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Authors: Sandra Marton

BOOK: The Greek's Unwilling Bride
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“Asked? Coerced, you mean.”
“I had every intention of asking you politely, Laurel, but when you opened the door and I saw you with that man, Grey...”
“His name is George.”
“George, Grey, what does it matter?” Damian's eyes darkened. “I saw him, half-dressed. And I saw you smiling at him. And I thought, very well, I have a choice to make. I can do as I intended, ask her to put aside the words that passed between us this morning and come out to dinner with me...”
“The answer would have been no.”
“Or,” he said, his voice roughening, “I can punch this son of a bitch in the jaw, sling her over my shoulder and carry her off.”
The air seemed to rush out of the space between them. Laurel felt as if she were fighting for breath.
“That—that's not the least bit amusing.”
“It wasn't meant to be.” Damian reached across the table and took her hand. “Something happened between us yesterday.”
“I don't know what you're talk—”
“Don't!” His fingers almost crushed hers as she sought to tug free of his grasp. “Don't lie. Not to me. Not to yourself.” A fierce, predatory light blazed in his eyes. “You know exactly what I'm talking about. I kissed you, and you kissed me back.”
Their eyes met. He wasn't a fool; lying would get her nowhere. Well, her years before the camera had taught her some things, at least.
“So what?” she said coolly. She forced a faintly mocking smile to her lips. “You caught me off guard but then, you know that. What more do you want, Damian? My admission that you kiss well? I'm sure you know that, too—or doesn't your blond friend offer enough plaudits to satisfy that ego of yours?”
“Is that what this is all about? Gabriella?” Damian made an impatient gesture. “That's over with.”
“She didn't like watching her lover flirt with another woman, you mean?” Laurel wrenched her hand free of his. “At least she's not a total idiot.”
“I broke things off last evening.”
“Last...? Not because of...”
“It was over between us weeks ago. I just hadn't gotten around to admitting it.” A smile curled across his mouth. “It hadn't occurred to me that you'd be jealous.”
“Jealous? Of you and that woman? Your ego isn't big, it's enormous! I don't even know you.”
“Get to know me, then.”
“There's no point. I'm not interested in getting involved.”
“I'm not asking you to marry me,” he said bluntly. “We're consenting adults, you and I. And something happened between us the minute we saw each other.”
“Uh-huh. And next, you're going to tell me that nothing like this has ever happened to you before.”
Laurel put her napkin on the table and slid to the end of the banquette. She'd listened to all she was going to listen to, and it wasn't even interesting. His line was no different than a thousand others.
“Laurel.”
He caught her wrist as she started to rise. His eyes had gone black; the bones in his handsome, arrogant face stood out.
“Come to bed with me. Let me make love to you until neither of us can think straight.”
Color flooded her face. “Let go,” she said fiercely, but his hand only tightened on hers.
“I dreamed of you last night,” he whispered. “I imagined kissing your soft mouth until it was swollen, caressing your breasts with my tongue until you sobbed with pleasure. I dreamed of being deep inside you, of hearing you cry out my name as you came against my mouth.”
She wanted to flee his soft words but she couldn't, even if he had let her. Her legs were weak; she could feel her pulse pounding in her ears.
“That is what I've wanted, what we've both wanted, from the minute we saw each other. Why do you try to deny it?”
The bluntness of his words, the heat in his eyes, the memory of what she'd felt in his arms, stole her breath away and, with it, all her hard-won denial.
Everything Damian had said was true. She couldn't pretend anymore. She didn't like him. He was everything she despised and more, but she wanted him as she'd never wanted any man, and with such desperate longing that it terrified her.
Her vision blurred. She saw herself in his arms, lying beneath him and returning kiss for kiss, wrapping her legs around his waist as she tilted her hips up to meet his possessive thrusts.
“Yes,” he said fiercely, and she looked into his eyes and knew that the time for pretense was over.
Laurel gave a soft cry. She tore her hand from Damian's, shot to her feet and flew from the restaurant, but he caught up to her just outside the door, his fingers curling around her arm like a band of steel.
“Tell me I'm wrong,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “and so help me God, I'll have my driver take you home and you'll never be bothered by me again.”
Time seemed to stand still. They stood in the warmth and darkness of the spring night, looking at each other, both of them breathing hard, and then Laurel whispered Damian's name and moved into his arms with a hunger she could no longer deny.
CHAPTER FIVE
T
HEY WERE INSIDE the limousine, shut off from the driver and the world, moving swiftly through the late-night streets of the city. The car, and Damian, were all that existed in Laurel's universe.
His body was rock-hard; his arms crushed her to him. His mouth was hot and open against hers, and his tongue penetrated her in an act of intimacy so intense it made her tremble. She felt fragile and feminine, consumed by his masculinity. His kiss demanded her complete surrender and promised, in return, the fulfilment of her wildest fantasies.
There would be no holding back. Not tonight. Not with him.
Wrong, this is wrong.
Those were the words that whispered inside her head, but the message beating in her blood was far louder.
Stop thinking,
it said.
