had been wonderful!
Max had been wonderful...
She gazed at him now, blood singing in her veins. He was twisting open a bottle of water, looking so tall, so strong, so utterly devastating in his Edwardian evening dress, and her eyes just drank him in as the room swirled around her and the music played in her head and on her lips. All she wanted to do, all she longed to do, was to be back in his arms, dancing and dancing...
‘Drink this—and drink it all,’ Max’s deep voice instructed her as he came to her and handed her a large glass of water. ‘You’ll thank me in the morning, I promise you.’
‘I feel fine,’ she said. ‘Absolutely fine.’ Still, she gulped down the water, never taking her gaze from Max—wonderful, wonderful Max!
How gorgeous he is—how incredibly handsome and gorgeous and wonderful and devastating and...
Then she yawned—a huge, exhausted yawn. Her eyes blinked.
‘Time for bed,’ said Max.
But not, alas, with him. He knew that. The champagne, the wine, the liqueurs she’d drunk made that out of the question. Should he regret it? He shouldn’t, he knew, but he did all the same.
Maybe it’s for the best. That was what he needed to tell himself. Remind himself of all the complications that might arise were he to follow what he knew his body wanted right now...the new-found desire that had swept over him.
I want to celebrate her new-found freedom with her. I want to take the final step of her liberation with her. I want to be the man who does that—
Well, not tonight. Frustration could bite at him all it liked, but that was that. And he—he’d be back in his own bedroom in the hotel suite, heading for a cold shower.
But first he had a real ordeal to get through. One that was going to test him to the limits.
‘Hold still!’ he instructed her, catching the back of her shoulders to steady her.
It was a mistake, for the warmth of her bare skin under his palms was an unwise sensation for him to feel right now. He pulled his hands away as if burnt, made his fingers drop down to the fastenings of her dress instead. Thee mou, there were a million of them! As he started the finicky work of undoing them he could feel the effort of not thinking about what he was doing.
Don’t think about how her beautiful bare back is emerging...how she’s dropped her head, exposing the tender nape of her neck caressed by tendrils of her chestnut hair...how easy...how tempting it would be to lower your mouth and graze that delicate skin with your lips. No, don’t think about any of that—
He swallowed heavily, dropping his hands away. ‘Done!’
She turned, oblivious to the punishing, disciplined self-control he was exerting, her unfastened bodice held up only by her hands pressed to her half-exposed breasts, her feathered shoulder straps collapsing down her arms as well. A sigh of happiness, of bliss escaped her, and her eyes were clinging to his.
‘This has been,’ she announced, ‘the most wonderful night of my life.’
Her lips were parted, her eyes glowing, her face lifted up to his. She swayed towards him in the motion of a dance, with intoxication in her blood, unconscious invitation in her glorious goddess body.
And he was lost. Totally, completely lost. Could resist her no longer.
His hands fastened on her upper arms and he hauled her to him. Drew her smiling parted lips to his and took his fill. He could not resist it—just could not.
Tasting first, he glided his lips across the velvet softness of hers, taking possession of her mouth, tasting her bouquet like a rich, radiant wine. Then, as his kiss deepened, he opened his mouth to hers and she came with him—came with him every iota of the way—moving her mouth on his, opening to him, tasting him, taking her fill of him.
He could feel her full breasts pressing against the cotton of his shirtfront, feel her nipples start to peak, feel desire flare through her, fuelled by the wine in her blood, the champagne in her veins, the music in her head.
Hunger for her leapt in him, seared through him. He knew his body was surging, engorging, knew that desire and need and all that could burn like an inferno between a man and a woman was igniting within him now. Knew that in seconds the conflagration would take hold—unstoppable, unquenchable.
With a groan, he let her go, wrenching his mouth from hers, pulling his hands away, stepping back from her.
There was a dazed expression on her face, the bewilderment of loss in her eyes—her huge, widened eyes—and their pupils were flaring with desire, arousal...
He shook his head. Held up his hands. Stepped further back.
‘Goodnight!’ he said.
His voice was shaken, he could hear it, and he could feel the heat in his body still, the fullness still there, but he had to beat it back, subdue it. Whatever primal hunger was possessing him, he had to defeat it. To indulge himself now, when far too much wine and champagne was coursing through her, would be unforgivable.
For a second a stricken look was there in her eyes—a look that somehow pierced him like a stiletto blade in his throat—and then, like the sun coming out from a cloud, dazzling in its brightness, she smiled. Her face lit up once more.
‘Goodnight!’ she breathed. ‘Oh, goodnight!’
He backed to the door. He did not want to do this. Did not want to leave. But he had to. Had to get back to his room—had to get that cold shower sluicing down over his body...had to!
As he reached the door she lifted her hand from one side of her bodice, dangerously exposing yet more of her sweet, succulent flesh, a final torment for him, and then, with another dazzling smile, an insouciant, joyous gesture, she kissed her fingers and blew the kiss to him.
‘Thank you!’
They were the last words he heard before he got out through the door and pulled it shut, to keep him safe.
Safe from the only thing in the world he wanted to do right now...
Go right back in and sweep her into his arms.
* * *
Ellen was asleep, but someone was making her wake up. A hand was on her shoulder, gently shaking her. She shrugged it off, nestled back down into her pillows, but the hand returned. Someone said something to her, but she didn’t know what. It was foreign. Greek?
Greek!
She bolted upright, only just having the presence of mind to clutch her bedclothes to her, her eyes flaring open. Max Vasilikos, freshly showered—she could tell from the damp hair feathering his forehead and the towelling robe that emphasised the Mediterranean tan of his skin—was sitting on her bed.
‘How are you feeling?’ he enquired. His voice was urbane, equable—and amused.
She pushed her hair out of her face. It seemed to her to be softer than it usually was, and finer, and less heavy. She blinked, looking around her, dragging her gaze past the figure of the man sitting at
