Rumors Behind the Greek's Wedding

He stepped back, pulling her with him, until he came up against the wall, imprisoning himself within her embrace. He reached for her knee beneath the silky folds of the skirt, hooking it over his hip and bringing her core against the hard ridge of his arousal.

Instinctively she arched against his chest, her hands moving upwards to frame his face, exulting in the feeling of his palms against the skin on her shoulders and arms, the warmth and security she experienced as he wrapped an arm around her and held her to him. It was an anchor in the storm of emotions that threatened to wash her out to sea. Because she trusted him.

The thought took her by surprise, momentarily stopping her. Loukis pulled back, releasing her from his hold, his breathing ragged, his eyes whispering concern.

‘You want to stop—’

‘No,’ she said hastily, interrupting him. Never, she thought silently.

‘Because—’

‘I know what I want, Loukis. Do you?’ she demanded as she stepped back from him, worried that his questions, his second guesses might be the undoing of her.

His dark gaze morphed from concern to absolute conviction. ‘Yes. Célia. I know exactly what I want.’

He pinned her with a gaze full of predatory power.

‘I want to see you.’

It wasn’t a demand, or a statement. It was a wish, one she felt in her very bones. One that lent her a power over Loukis she could never have imagined.

She reached for the fastening at the side of her top and released the tight material binding a chest she wanted to bare to him, to his touch. She drew it over her shoulders and head and cast it aside, relishing the flare in his dark eyes as he took her in, his gaze sweeping over her midnight-blue lace bra, to the skirt at her narrow waist.

All of you.

He didn’t have to say it. She felt it as if he had whispered it against her skin. She reached for the zip behind her and drew it down, releasing the band and allowing the silk to drop and pool at her feet. He stood there, as if holding himself back, as if fighting some invisible leash, straining against his desire for her and some last shred of resistance.

She stepped out of the circle of her skirts and walked towards him in her underwear and heels. Never before had she felt so powerful, so attractive, so much herself. She was owning it all, just as much as she was owning her desire for him.

His hands fisted by his sides, still holding himself from her. From what they could have together. Hers went to the buttons on his shirt, slowly releasing them from his neck, down to his waist, pulling at the shirt to release it from his trousers.

He let her push the cotton from his shoulders, until he stood there, shirtless. His body was a marvel of muscle, and she gloried in it, her fingers tracing over dips and swells, causing him to inhale swiftly as he flinched.

When her hands went to the buckle on his belt, it was as if the spell that had held him back had been lifted, and he reached for her, pulling her upward, causing her to wrap her legs around his waist. They sought each other’s lips at the same time, the feeling of his tongue crashing against the sensations of skin against skin as he walked them through some darkened maze of furniture she couldn’t have navigated.

He brought her to an open part of the living room, the plush soft cream carpet visible in the light of the moon, shafting through large windows that formed the side of the estate.

He laid her down gently, gazing at her from above, and she was unable to take her eyes from him as he made swift work of his trousers. He stood before her naked and glorious, and everything she’d ever wanted.

He came to her then, a kiss full of desire and want, drenching her in a need that she could barely contain. His body against hers, skin against skin, was almost, but not, enough. His fingers snapped the clasp of her bra and he drew the straps down her shoulders and cast it aside. His mouth tracing the path his fingers had made, pressing open-mouthed kisses against her skin, drawing cries of pleasure from her.

She arched into his mouth, his touch, gasped when his fingers found the taut nipple of one breast, then another. His hand swept down her body, between her legs, the firm pressure confident, shocking and devastating to her arousal.

She wished the thin material separating them gone, but his hand swept over her again and again, as if relishing the barrier between them, the last there was to be had, teasing them both on the brink of what they both desperately wanted.

He pressed kisses beneath her breast, trailing down over her stomach, her hip, and lower, to where he pulled at the band of her thong, following the path of its removal with his mouth. At her feet, he removed the scrap of lace, and took up her ankle, delighting in the slow play of undoing the clasp of her shoe, removing one heel and then another.

She looked up at him, knowing she was now completely bare to him.

He reached for his wallet, discarded with his trousers, and sheathed himself with a condom, his eyes not once leaving hers, the promise in them not once faltering.

She expected him to lean forward, to rush towards the end of their pleasure, but he didn’t. He trailed his hands up her calves, over her knees and gently pressed at her thighs until her legs lay either side of his where he kneeled before her. His hand returned to between her legs, instinctively causing her to want to draw them together, to hold him to her or hide from him, even she couldn’t tell.

She felt his thumb press gently against her clitoris, just held there as if waiting for her to get used to his touch, as if waiting for her to unfurl beneath him. Because that was what it felt like. An unfurling. Her hips shifted, trying to create the pleasurable friction he was withholding, and he smiled, as if knowing exactly what she wanted. His free hand went to her hip, holding her in place there too, and she felt utterly under his command.

He waited until she had stopped, until she had succumbed and then, only then did his fingers start to move. His dark erotic gaze not once leaving hers, as if he wanted to see what he was doing to her, as if it fed his own desire.

His thumb moved over and over and over her clitoris, and her head fell back under the onslaught of pleasure he was wringing from her. When his fingers entered her she gasped, desperately trying to hold on, desperately clinging to the edge of the precipice she felt herself hurtling towards.