Painted the Other Woman

He set down his glass, resumed his meal. It was exquisitely cooked—a concoction of grilled fish, caught that day, flavoured with sweet spices. Marisa was eating breaded prawns, each on a separate skewer, with a rich coconut dipping sauce.

She’d picked up another skewer a moment or two after he’d made his pointed observation, and now busied herself swirling it into the sauce.

‘Are they good?’ he enquired. The amused, lazy note was back in his voice. The mordant expression in his face gone completely. He would keep it that way. Why spoil what this evening would bring? What each golden day here would bring? Each velvet night …

‘Fabulous!’ she said. ‘Though I think each one’s about a million calories.’

‘You can atone by only having fruit for dessert,’ he said smilingly.

She glanced at him again as she took a delicate mouthful of the sauce-swathed prawn. That sudden austerity in his face had gone, and she was relieved. She wondered what had caused it. But it was gone now, and that was good enough for her peace of mind. She didn’t want anything to spoil this idyll …

Atoning for her rich main course by eating fruit for dessert certainly didn’t spoil things—the slices of luscious tropical fruit, served on crushed ice, were as delicious as the most calorific pudding. Athan dipped in and out of the heaped mound sporadically, lounging back in his chair, swirling a glass of brandy in his fingers. For herself, she wanted no more alcohol. The earlier champagne, together with wine over dinner, had made the world a sweet, hazy place.

A sense of absolute well-being filled her. Absolute happiness … That was the thought coiling in and out of her synapses. Because how could she be happier than to be here, in this warm, balmy paradise, with a man like Athan Teodarkis? Who was looking at her now with such an expression in his incredibly gorgeous eyes …

She gave a little inward shiver of excitement—anticipation, feelings that only mounted as, coffee consumed, Athan got to his feet.

‘Shall we?’ he said, and held his hand out to her.

She took it, and he drew her up, not relinquishing her hand. They strolled around the pool, and it seemed, Marisa thought, so absolutely right to be doing so hand in hand. He made casual conversation and she answered in kind, keeping the note easy and relaxed, even though inside her she could feel her blood pulsing.

Beyond the pool the landscaped gardens gave way to more sandy ground, with low green vegetation, and the tiled paved area dispersed into multiple little pathways, each one marked by shelled edges and lit at strategic intervals by lights set either low at the base of palm trees or hung high on ornamental stands. As they neared their cabana she could hear the gentle shooshing of the sea, the endless chitter of the cicadas in the bushes, and the insistent chirruping of the tree frogs.

They strolled down on to the beach that fronted their cabana. A moon was hanging low over the sea, and there was a sheen of moonlight on the water. A mild breeze teased, but the night was warm. She could feel the humidity in it like an embracing net around her.

She gazed upwards. Stars as brilliant as golden lamps blazed in the heavens. She felt dizzy just gazing upwards—dizzy on champagne, on the sweet tropical air, on the blood pulsing in her veins. She seemed to sway …

Hands came around her waist, steadying her. Her gaze dropped down to mingle with his. Even in the moonlight she could see his expression. What he was telling her. She felt his hands at her waist, light and warm, fingers splayed. The pulse in her blood strengthened.

He murmured her name, and then came what she had been waiting for, yearning for all evening. From the moment she’d first seen him and felt her heart flutter at the sight of him, at the impact he made on her. Slowly, exquisitely, agonisingly slowly, his mouth descended.

His kiss was light, like a feather, teasing at her lips, playing with them, playing with her desire for him, with his for her. Only when it seemed to her she could bear it no longer did she feel the sudden impress of his splayed fingertips and the simultaneous deepening of his kiss—as if he, too, had been unable to resist longer.

Sensation made her swoon, and she could feel her heart turning over and over as his mouth took hers richly, deeply, with a warm, insistent passion that dominated every sense in her body. There was only this moment, only this kiss, in all the world …

It lasted an eternity—it lasted only the briefest moment of time. He drew back from her, his gaze pouring into hers. She felt liquid, boneless.

‘I want you so much …’ His voice was a low husk.

She could only sway in his clasp, lifting her mouth to his again, aching and yearning for his touch.

‘I am yours,’ she whispered.

Triumph glistened in his eyes and he gave a low rasp in his throat as he kissed her again, hungrily, voraciously, sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her off the beach, up on to the veranda and into their cabana.

The air was warm inside, for they had not put the air-conditioning on, and in the bedroom, as he lowered her to the turned-down bed, the heat was a cocoon around them.

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nbsp; Her body seemed aflame—all her senses aflame. Swiftly, skilfully, he slid her dress from her body, baring her to his view in the dim light. She slipped her arms up above her head, so that her breasts lifted. His eyes were hungry for them, his lips hungrier. She could hear him murmur something in Greek, but her whole being was focussed only on the sensations he was arousing.

Dear God, but it was blissful—blissful! Like softest velvet, finest silk, laving and teasing and arousing her, until her body was flickering with unseen fire, her head twisting, her stomach taut. Then his mouth closed over the crested coral peaks, suckling and caressing with his lips, his tongue. A sound came from her throat—primitive, powerful. His mouth slipped from her breasts, easing down over the smooth, taut line of her abdomen. His hands shaped her slender waist, splaying upwards so that the tips of his fingers could continue to tease her straining nipples, squeezing and nipping them so that eddy after eddy of sensation shimmered through her, each setting up a wave that was growing in power as he drew from her the response he sought.

Restless hunger started to fill her. She wanted more—so much more! She wanted him. Her hands reached for him, clutching over his shoulders, tugging his shirt from him in movements that became increasingly hurried and impatient. He paused in his ministrations, shrugging the garment from him, and while he was at it shedding the rest of his clothes as well. With a gasp, she realised that he was completely naked now—completely hers!

With a little moan she drew him down on her, feeling the warm, hard length of his body—feeling, too, with a thrill, the full power of his masculinity. Her reaction was instinctive. Her hips lifted to his as he responded, one iron hard thigh slipping between hers. His mouth was on hers now, and her hands were running along the sculpted lines of his back, eagerly tracing its moulded contours. His skin was like cool satin, and she gloried in the sensations she was clearly able to arouse in him as she trailed her fingertips delicately along his spine.

Urgency filled him. Desire was peaking in him and he wanted … needed … to fulfil it. She was afire for him, and he for her. The sweet softness of her body, yielding to his, was all he craved. He sought her, shifting his weight until he found what he desired. He arched over her, his hands shaping her shoulders as her hips arched questingly to his. For one long, endless moment he gazed down into her face, transfixed by what he was arousing in her.