Page 39 of Greek’s Christmas Heir

And he kept going.

Deeper and deeper, filling her up and making her body adjust to fit him. Her heart was pounding. Her breath was coming too fast. She found herself curling her hands into fists at his chest and then she was following the urge to lift herself up and press her face between the flat planes of his pectoral muscles, because she could smell him there. Taste him.

Because it felt right, and good, and hers.

Everything about him felt like hers, even this. Maybe especially this.

She felt him nudge the very deepest part of her. They both were still, for a moment. A breath.

He called her that name again.Koritsi.

If she could have answered him, if she could have spoken, she would have.

But then he began to move. And once again, it was as if everything she thought she knew shattered apart, then came back, different. Better.

Because with every stroke, Constance finally understood.

Who he was to her. What she felt for him.

What this was.

Who she was.

None of it was verbal. None of it managed to come out as words.

There was only the way she raised her hips to meet his. There was only this old, deep knowledge within her, soaring up inside her as if her body had always known exactly what to do with this man.

The same way it had known what to do once before, on a primitive level.

This felt a whole lot better. She lost herself in the fire, the slick heat and the growing storm. But this time, all of that thunder and all of that rain, roared in both of them.

He told her to follow him, but she was already there, and together they shook apart.

Again and again, careening out there in the universe, dancing through the stars as if they had been made for this.

As if they had been waiting their whole lives, all that stardust trapped in bone, to make it back out to this place where they could finally be free.

It was hard to come back down.

It was hard to accept that she had to go back into her own body, separate from his.

It felt too much like grief.

But he was there beside her, then turned over onto one side so he could stroke his way down the length of her cheek, then back again.

“Again,” Anax murmured. “How can I want you again, already?”

“And somehow it is not soon enough,” she whispered back.

His laugh was dark, thrilling.

It was only the beginning.

And by the end of that night, by the time the glorious dawn crept over the city on the other side of the windows, Constance felt more like stardust and less like herself than she ever had before in all her life.

She thought that it made sense now. That they could fly if they liked, just like this. Whenever they pleased.

That it was all going to work out after all.

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