Let yourself feel.
And she could feel. Everything. The hardness of Damian's body. The wildness of his kisses. The heat of his hands as he touched her. It was all so new... and yet, it wasn't. They had just met, but Damian was not a stranger. Was this why some people believed they'd lived before? She felt as if she'd known him in another life, or maybe since the start of time.
Her head fell back against his shoulder as his hand swept over her, skimming the planes of her face, stroking the length of her throat, then cupping her breast. His thumb brushed across her nipple and she cried out against his mouth.
He said her name in a husky whisper, and then something more, words in Greek that she couldn't understand. But she understood this, the way his fingertips trailed fire over her skin, and this, the taste of his mouth, and yes, she understood when he clasped her hand and brought it to him so that she could feel the power and rigidity of his need.
“Yes,” she said breathlessly, and he made a sound low in his throat, pushed up her skirt, slid his hand up her leg and cupped the molten heat he found between her thighs.
The shock of his touch, the raw sexuality of it, shot like lightning through Laurel's blood. A soft cry broke from her throat and she grabbed for his wrist. What she felt—what he was making her feel—was almost more than she could bear.
“Damian,” she sobbed, “Damian, please.”
“Tell me what you want,” he said in a fierce whisper. “Say it.”
You, she thought, I want you.
She did. Oh, she did. She wanted him in a way she'd never wanted any man, not just with her body but with something more, something she couldn't define...
The half-formed realization terrified her, and she twisted her face away from Damian's seeking mouth.
“Listen to me,” she said urgently. Her fingers dug into his wrist. “I don't think—”
“Don't think,” he said, “not tonight,” and before she could respond, he thrust his hands into her hair, lifted her face to his and kissed her.
* * *
It was not the civilized thing to do.
Damian knew it, even as he took Laurel's mouth again.
The same wild need was beating in her blood as in his. He felt it in her every sigh, her caresses, her hungry response to his kisses. But she'd started to draw back, frightened, he suspected, of the passionate storm raging between them.
Hell, he couldn't blame her.
Something was happening here, something he didn't pretend to understand. The only thing he was sure of was that whatever this was, it was too powerful, too elemental, to deny. He'd sooner have given up breathing than give up this moment.
Minutes ago, when he'd touched her, when he'd felt the heat of her and she'd given that soft, keening cry of surrender, he'd damn near ripped off her panties, unzipped his fly and buried himself deep inside her.
That he hadn't done it had had little to do with propriety, or even with reason, though it would have been nice to tell himself so. The truth was simpler, and much more basic. What had stopped him was the burning need to undress her slowly, to savor her naked beauty with his eyes and hands and mouth.
He wanted to watch her face as he slowly caressed her, to see her pupils grow enormous with pleasure, to touch her and stroke her until she was wild for his possession. He wanted her in bed, his bed, naked in his arms, her skin hot against his, climbing toward a climax that would be more powerful than anything either of them had ever known, and though the intensity of his need was setting off warning bells, he didn't give a damn. Not now. His body was hot and hard; he wanted Laurel more than he'd ever wanted anything, or anyone, in this world.
She'd told him, in the restaurant, that he wasn't a gentleman but hell, he'd never been a gentleman, not from the moment of his birth. Now, as he cupped her face in his hands and whispered her name, as her eyes opened and met his, he knew that he'd sooner face the fires of hell than start pretending to be a gentleman tonight.
* * *
He lived in an apartment on Park Avenue.
It was a penthouse duplex, reached by a private elevator that opened onto a dimly lighted foyer that rose two stories into darkness. If he had servants, they were not visible.
The elevator doors slid shut, and they were alone.
Shadows, black-velvet soft and deep, wrapped around them. The night was so still that Laurel could hear the pounding beat of her heart.
There was still time. She could say, “This was a mistake,” and demand to be taken home. Damian wouldn't like it, but what did that matter? She was neither a fool nor a tramp, and surely only a woman who was one or both would be on her way to bed with a man she'd met little more than twenty-four hours ago.
Damian's hands closed on her shoulders. He turned her toward him, and what she saw mirrored in his eyes drove every logical thought from her mind.
“Laurel,” he said, and she went into his arms.
He kissed her hard, lifting her against him, his hands cupping her bottom so that she was pressed against his erection. His mouth teased hers open. He bit down on her bottom lip, then soothed the tiny wound with his tongue, until she was trembling and clutching his jacket for support.
“Say it now,” he said in a savage whisper. “Tell me what you want.”
The answer was in her eyes, but she gave it voice.
“You,” she said in a broken whisper, “you, you—”
Damian's mouth dropped to hers. Heart surging with triumph, he lifted her into his arms and carried her up the stairs, into the darkness.
* * *
His bedroom was huge. The bed, bathed in ivory moonlight, faced onto a wall of glass below which the city glittered in the night like a castle from a fairy tale.
Slowly Damian lowered Laurel to her feet. For a long moment, he didn't touch her. Then he lifted his hand and stroked her cheek. Laurel closed her eyes and leaned into his caress.
