have forgotten what he had done to her? How could she have let herself be lulled as she had, day by day, her guard against him lowering? Not seeing his intention, not understanding the danger she was placing herself in.
Until it was far, far too late.
Like an icy shower, she felt again that moment when she had faced the realisation that, impossible though it seemed, she had known that she didn’t want to leave.
Oh, God, how could I have been so stupid—so unbelievably stupid?
She stared unseeing out over the lightening valley. To have come to such a pass …
I didn’t want to leave him …
&nbs
p; The words hollowed out inside her, each one a blow.
My fault—my fault—my fault.
Her fault, and hers alone—her stupidity, her folly.
Couldn’t you see? Couldn’t you see what he was doing?
But she hadn’t—that was the agonising flagellating fact of it! She hadn’t seen. She had been so beguiled, so self-indulgently overwhelmed by her own responsiveness to him, her electric awareness of him, that she hadn’t realized. Fool, fool, fool that she was! Hadn’t realised how he was using that for his own ends! Using her to fulfil the purpose he had brought her here for!
She heard his voice—the last words he’d spoken to her—tolling like doom in her head.
‘I have the final truth about you now …’
The truth, terrifying and full of anguish, blazed in all its horror for her. That was why he had brought her here! Lulled her day after day into thinking his relentless hostility to her had ebbed, lured her into lowering her guard, making her so fatally, fatally weak …
So he could throw that in her face—mock her in his triumph over her!
Oh, God, to give myself to him like that—to offer myself on a plate! When all along …