Passion Becomes You

She let him lead the way through the crush of people packing the quayside towards the little shops lined up on the other side of the quay, where she soon forgot to be uncomfortable about him giving her money as her eyes began to feast on the array of interesting touristy goods for sale.

They explored the tiny hamlet together, moving in and out of shops which were little more than the front rooms of private houses that had been converted for the season and would, Leon told her, revert back to their original use for the winter months. It was an enchantingly pretty place, and, Jemma realised, rather an up-market one, going by the quality of the produce on show. She went into raptures when they happened to stroll through the narrow door of one shop and she found herself literally tented in the most beautiful hand-made lacework, crochetwork, and exquisite embroidery. She lost Leon almost immediately, becoming immersed in a veritable maze of hung linen. When he eventually found her, she was standing fingering a beautifully crocheted baby shawl. He recognised what it was immediately and she blushed because, although they had married because of the child she carried, other than discussing her own health they rarely mentioned the child itself.

‘You want it?’ Leon asked her softly.

Jemma nodded, her eyes unknowingly vulnerable when she lifted them to him. ‘Do I have enough drachmas to buy it?’ she asked uncertainly. ‘Only it’s hand-made and looks very expensive...’

But Leon was already reaching for the delicate garment, his hands appearing big and dark against the soft white lacework as he unhooked it from its hanger then gravely presented it to her, draping it over her arms—carefully, as though their baby were already wrapped inside it, then stood back, something so intense about the look in his eyes that it caught at Jemma’s breath and made their child kick out in protest at the flurry of emotion that rippled through her.

‘You are beautiful, do you know that?’ he murmured huskily, and bent to kiss her.

He paid for the shawl with his Visa card and had it wrapped in tissue paper and placed in a plastic carrier bag which he then solemnly presented to Jemma. She took it blushingly, feeling unaccountably shy all of a sudden.

A new intimacy seemed to grow between them after that. Leon rarely let go of her hand as they continued to wander from shop to shop, and Jemma felt a dire need always to have her body within brushing

distance with his. Her senses began to buzz, and she knew by the new darkened look in his eyes when he looked at her that Leon was feeling the same thing too.

Darkness came around eight o’clock and they decided to make for one of the busy harbourside tavernas, sitting at a rickety old table on severely uncomfortable chairs. And Jemma found herself studying him curiously as he ordered some freshly caught snapper fish and the usual Greek salad to share. He couldn’t often put himself into situations like this one, mingling, eating with tourists, yet, despite the unmistakable air of class about him, he blended in quite comfortably.

The meal came with a basket of fresh crusty bread and a large bowl of salad topped with rich feta cheese anointed with oil and herbs from which Leon broke off bits with his fingers and fed them to her as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do. They shared a bottle of wine—well, Jemma was allowed one glass; Leon had the rest. They talked quietly, she asking questions about the island, he answering them with a quiet depth of pride that held her more fascinated than the knowledgeable words he spoke. They watched the endless passage of holidaymakers taking an evening stroll along the harbour wall, and the way the lights danced on the silk dark waters in the harbour. They listened in to other people’s conversations, smiling with them when someone made a joke, and Leon translating if the language was strange to her, his knowledge of French, Italian, and even a smattering of Danish both surprising and impressing her.

People talked sailing mostly because Fiskárdho, it seemed, was predominantly a sailing resort. And most remarked at some point or other during the evening on the big luxury yacht anchored just outside the bay, making Jemma blush and Leon grin as they speculated on who owned it, their suggestions ranging from Arab sheikhs to the Italian Mafia.

And through it all Leon was unusually attentive towards her, his fingers hardly ever out of contact with her own where they lay on the table, and his eyes warm and slumbrous on her face.

By the time they’d finished their long, leisurely meal, it was getting late. Leon suggested they return to the yacht, the look in his eyes promising that this new intimacy they were sharing was not going to end on their return. Trembling a little in anticipation, she let him help her to her feet. Their eyes met, and they kissed gently, then his arm was about her shoulders and her hand slid around his waist as they strolled silently back to where they had left the small boat.

