by Cat Porter
I cuffed her wrist. “So you don’t think he’ll be jealous or angry over us spending time together? Us being here alone?”
“No. Other than he doesn’t trust you,” she replied.
“That’s good.”
“Is it?”
“It shows he’s a good judge of character. And he gives a fuck.” I kissed her hand.
She sucked in air. “And what do you give a fuck about?”
“That you trust me.” My pulse thrummed. I wanted her to trust me. “Do you trust me?”
Her foot rubbed down the length of my calf. “I feel safe with you, and you intrigue me.”
“Intrigue you?”
“You have an icy cool about you, so icy it could cut, and at the same time a brilliant temper that is always simmering just beneath it—” She touched my bare chest and a ripple of heat went through me. “—just there. But you control it, and you use your temper constructively. It’s quite a sight in action. You think quickly as everyone is busy trying to figure you out. I like it.” Her fingers trailed along my skin, inciting a riot in my balls. “It’s exciting.”
“I excite you?”
“That’s not what I said.” She laughed.
“Do I excite you?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I like that indecency about you, beneath that clean polish.”
“You like that?”
“I never thought so before.”
“Lovely, you intrigue and excite me too,” I whispered roughly, my eyes going to her parted lips, her quickening breaths reflecting the ticked up tempo of my pulse. “Now, put your top back on, because if you don’t—”
She rolled her eyes. “You Americans are so prudish.”
“If you don’t put it back on, I’ll be taking action.”
“And what does that mean?”
“I will be sucking on those beautiful nipples. Making them hard and wet. Nibbling on the underside of those perfect round tits, palming them softly then very, very hard. Licking them like mounds of the finest ice cream I’ve ever tasted—”
Her lips parted, eyes widened.
“—taking them whole in my mouth like the greedy fucker I am.”
Her eyes pinned to mine, she raised her arms over her head leaning them against the lounger, making her breasts even fuller, declaring loudly their stand-up-at-attention-perfection. She wanted to hear more.
Oh, baby, baby, baby.
I complied.
The warm scent of her suntan oil and sweat intoxicated me further the closer I leaned into her. “I’d squeeze your nipples, graze them with my teeth, nuzzle them with my mouth, then I’d lick a long, long trail down your tummy to your bathing suit and pull it down with my teeth, then I’d—”
She touched her fingers to my mouth and I bit them. A small moan escaped her lips, her cheeks visibly reddening under her sun-kissed skin.
Are you hooked?
“H-hand me my top?” Clearing her throat, she gestured toward the beach bag.
“Don’t think you could take anymore?”
“There are children present. If I hear anymore, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”
I spotted the pink band in the beach bag, grabbed at the fabric and dangled it in front of her. “For a kiss.”
Taking in a breath like she was prepping for a dare, she sat up and pressed her bare tits against my chest, her tongue sliding past my lips. A part of me rose from that lounger and floated above that straw beach umbrella, that perfect shore. Cool and soft, slithering and hot. My every wet dream fantasy of her had been fulfilled.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My fingers released the bikini top; I was powerless before her. She’d rendered me so.
Adri nabbed the top from me and pushed away like she was done for the time being. She held my gaze as she quickly and efficiently smoothed the top back on her chest, my cock hardening fiercely. Men are such suckers.
I rose from the lounger and dove into the cold, clear sea. I came up for air, and Adriana was sitting still, gnawing at her lip, staring at me, eyes intent.
Fuck you, Alessio Aliberti. She’s mine.
26
Adriana
After our day swimming at Vitáli, Turo and I had gone back to Batsí where we’d checked in to a boutique hotel on the outskirts of the village. The villa which looked like an old Andrian stone fortress rose impossibly from a high cliff that towered above the sea.
Turo had already showered and dressed and showed up at my room, his body seizing at the sight of me wrapped in a bath towel fresh from my shower. My skin got a lashing from those light-coloured eyes, but I couldn’t pay the prickles along my flesh any mind.
