Page 38 of Greek’s Christmas Heir

He turned her around, his hands on her body and not a single word spoken, so that she was facing that great window before her. It felt as if, with one step, she could free-fall out over the city and soar down so she was one more gleaming old ruin, a song sung on the wind, a goddess in need of only this one man to worship her.

And slowly, almost as if he was timing it to her shaky breaths, he began to unfasten the back of her gown. And she heard his own deep humming sound, something deeply male and approving, when he finished and it pooled at her feet.

He turned her back to him. And now she was near enough to panting, because she was only wearing a bustier beneath and pair of highly impractical panties that she had thought were silly when she’d put them on.

Now she thought they were magic.

So did he. She could tell.

And Anax began to talk, then. Only occasionally in English.

His voice was like another touch, dancing over her skin, making her senses feel heightened. Making heraware. Making her moan and shiver and sigh. Because he took his time, unwrapping that last bit of her. He treated her like a precious gift for his mouth and his hands, and lit his way, one fire into the next.

His voice moved over her, too, using words she didn’t know...but could feel in every part of her he touched.

She didn’t have to know what he was saying to understand that he was worshipping her body, claiming it, exalting it. She didn’t have to speak Greek to comprehend his deep male approval.

She gloried in it.

And when he was done he had tasted almost every part of her body, and stripped her completely naked.

It was only then that he lifted her and carried her over to the bed. He spread her out there and looked down upon her as if he had never seen anything so beautiful.

In that moment, Constance believed it.

He stripped his own clothes from his body, never seeming to take his eyes from her. And as he unwrapped his own male beauty for her to stare upon, it was as if more and more connections she’d never understood became clear to her. Why men were shaped the way they were. Why there was something in her that deeply celebrated the fact that his chest, for all that was hard-packed lean muscle, was also covered in a smattering of dark hair that she could not wait to put her hands on. To bury her face in.

She wanted to feel him, to breathe in his scent, to lose herself in his heat. She wanted to taste him, everywhere. She wanted to follow that hair-roughened arrow of muscle to its logical conclusion, down the length of his body to where the boldest part of him stood there, proudly, as if waiting for her attention.

But before she could follow that thought, as if he read her mind, he shifted forward onto the bed. Anax crawled between her legs so that her knees seemed to hook themselves on his broad shoulders, and that easily, she was wide open before him.

“I have been wanting to taste you forever,” he growled.

And then he did.

For a time, then, Constance lost herself entirely.

There was no thought, no analysis, no contemplation of any kind.

There was only his mouth on that tender part of her, eating her alive. There was only the way he was looking into her, indulging himself in that most private part of her as if she was the sweetest dessert he’d ever tasted.

It seemed to take an eternity—and no time at all—before she was arching up against him, a thunderstorm pounding into her and then exploding back out, so that she could do nothing at all but let it take her. Until it was tossing her from one storm to the next.

Until she was nothing at all but heat and glory.

“Koritsi, you are perfect,” he was murmuring, as he climbed up the length of her body, kissing her and tasting her.

He paused at her navel, and again at one breast. Then the next. Tasting them, weighing them, making her nipples ache so hard they pointed their way toward him. As if her own body was begging for something she hadn’t imagined could possibly be so intense, so sensual, and have nothing at all to do with the way she’d been using those same breasts for the last ten months.

She wanted to tell him that bodies were amazing and his was even more so. But he was moving, until he could kiss her once more—deep and hard and intensely. Until she could taste herself, and him, and her body felt wild all around her.

And then, at last, she could feel him. The broad head of that silken, hot part of him, nudged against the sensitized flesh he had just tasted so thoroughly.

Even the feel of it made her light up all over again, and he was going soslowly.

She tried to move her hips toward him, but he laughed and adjusted the way he held her, so he controlled the way he eased toward her, one little bit at a time.

Constance opened her eyes to find him watching her, and then they were both there, suspended in that intensity. He slid inside her so carefully, so smoothly, both of them braced—together—for a pain that didn’t come.

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