Possessing the Princess

Befuddled and bewildered,I stretched awake. I had no idea how late it was, but I knew immediately where I was.

In Aris’s bed after our delicious tryst.

Darkness had fallen, and there were no lights on, but I oriented myself to Aris by the clink of a glass and the glowing red ember of his cigarette. He sat by the windows, one leg pulled up, the multicolor halo of Dubai’s nighttime cityscape capturing him in silhouette.

When he saw me shift, he tossed the rest of the drink into his mouth and stubbed out the cigarette. He wore only a pair of delicious, low-slung jeans as he stalked to the bed. He leaned one knee onto the mattress and bent to kiss me.

A low hum immediately rippled through my body as his tongue traced designs alongside mine.

He eased back but not far. “I have something I want to give you.”

“Ohhh,” I exclaimed, my cheeks heating as I saw the evident bulge at his groin.

His low chuckle percolated. “Da. That too but something else as well. After we eat something.”

Hours had passed, a whole day since breakfast, and hunger suddenly gnawed at my stomach.

“Don’t you have to go to the club?”

A serious look entered his eyes “Not tonight.”

Ohhhh . . .

He was skipping work just to be with me . . .

When he first brought me here, I’d thought Aris was intimidating and egotistical and just the type of controlling man I didn’t want to be with. He was all those things and more that I’d never expected. Attractive, attentive, wry with his humor . . . and sometimes even kind.

I should stop this now before it was too late, before Aris had the power to break my heart into tiny little pieces. It was all getting too dangerous.

Except there was nothing, really, between the two of us. This was him using me to twist my father’s arm, and me getting a longed-for thrill from him while I could.

After this, he’d walk away with his oil deal, and me?

I’d be destined for endless loneliness and mere memories of a few passionate nights.

The sudden sad truth of it all made me want to cry but I wouldn’t. Not when he was giving me that piercing look from such blue, blue eyes.

I was incapable of breaking his deep gaze.

I’d lose myself in him a while longer. Except it felt, more and more, like finding myself, with this singular man.

He studied me closely then helped me from the bed. Reaching to a chair, he grabbed the shirt he’d been wearing before we made love. He shook it out but frowned at the blood spattered across the white material from the gunfight earlier.

Unbelievably, he seemed to blush, a ruddy tint climbing to his cheeks. One would think it was he who’d given up his virginity.

“I wanted you to wear my shirt,” he explained with a shrug, twisting his lips together.

“Well, you have plenty more.” And I could tell he was pleased that I wanted to put on something of his by the sudden broad smile he gave me.

After rummaging in his large closet, he returned with another crisp button-down shirt. He stood behind me and helped me into the clean Aris-scented top and only did the middle two buttons.

“Beautiful,” he murmured before taking my hand.

He escorted me out onto the balcony where a sultry breeze flipped the tails of my shirt.

Grinning rakishly, he pulled out a chair and seated me. “I’ll serve you.”

I watched, at once spellbound and bemused, as he strolled back into the penthouse. Surely, he wasn’t going to cook for me.

Within moments he came back out. He carried a bottle of uncorked wine and two tall stemmed glasses. He poured one for me, left his empty, then stepped inside again.

In the dim lights shining from the kitchen, I watched him moving around.

He was so achingly handsome, I felt tethered to him.

On his return, he carried a laden tray, and I recognized the leftovers from the meal I’d prepared yesterday.

A laugh burbled from me. “I was worried you were going to attempt to cook.”

With his features drawing up, he feigned insult. “I’ll have you know I can cook.”

“Oh, really? What?” I sipped wine as he placed an assortment of food on my plate.

“Mostly Greek dishes.” He winked, snapping out a napkin, which he arranged on my lap, his fingers skimming my bared thighs.

After he sat and served himself, we both began to eat, but I watched him with brand new eyes and a healthy dose of curiosity.

Finally, I asked, “Greek food but not Russian?”

His fork halted midair and then he finished putting the bite in his mouth. He chewed slowly, ruminating on something.

“My mother raised me in Greece on her own until I was sixteen.” His eyes shuttered briefly. When his lids lifted, a world of pain was invested in his irises. “That was when she died.”

His pain transmitted to me, and I laid my hand on his arm. “Oh, Aris. I am sorry.”