Gently he ran his hand over her hair.
“Take it down,” he said softly.
Her eyes flew open. She couldn't see his face clearly—he was standing in shadow—but there was an intensity in the way he held himself.
“My hair?” she whispered.
“Yes.” He reached out and touched the silky curls that lay against her neck. “Take it down for me.”
Laurel raised her hands to the back of her head. Her hair had already started coming loose of the tortoiseshell pins she'd used to put it up. Now, she removed the pins slowly, wishing she could see his face as she did. But he was still standing in shadow, and he didn't step forward until her hair tumbled around her shoulders.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
He caught a fistful of the shining auburn locks and brought them to his lips. Her hair felt like silk against his mouth and its fragrance reminded him of a garden after a gentle spring rain.
He let her hair drift from his fingers.
“Now your earrings,” he said softly.
Her hands went to the tiny crystal beads that swayed on slender gold wires from her earlobes. He could see confusion in her eyes and he knew she'd expected something different, a quicker leap into the flames, but if that was what she wanted, he wouldn't, hell, he
couldn't
,
oblige. His control was stretched almost to the breaking point. He couldn't touch her now; if he did, it would all be over before it began, and he didn't want that.
Nothing would be rushed. Not with her. Not tonight.
One earring, then the other, dropped into her palm. Damian held out his hand, and she gave them to him. Her hands went to the silver buttons on her silk jacket, and he nodded. Seconds later, the jacket fell to the floor.
He reached out and caught her wrists.
“Nothing more,” he whispered, and brushed his mouth over hers. “I want to do all the rest.”
She heard the soft urgency in his voice, the faint tone of command. His eyes glittered; there was a dark passion in his face, a taut pull of skin over bone that made her heart beat faster.
But his touch was gentle as he undressed her. And he did it slowly, so slowly that she thought she might die with the pleasure of it, first her blouse, then her skirt, her slip and her bra, until she stood before him wearing nothing but her high-heeled sandals, sheer stockings, a garter belt and panties that were a lacy wisp of white silk.
She heard his breath hitch in his throat. He stepped back and looked at her. She felt a flush rise over her skin and she started to cross her arms over her breasts, but he stopped her.
“Don't hide yourself from me,” he said thickly. “Laurel,
mátya mou,
how exquisite you are.”
She wanted to ask him what it meant, the name he'd called her; she wanted to tell him that no matter what he thought, this night was a first for her, that she'd never given herself to anyone this way, never wanted anyone this way.
There were a hundred things to say, but she couldn't bring herself to say anything but his name.
“Yes,” he said, and he lifted her in his arms again, kissed her deeply and carried her to the bed.
He undid the garters, rolled down her stockings and dropped them to the floor. He lifted each of her feet and kissed the high, elegant arches; he sucked her toes into his mouth. Then he knelt beside her and undid the tiny hooks on the garter belt. His hands shook as he did, which was strange because while he'd never counted them, he'd surely undone a thousand such closures before. He had done all these things before, taken a woman to his bed, undressed her...and yet, when Laurel finally lay naked before him, he felt his heart kick against his ribs.
He whispered her name and then he put one arm beneath her shoulders and lifted her to him, kissed her mouth as she curled her hands into the folds of his jacket. There was a tightness growing deep within him, one that threatened to shatter what little remained of his control. He knew it was time to stop touching her. He needed to rip off his clothing and bury himself inside her or risk humiliating himself like an untried boy, but he couldn't.
Nothing could keep him from learning the taste and feel of her skin.
He kissed her breasts, drawing the beaded nipples deep into his mouth, and when she cried out his name and arced toward him, her excitement fueled his own. He ran his hand along her hip, his fingers barely stroking across the feathery curls that formed a sweet, inverted triangle between her thighs, and the tightness in his belly grew.
“Laurel,” he said. “Look at me.”
Her lashes fluttered open. Her eyes were huge, the blue irises all but consumed by the black pupils. She was breathing hard; her face, her rounded breasts, were stained with the crimson flush of passion.
He had done this to her, he thought fiercely, he had brought her this pleasure. He said her name again, his gaze holding hers as he moved his hand lower and when, at last, he touched her, she let out a cry so soft and wild that he thought he could feel it against his palm.
He rolled away from her and stripped off his clothing. His hands shook; it was as if he was entering into an unknown world where what awaited him could bring joy beyond imagining or the darkness of despair. He didn't know which right know, and he didn't give a damn.
All that mattered was this moment, and this woman.
Laurel. Beautiful Laurel.
Naked, he knelt on the bed beside her. She was watching him, her face pale but for the glow on her cheeks, and the urgency deep within him seemed to diminish. Just for a moment, he thought it might almost be enough to take her in his arms, kiss her, hold her close and listen to the beat of her heart against his the whole night through.
But then she whispered his name and held her arms up to him, and he knew that he needed more. He needed to penetrate her, to make her his in the way men have done since the dawn of time.
“Laurel,” he said, and when her eyes met his, he gave up thinking, parted her thighs and sank deep into her heat.

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