The Virgin's Proposition. Anne McAllister
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His hormones were having a field day. After so long asleep, they were definitely wide-awake and raring to go.
Demetrios tried to ignore them, but he couldn’t quite ignore the hammer of his heart against the wall of his chest, or keep his voice steady as he said, “Good night, Anny Chamion.”
For a moment she just looked stunned. She barely managed a smile as she swallowed and said, “Good night.”
There was another silence. Then he tipped her chin up with a single finger, and leaned down to give her one last light chaste kiss on the lips—the proper farewell kiss he should have given her moments ago.
“I owe you,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“You rescued me, remember?”
She shook her head. “You fed me dinner. You went to see Franck.”
And you brought the first evening of joy into my life in the last three years. Of course he didn’t say that. He only repeated, “I owe you, Anny Chamion. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just ask.”
She stared at him mutely.
He reached in his pocket and pulled out a business card, then scrawled his private number on it, tucking it into her hand. “Whatever you need. Whenever. You only have to ask. Okay?”
She nodded, her eyes wide and almighty enticing. She had no idea.
“Good night,” he said firmly, deliberately—as much to convince his hormones as to say farewell to her. But he waited for her to go inside and shut the door. Only when she had did he turn and walk toward the stairs.
He had just reached them when the door jerked open behind him.
“Demetrios?” she called his name softly.
He stiffened, then turned. “What?”
He waited as she came toward him until she stood bare inches away, close enough that he could again catch the scent of the apple tart, of a faint hint of citrus shampoo.
Her eyes were wide as she looked up at him. “Anything?”
“What?” He blinked, confused.
“You said you’d do anything?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
She wetted her lips. “Whatever I ask?”
“Yes,” he said firmly.
“Make love with me.”
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