Page 53 of Modern Romance September 2025 1-4
I need something that I can use against him, something that isn’t just me arguing. Something palpable, inarguable—something honest. He’s not used to being argued with; I know that much. I saw his surprise when I protested in Mr Tanaka’s office, so maybe I need more of that.
Then, as I reluctantly get into the car, I remember something else that happened in Mr Tanaka’s office. My hand on his fly. That shocked him; I remember quite clearly.
I give him a sidelong glance as he gets in with me and the door shuts after us, enclosing us in the warm car together. His presence seems to be magnified a thousand-fold in the small space, the air full of his heat and his dark, masculine scent.
Just as when he got close to me in Mr Tanaka’s office, I feel short of breath, my skin tight and hot. It’s overwhelming, as if I’m not in control of myself, as if I’m vulnerable. After what just happened with John, and how Ulysses took charge of me in the lift, I’m suddenly desperate to prove that I’m strong and in command. Desperate to puthimon the back foot for a change, rather than me.
‘That hour,’ I say as the car pulls away from the kerb, the words slipping from me almost before I’m ready to speak. ‘It can start now.’
Ulysses, his phone in his hand, looks up from the screen, frowning. ‘Excuse me?’
‘The hour of my time that you wanted,’ I clarify. ‘It starts now.’
Surprise flickers over his face, which is very satisfying. ‘January,’ he says. ‘Isn’t that what you told me?’
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I say determinedly. ‘Since you’re insisting I come with you, I’m insisting that the time you wish to spend with me starts and ends when I say so, not you.’
He lowers his phones and directs the full force of his attention at me. As it did in Mr Tanaka’s office, it makes the breath catch in my throat. It’s very intense to be the object of his focus. It’s as if he’s reading and learning about parts of me that even I don’t know about myself.
‘Is that so?’ he murmurs, the flames in his eyes glowing hot.
He likes to be challenged, that’s clear. Or, at least, he likes it when I challenge him. And I have to admit to the small burst of pleasure it gives me too.
‘Yes.’ I meet his gaze, daring him to disagree or protest. ‘So, you have an hour of my time. How do wish to start it?’
‘I wish to start it on the plane after take-off when I can devote my full attention to you.’
‘Perhaps I don’t want your full attention.’
He smiles that slow, hot smile and it makes my stomach clench. ‘Oh, I think you do, my ice queen. I think you’re desperate for it.’
I wish I could tell him categorically that I don’t, but I can’t. He’s not wrong. His full attention is intoxicating, and I like it. I want more of it. John saw me as a project he had to undertake, as there were things about me he didn’t much care for, so he tried get rid of them. He didn’t want to know about my job and had no interest in numbers or in finance. He never wanted to talk about what interested me, only about what interested him.
When we first got together, he told me he liked my precise way of speaking, and thought my little quirks were endearing. It was only later that he started to criticise them and made fun of them. I’ve collected items over the years that all have the spiral of the golden ratio in them: photos, fossils, pressed plants, paintings and sculptures. They’re all different, but they all have that same spiral, and I find it beautiful. But John thought they cluttered up the place, that they were ugly. He didn’t see the same thing I did and he didn’t care that I liked them. He didn’t like the person I was, and tried to make me into someone different, someone more palatable to him.
I don’t know if Ulysses is the same—perhaps he is—but what I do know is that he called me rare and unique, and I like that. It makes me feel as if my differences are assets rather than deficits.
The leftover fear that sits inside me now is cold, and the betrayal that comes along with it is acidic, but the man sitting beside me is neither of those things. I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I want something warm to drown out the fear and the betrayal that John instilled in me.
So, I put my hand on his thigh. He’s wearing black wool suit trousers and he is as hot as I thought he’d be, the heat of his body scorching my palm. I can feel the scratchiness of the wool and, beneath that, hard muscle and taut sinew.
His eyes flare as I touch him and I can see the hunger in them. Again, there is only truth in his gaze, only honesty. Suddenly I know what I can use to give me power. The thing that’s honest, inarguable and palpable: the fact that he wants me.
‘I appreciate the thought, ice queen,’ he murmurs. ‘But I’m not sure this is really what you want.’
‘Oh?’ I raise a brow, meeting his hot, golden gaze. ‘That didn’t seem to matter to you half an hour ago. Why is it a problem now?’ I’m genuinely puzzled. He didn’t care when I told him no before, yet he’s reluctant when I initiate contact? Isn’t this what he wanted? Please don’t say I can’t use this after all…
‘That was before your ex-husband threatened you,’ he says. ‘You are under my protection now, even if that means protecting you from me.’
I’m even more puzzled, not to mention annoyed. ‘I don’t understand you. First you tell me you want me in your bed, despite me refusing you, and then when I touch you you tell me that’s not what you think I want.’
I take my hand away, oddly hurt by his rejection. ‘I told you—I don’t like being played with, Mr Zakynthos.’
Something shifts in his eyes—heat, fire. He reaches for my hand once again, but he doesn’t put it on his thigh. Instead, he cups my palm over the front of his trousers. He’s hot and I can feel the firm length of his erection beneath the wool. My mouth dries.
‘I’m not playing with you,’ he says softly, yet roughly. ‘Make no mistake, Miss Sigurdsdottir, I want you, and you can feel how much. But you must forgive me for wanting to wait until you’ve recovered from being threatened. I do not hurt women.’
He lifts his hand, but I don’t stop touching him. The look in his eyes is molten, and under my palm he’s as hard as iron. He’s looking at me as if he wants to eat me alive.