The little white-haired man was there to hold the boat steady on its rope while Leon jumped in then reached up to lift her down to join him. Their bodies brushed, sending a sprinkle of awareness skittering through her, and on a soft gasp she looked down and away from his knowing gaze, hiding the sudden heat that rushed into her cheeks.

She trembled all the way back to the yacht where two crew members waited to make safe the little boat and help them board. Leon broke their usual routine by escorting her down to her cabin when usually he stayed on the sun-deck when she came to bed.

A frisson of heat tingled through her at the sound of the door closing quietly behind them. She turned to look at him. ‘Thank you f-for a lovely...’ Evening, she had been about to say, but the look in his eyes dried up her mouth, and she had to look away, her agitated gaze darting around the room in search of something, anything she could pretend interest in so long as she didn’t have to look at him. Her eyes alighted on her nightdress laid out on the bed and she snatched it up, crushing the soft cotton to her breasts only to gasp when Leon captured her wrist and pulled her around to face him.

‘Not tonight, agape mou,’ he murmured softly, taking the nightdress from her and tossing it aside. ‘Not tonight.’

Then he was cupping her face, his fingers threading into the silky thickness of her hair as he urged her to look at him. His eyes were dark and disturbingly alive, transmitting his next intention even before he lowered his head. And it was no passive kiss. It was a hot, hunting kiss that demanded an answering response from her and got it hungrily, her hands snaking up to grasp the sides of his face, holding him, urging him on, her mouth warm and seeking, telling him that she wanted this too.

It had been building up all evening. She had known it even while she’d tried hard to pretend it wasn’t there. But now, as his arms slid around her to draw her fully against him, there was no pretending any longer.

Leon wanted to make love to her. Why he had chosen today to change the status quo she had no idea, but it certainly had changed, and she could feel the power of his desire pulsing urgently against her.

He undressed her slowly, his fingers loosening buttons and sliding sensually over her throat, the satin slopes of her breasts, the rounded firmness of her stomach, smothering her soft responding gasps with the passionate crush of his mouth. His hands slid inside the elastic waist of her trousers, drawing the thin fabric downwards with an agonising slowness. She shuddered when he touched her intimately, a crescendo of tight curling pleasure arching her back so that their child pressed against him and her mouth left his so that she could let her head fall backwards on a soft, pleasurable sigh.

His mouth found her breasts, making them sting into tight, painful life and she inhaled on a sharp gasp of air.

‘I hurt you?’ His head came up, burning black eyes shot through with concern.

‘No,’ she denied. ‘I’m just—sensitive, that’s all.’ Then on a driven groan, ‘Oh, God, Leon. Do it again!’

Her breathless plea seemed to rock him, his own breath crashing from his lungs as he caught her mouth. Her shirt slid from her shoulders to land in a pool at their feet, followed by his shirt, then their naked torsos were together, hot and throbbing. He drew her down to lie on the bed, hands hurriedly removing the rest of their clothes before he joined her, and Jemma was already reaching for him, one arm hooking around his neck while the other hand went for the muscled tightness of his hip, pulling him against her, legs tangling, bodies moving in that hot, sensual rhythm of urgent need.

It had been a long time—too long for both of them if their responses were a measure. His mouth was moist and searching on her breasts, his caresses urgent as he aroused her.

‘Will I hurt you?’ he asked tensely when it was obvious neither of them could stand much more of it without full, exquisite possession.

‘No,’ she whispered, and was sure of it. She was ready, her body so supple that it felt boneless in its need. He came over her, his forearms keeping most of his weight from her, but as he carefully thrust himself inside her Jemma let out a frustrated groan and pulled him down on top of her. It wasn’t enough just to join. She needed to feel him—all of him, bearing down on her with all the heat and passion she had missed for so long.

Relief came like the slow-motion shattering of glass, bursting out from a central point where the nub of her desire had coiled itself tightly in readiness for this final devastating blast. He went with her; she felt him, heard him, cried out as he cried out, and their bodies blended in a hot fusion of moist flesh and trembling limbs.