“Yes, Mamá, I heard what you said,” I replied to my mother who’d called me. I only shook my head at Turo as a grin overtook his features. He headed out to the terrace of my room.
I’d told Mum how Turo and I had come to Andros and she’d been pleased. I knew this because she didn’t barrage me with questions, only uttered an “Ah” in her sharp tone which implied approval on reserve, will ask questions at a later date.
“I need to go now.”
“Mmm. Prósexe, agápi mou,” she signed off.
Why was everyone telling me to be careful? I was the Queen of Careful and Hesitant, and they knew it.
“Love you,” I said and clicked off.
I towel-dried my hair. My handful of moisturizer skimmed over my scar. The scar that wouldn’t heal.
You won’t let it.
I pulled on a short sleeved cropped blouse, and my copper and teal colored harem trousers with slits up the sides; my favorite kind of warm weather casual clothes. Rubbing a few drops of conditioning oil in my hair, I peeked out the terrace door.
Purple bougainvillea wrapped up and over the stone archways and the columns of the veranda. Flowery plants burst in a frenzy of fuchsia from bulbous pottery urns on the edges of the terrace overlooking the sea. Iron and glass lanterns with small candles dotted the marble table and larger ones stood on the patio floor. In the corner was a large divan upon which Turo was now stretched out.
His eyes closed, the thickness of his long, full eyelashes obvious. His chest rose and fell with the shallow breathing of sleep, an arm folded under his head. He’d given in to the insistent music of the waves slapping against the rocks down below, the cool mountain breeze brushing his skin, and his own fatigue—or was it the shock of sudden relaxation?
Something curled inside me at the sight of him at rest. The plains of his handsome face which were usually pulled tight in thought—his brand of grim thought and brittle wit—were relaxed for once. More often than not he looked tense, ready to spring, his mind constantly working, rapid firing, charging.
My gaze trailed over his dark trousers and his long sleeved, pale blue cotton shirt with the cuffs rolled up; the city boy’s concession to the warm weather? Turo wasn’t a T-shirt kind of man. That was only for sport and the beach.
I brushed on a bit of bronzer, then a smudge of eye pencil, a dash of mascara. I was a far cry from the glam, expensively dressed girl Turo had first met in Athens. I stared at the woman looking back at me in the mirror. I liked this Adri much better. This was me.
Sliding on my beaded leather sandals, I went back out onto the terrace and perched on the edge of the divan so as not to disturb Turo. I’d finally told him the truth about me and Alessio. A fake relationship that served a purpose; casual fun with a close, trusted friend which was also a form of self-protection since the horror of that day two years ago.
Taking in a breath, I leaned back against the stiff bolster pillow of the sofa. Back then the press had had a field day with me and my first love, tore us apart and built us back together like a Lego castle. But they hadn’t gotten the parts right. Their castle was crooked and ugly, pieces missing. And it had taken me a long, long time to simply sail past the hideous structure and not let it rip at me. You could ignore it all you wanted, but you always knew it was there.
Being with Al
essio helped. He’d been good to me, but I couldn’t see out of our little aquarium any longer. The glass was cloudy and smudged and I’d curled up in a corner. Not Alessio though. Alessio dove out into the sea then dove right back into our glass haven when he was done. He’d been in several relationships since our arrangement had begun. It was easy for him.
A noise unfurled in Turo’s throat and I glanced down at him. When I met Turo it was as if a flash of lightning had gone off, blinding me for a second. Startling, thrilling. A whip lashing me. A shock I couldn’t ignore, a shock that jump-started a new rhythm to my sluggish heartbeat. His firm grip on me, his initial arrogant perusal which then transformed into a rush of desire. We talked, we laughed and danced, and that fierce and mesmerising arousal he incited in me was both scary and exciting.
Why did it scare me? Because Turo’s brand of arousal was intense and jolting, it shook me from my uncomfortable comfort zone. A comfort zone I’d created and bound with wire fencing because I’d made so many wrong choices in the past. One extreme to the other. And the one time I was sure I’d found it with the very wrong and very right person, it blew up in my face.
