Rumors Behind the Greek's Wedding

He didn’t move. He couldn’t. Because everything in him wanted to act, touch, taste. And there would be no turning back from that. So he stayed stock-still, as if made from marble. He had to.

She reached up on tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss against his lips. He resisted the gentle pressure at his neck from where she had reached, guiding him to her, deeper into her, hating that it must have felt like rejection to her, but unable to give in to her demand.

But a hint of the sweep of her tongue against his lips pierced his defences. Kiss after kiss, her mouth opening further in fractions that made him mad with need. The warm press of her breasts against his chest, her thighs against his within millimetres of where his hands had fisted by his sides.

And then, as if sensing his reluctance, she pulled away. And the look in her eyes crushed the air in his lungs. The raw yearning, need, and sadness in the large amber orbs was too much. His hands flew to her face, holding her, stopping her retreat and at the precise moment he should have walked away, he stepped forward, his mouth crashing down on hers and greedily taking everything she had to offer.

He breathed her in, his tongue demanding entrance, glorying in the feel of her beneath his lips and hands. He drew her to him as if he could consume her, as if he could steal something from her and keep it with him.

Need became a primal roar, echoing throughout his body, crying more, crying now. Only the soft moans Célia made cut through the raging pulse in his ears causing him to stop, to try and pull back the control he had lost so shockingly easily.

Their harsh breathing echoed between them. He saw the flash of her white teeth digging into a bottom lip he had just thoroughly ravished. It was too much. He wanted it for himself. And that was the problem. This wasn’t about the custody battle, the press, or even his mother. He needed Célia for himself. And that was untenable.

‘Is that what you wanted, Célia?’ he demanded. ‘To bring me to my knees? To make me beg?’

He made to turn away, the words bringing forth shocking images of exactly what he wanted to do to her, for her, but her hand reached for him before he could.

He had expected words, pleading, impassioned perhaps. But instead the silence remained as she lifted his hand and placed it high on her breast, covering her heart where he felt her pulse rage against his palm. A beat that echoed within him just as incessant, just as demanding, just as out of control.

‘I am the one on my knees. I am the one begging,’ she said resolutely.

‘You should never have to beg, Célia. You are worth more than that.’

‘I know my worth. I know yours. And I know what I want.’

The heat from her body beneath his hand wrapped around him, drawing him towards her, even as he fought every inch of it.

‘I know what is at stake, Loukis. And I promise you, I would not jeopardise that. Ever.’

‘This isn’t about Annabelle, Célia. It’s about you,’ he said roughly. ‘I am not capable of giving you what you deserve. Not now. Not ever.’

He had to say the words. Force them to his lips. It was the truth, the deepest truth he’d ever spoken to a woman. Célia deserved so much more than this. She deserved a future and he couldn’t give her that.

‘I understand.’

He had thought that would do it. That she would finally walk away, but instead, she placed her hand over his, where it still rested against her heart.

‘And it doesn’t change a thing.’

* * *

Célia’s pulse sped under the heat of his palm secured by her own. She knew what she was saying, what she was asking him for. Neither of them were ready or willing for anything more than perhaps just this night. But she would not walk away from this easily. If, for even a second, she thought this heady, half-mad desire was one-sided, she never would have raised it. But she knew. She knew he felt what she did, wanted what she did. It was as if acknowledging, owning, the truth of their desire was the only thing that could save her from the precipice she was hurtling towards. As if he were the only thing that could save her from it.

He searched her gaze as if hunting for a flaw, a contradiction, a doubt in her mind. But there was none.

She became so aware of his hand on her chest, resting beneath her own, as if that one point of connection bound them together on the brink of action or inaction. Her body overly sensitised, wanting more, desperate for more. But he had to choose this. She couldn’t force this on him no matter how much she felt he wanted it.

This time she turned away, feeling as if she had lost the battle. Until his fingers wrapped around her arm, drawing her back to him in a kiss that obliterated the memories of all other kisses.

She opened her mouth to the pressure of his lips, his tongue, let him angle her head to where he wanted it, because it was so impossibly good. Everything in her rose to cry yes. This was what she had wanted. Loukis, unfettered, let loose amongst the pleasure they were seeking.

As his hands released their hold and travelled across her body, Célia revelled in the heat of them through the material, and then, when they reached the expanse of uncovered skin at her waist, his fingers hooking at her hip and pulling her against him roughly.

Gone was civility, gone was propriety, gone were the rules that had both bound them together and kept them apart. Every touch, every kiss made her feel worshipped. As if he were g

aining as much from her own pleasure as she was.

It was a feeling she had never experienced before. The riotous cascade of sensation, desire, was hedonistic. Beneath her palms his chest was firm, as she fisted his shirt in her hands and drew him closer. It wasn’t enough. She feared, silently, that it might never be enough.