been soaked to the skin.
But he had waited for her.
The heat on her cheeks spread as another memory came to her. Of her body anchored to his...and of his dark, steady gaze watching her until the moment he’d buried his beautiful face in her neck and shuddered deep inside her.
She shivered, remembering, her thighs pressing together, pressing against the warmth and the tenderness there.
That had been the first time...
Later, after she’d lost count of the number of times and ways they’d made love, he’d pulled her against him, his eyes still dark, but soft with sleep, and kissed her gently.
She bit her lip. His intensity, his stamina, his skill hadn’t surprised her. But that kiss had. Or maybe her response to it was what was so surprising.
She’d never felt like that with any man before. She had wanted him so badly. Her need for him had been fierce and absolute and unstoppable—like a river breaking its banks. And he had needed her too. She had never felt so wanted, so desired.
Opening her eyes, she bit her lip. Or so certain.
Normally, even the thought of intimacy with a man triggered a loop of self-doubt and distrust inside her head, so that she was already questioning her behaviour and possible responses before anything had even happened.
Her mouth twisted. And for good reason.
She’d only had a handful of relationships, but they’d all ended the same way—with whatever boyfriend it had been telling her that she was too difficult, too demanding. In other words nothing like the carefree young woman they had fallen for.
After what had happened with Dominic she’d given up. It was easier that way. Easier and less exhausting than caring about someone only to be inevitably let down.
And she’d stuck to her pledge.
Until last night.
But she didn’t regret it. Lucho had been a great lover. He had made her feel desirable and sexy. Okay, he hadn’t said much, but she was glad about that for last night she hadn’t wanted to talk.
And if they had talked she would have been busy now picking over his words.
Rolling over, she pulled one of the pillows towards her and hugged it against her stomach, the faint lingering scent of his cologne making her think of night and heat and rain about to fall.
Lucho hadn’t needed to talk. To big himself up. Why would he?
He was gorgeous. All lustrous golden skin and lean muscle, and those dark eyes that had seemed to swallow her whole.
And she liked the fact that he had been happy to communicate through touch, his fingers writing poems on her body, his warm breath against her throat a wordless promise of infinite pleasure. His silence had nothing to do with laziness or shyness, but contentment. He was one of those rare people who was happy living in the moment, without expectations or regrets and with nothing to prove.
Unlike her.
Picturing the remote expression on her father’s face, the distance in his eyes, she curled her fingers into the pillow. He had not only managed to deny her existence, he’d replaced her too.
Her stomach flip-flopped as beneath her pillow the alarm buzzed on her phone. Reaching round, she switched it off, glancing at the screen. There were several missed calls, all from a number she didn’t recognise, and for one brief moment she considered calling back.
But now was not a good time. For a start, she needed to shower, pack and get dressed, and she also wanted to check in with her boss. She trusted Grace—not just professionally, but on a personal level too—and she wanted to see if she had any last-minute advice for her.
And anybody who mattered would call her back if it was important. Not that whatever he or she was calling about was likely to be life-changing.
Rolling out of bed, she grabbed a towel and walked into the bathroom.
* * *
In another bathroom, on the other side of the city, Luis stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around the taut muscles of his stomach. Ignoring the mirror on the wall, he ran his hands slowly through his hair, smoothing the tangles with his fingers.
He released a slow breath, remembering how just hours earlier Cristina had done more or less the same thing. Except her hands had been urgent, frantic. Almost as frantic as her mouth.
His lungs emptied slowly. And she’d tasted so sweet...sweeter than molasses.
It was supposed to have been just sex—a carnal union designed to delight and, more importantly, to distract him from his thoughts. Except that now he couldn’t stop thinking about her. And even though he knew she was in a hotel on the other side of the city, her presence was so strong in his memory that he kept turning to look at the bed, expecting to see her there.
Watching Cristina in the club had been one of the most confusing experiences of his life. She had dazzled him. Even just looking at her in those heels and that top, those shorts, had made a pulse of excitement beat beneath his skin. He had wanted her—and yet he’d almost hated her too. For she was too beautiful, too sexy, and an attention-seeker to boot. In other words, everything he loathed in a woman.
And so he’d got up to leave—
Gazing at his reflection, he felt his face grow warm.
She might have spilt his drink but she’d been right. It had been his fault. He’d been so desperate to leave that he hadn’t been thinking about anything but getting as far away as possible from her gravitational pull. He certainly hadn’t been looking where he was going.
Breathing in sharply, he ran his hand slowly over the stubble grazing his face.
Only instead of apologising he’d acted like a jerk.
His heartbeat slowed. He had lost her then, and that might have been the end of it—would have been if his bike hadn’t refused to start.
He stared at his reflection, steadying himself, pushing aside the thought of what might have happened, or rather not happened, if his bike hadn’t been washed or she hadn’t come outside.
But she had, and she’d rescued him.
He swallowed.
Rescued him and then kissed him.
Or were they one and the same thing?
Glancing out of the window, he felt his heartbeat accelerate. He was naturally cautious by nature, but even if he hadn’t been life had taught him in the most brutal and devastating way not to act impulsively. He didn’t do spur-of-the-moment or random.
Yet last night he’d done both. Only instead of regret or shame he could feel a kind a radiance inside his chest. It took him a moment to realise that it was happiness, and that for the first time since stepping off the plane in Athens he was ready to face his past.
Picking up his phone, he punched