Literally.
I’d been playing it safe with Alessio. And in the process I’d gotten lazy, frightened, full of self doubt, and I hated myself for it, hated my restlessness, my dissatisfaction with everything. The shooting made me realize that there was no hiding, that I was only wasting my time. Those gunshots had pierced my fog, penetrating it.
And in the clearing of the haze, there was Turo DeMarco.
Escaping to Andros with Turo was like gulping down a cocktail in one swallow on a dare. But I’d dared myself. Heady, sweet yet sour, steadying, overwhelming. Today we’d made each other laugh, relaxed in each other’s company. Flirted. Yet frosted over his flirting was not the pleasant white dusting of sweet icing sugar. His was a firm coating of something not so sweet, something darker, sharper. Underneath the shadow of that tense bravado of his, I recognized the glowing smoulder of grief and anger.
I knew it well.
I didn’t know how much time we’d have here in Andros, and I didn’t want to think about it in terms of days or even hours. Coming here was about escaping the world’s demands, danger, and just bloody being. No noise. Andros was special to me, and I’d never shared it with anyone before in all the Greek island holidays of my youth. Turo’s obvious enjoyment of it today had made my heart swell. It meant something to me, his enjoyment of this place.
I slid my knuckles against his sharp jaw. He stiffened, his eyes opened. Those eyes bunched then relaxed. That mouth curved into a smile for me.
Stunning.
That was the word he’d used earlier to describe the view from the veranda of the hotel, but he was stunning. Him. His scent of fresh lemon and musk floated over me, and a liquid calm spread through my veins after the tense morning, the blustery ferry ride, the driving and the swimming. I didn’t want to move, to speak. To break the spell unwinding between us.
“Did I fall asleep?” he asked, his voice throaty.
“You did.”
He raised his head. “That’s two naps today.”
“The Mediterranean agrees with you.”
Taking in a breath, he stretched out a hand and gently touched the side of my cheek. “You agree with me.”
My face heated. “I thought we’d walk into town and have a drink, decide on what to eat.”
He sat up. “A drink would be good.”
“I know just the place.”
“I’m sure you do.”
I got up and applied a quick swipe of shimmery lip gloss as Turo took me in from head to toe, and my insides hummed under his keen observation. He had a discerning palate and a discerning eye. His admiration was suddenly very important to me; I wanted it.
We strolled into town along the shoreline, Turo scanning the crowd as we went. A motorcycle howled past, and I flinched, brushing against him. He took my hand in his, his warm fingers enfolding mine, and the pressure in my chest eased.
“Here we are,” I said, leading him up a broad set of whitewashed stone steps to Capriccio, a bar café with a small terrace on the second floor. Whitewashed stone banquettes dotted with pale blue pillows lined the veranda, with high tables and matching chairs in the center. We settled into one of the high tables which offered an unobstructed view of the sea. Large straw lanterns hung over us, swaying in the damp breeze blowing off the water.
I ordered a mojito.
“Grey Goose on ice with a lot of lemon and lime,” Turo told the waitress.
Our gazes hung on a sky smudged with thick swathes of bright pink and deep red, pale cerulean blue and indigo. In the distance, on the other side of the bay, a buttery yellow illuminated the edges of the mountains. The colors of the calm sea kept transforming. Ashy blue, deep pink.
The waitress brought us our drinks.
“To that glorious sunset,” I said, raising my icy cocktail stuffed with mint leaves.
Turo clinked my glass with his. “Yiá mas.” He swallowed and the muscle along his jaw ticked, eyes narrowed for a moment. Something wasn’t right.
“Excuse me—” His curt tone stopped the waitress. “This needs more lemon.”
“Oh. Of course.” She took his drink.
“Needs to be just right?” I asked.
“Always. Why bother?”
Yes, why bother indeed. Why put up with less than what you know is the best. It displeased him and he did something about it without dramatics. A smile tugged on my lips.
