Rumors Behind the Greek's Wedding

He reached across the table and placed his hand on her neck to cup her jaw. As expected she almost jumped right off the chair. But he kept his hand in place, feeling the flickering of her pulse, smoothing it slightly with a swipe of his thumb that caused a sensation within him that he had to fight to temper.

‘It is if you’re going to stop jumping every time I touch you. We’re supposed to be...we are engaged. And we’re going to have to start acting like it. So,’ he said, finally removing his hand, ‘I have a game of sorts for us to play.’ He waited for her to take this in. ‘You will ask a question, and for each one I answer, I will touch you.’

The look of fear that crossed her face bit him hard. ‘Not like that, not...’ He shook his head, trying to find the words. Where was his usual charm? Where was the man reported to have seduced women in their hundreds? ‘We’re in public, Célia, it’s not as if I’m going to ravish you. Consider it the opposite of aversion therapy. For every question of mine that you answer, you will touch me.’

* * *

Célia’s heart thudded in her chest, her cheek still warm from where he had caressed her. She knew that he was right, that she had to stop being so...overly sensitive to his touch. They would have to put on a performance in public eventually. And out here, beneath the night sky, where the air was warm and there was no one to see them, was surely a safe place to...to...

‘You agree?’ he cut through her thoughts and she nodded her assent even as she feared what his first question might be.

‘What is your favourite colour?’

She laughed then. At the ridiculousness of his question, of her fear. Couldn’t help but catch the way his lips had quirked up in a smile as if he’d expected her reaction.

‘Orange.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ she laughed.

He nodded, as if impressed somehow. ‘I thought it would have been—’

‘Don’t you dare say it,’ warning him away from saying beige.

‘Entáxei—okay.’ His eyes were lit with mischief and the laughter on the air between them had broken some of the tension that had built since she’d first felt the heat from his body as he held out a chair for her.

Loukis laid his arm on the table, his palm outstretched for her, challenging her.

She stared at it as if it were something strange and new. An inexplicable urge took over her then. The desire to touch, to feel, to know... She pressed her thumb into the palm of his hand and drew it upwards along the length of his middle finger, his palm curling in gently as if wanting to prolong their connection, her touch. His skin felt smooth and warm beneath hers and it sent little starbursts across her hand and forearm. She resisted the urge to shiver.

‘Your turn,’ he said, breaking the spell that had held her in silence.

Her mind strangely blank, she searched for something as bland and unchallenging as the question he had posed, not quite ready to delve deeper.

‘What is your favourite food?’

‘Baklava.’ He answered too quickly for it to be a lie.

‘Really?’

‘I’m Greek. It would be criminal for me to say otherwise.’

Célia couldn’t help but smile at the prideful, playful tone and the trace of starlight in his eyes.

Hesitantly she placed her arm out the way that he had done and laid her hand open on the table before him. It was then that she realised what he had done. That in allowing her to be the one to touch him first, he had ensured that she would not be subjected to anything he wouldn’t receive himself. It made her feel...strangely safe. Until he touched her.

Receiving exactly the same touch that she had given sent sparks down her arm to her core, unable this time to prevent the shiver that wracked her body. Her palm flared then curled beneath his finger, just as his had done. Her nipples drew to stiff peaks as arousal, swift and sharp, pierced her and she flinched, withdrawing her hand suddenly.

He masked it quickly, but she saw something pass his features. Frustration, she thought, disappointment perhaps.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. That’s why we’re doing this. We need to become accustomed to each other,’ he stated simply as if he had not been devastated in the same way as she had by something so basic as one touch.

‘My turn. Where did you go to school?’

Célia’s body spun within some strange vortex as she forced herself to answer the question. ‘Switzerland. With Ella. Boarding school.’