An eyebrow flared as he fiddled with the edge of a napkin. “What is it?”
“I like that you demand quality. Of the right thing in the right way.”
The drink returned and he sipped as the waitress waited. Somehow she knew better than to take off. “That’s good. Thank you.” He visibly relaxed and she took off.
The jazzy music was low and we talked easily as the place filled up. “Do your parents think that you and Alessio are in a relationship?” he asked.
“Only that we see each other whenever he’s in town or I’m in Italy. My mother doesn’t approve. She always says, ‘You’re wasting your time, Adri.’ Or ‘He’s a dangerous man, Adri.’
“I think I like Liana.”
“She’s probably had you looked into already.”
“She won’t approve of me either then.”
I sipped my drink. “And what will she find?”
He licked his generous upper lip, his thumb toying with the rim of his glass. “Rich boy. Illegitimate son. Honor Society. Championship athlete. Young executive. Rising figure in the criminal underworld.”
“He’s a dangerous man, Adri,” I quoted my mother.
He let out a dark laugh, his gaze settling on the sea once again. I wanted his attention. I wanted him to let go of last night. I’d pushed those images in the sea today. Swimming at Vitáli with Turo, his skin against mine, the sun licking our flesh. I thought he had too. But now, with the setting of the sun, he seemed to have lapsed into a bitter introspection, and I wanted him to stop. I wanted to make him smile, laugh again.
“So, I thought maybe you’d like to try authentic street food tonight,” I said.
His stern gaze remained on the sea as he drank. “Sounds good.”
“We call it ‘dirty’ here.”
His eyes darted to mine. Troubled eyes, shielded. “Dirty?”
Success. “I see that entices you?” I asked.
His fingers slid up and down his glass. “Lovely, my thoughts have been very, very dirty all day.” He took a long swallow of vodka and rolled a piece of ice around in his mouth, crunching down on it. Those teeth nipped at me. “Tell me about this dirty,” he said.
“You call it junk food in America. Something messy to eat, not exactly healthy for you—dirty.”
His lips tipped up. “Yeah, let’s do dirty tonight.” He drained his glass with his eyes on me and hailed the waitress for another round of drinks.
Darkness had now se
ttled over the seaport, and the twinkling lights from the shops, the boats, and the stars lit up the thick sky. We left the bar and walked down the port to Avra, a souvláki restaurant filled with families, boisterous kids at tables stretching all the way to the waterfront. An ache scrambled over my skull. After the perfect cocktail experience the last thing I wanted was a noisy crowd.
“Shall we get the food and bring it back to our hotel and sit on my veranda and eat?”
He stroked my back, bringing me in to his side. The tumult of the crowd was affecting him too. “Good idea.”
“I’ll order.” I stepped up into the restaurant’s kitchen which was blazing hot with live grills, roasting meats twisting on spits, oily pita breads being flipped over at a rapid pace, and a frenetic staff shouting directions and wrapping food tightly in paper and foil. I ordered, and once we got the selection of souvláki and gyro and two Fix beers, Turo paid at the register on the other end of the long counter. I grabbed an extra wad of napkins and shoved them into the food bag.
He took my hand firmly in his, and we made our way through the crowded high street where the shops were lit up. I stopped at a jewelry store and loitered over a glass cabinet filled with blue eye charm necklaces and bracelets.
“I’ve noticed these everywhere,” Turo said. “In Athens too.”
“The eye or the máti is a very powerful superstition in Greece. An eye combats evil in all its forms—unintentional, with intent to harm, and the hidden.”
His features darkened. “Every form of evil. Huh. I like that. These eye charms help?”
“The eye reflects the evil back onto whomever is directing it at you because of their envy, jealousy, or hatred. They’re also said to attract good luck.” I shifted my weight. “I love them. I have quite a collection, but I can’t say I’ve had much good luck lately.”
His eyes met mine. “You were wearing one the night we met. With a tiny diamond in the center.”
My hand flew to my throat where there now lay a different necklace. “You remember?”