tasting, teeth clicking.
Demetrius reached between her legs and ran a finger across the V of her thighs. “Wet. Already. I like that.”
She was dripping. Hungry. His hands cupped her breasts, and he squeezed lightly.
He was wearing entirely too many clothes for this to be fair. She tugged his shirt from his pants, pulling at the buttons and grappling with his belt. When his shirt was unfastened, he shrugged it off, and it joined her clothes on the floor.
His pants came next, then his boxers, and she could see everything. Every bronzed, roped muscle, his impressive arousal, long and thick, the ripple of his abdominals and a collection of scars.
She set her hand over the circular scars, one near his heart, two at his sides, one on his thigh. “What happened?”
“Gunshot wounds.” He sounded indifferent.
“All of them?” He had been shot four times?
“Different occurrences. Do they bother you?” For the first time, he sounded unsure, and that warmed her. He was human. He was sweet. He had a soft side that she guessed he revealed to few people.
“Not at all. You are a warrior.” To prove it, she kissed each one, tracing them and the other scars that marred his body.
“Enough,” he said, and swept her into his arms. He carried her to the bed and laid her down. She let her legs fall open because she wanted him now and didn’t feel the need to be coy about it.
He removed her bra with the snap of his fingers and kissed each of her breasts, laving them with attention, making her feel loved and cherished. He reached for her feet, removing her shoes and letting them hit the floor.
“Demetrius, please hurry.” Her body ached for his, longed to feel his weight on top of her.
Other sexual encounters with boyfriends had been brief, a quick pounding, leaving her unsatisfied. Demetrius seemed in no hurry and intent on leaving her satisfied. She was so turned on, if she moved the right way against him, she might come from his touch.
He kissed a trail down her body and tugged her green—ugh—panties down her legs. “I’m throwing those out,” she said.
“Keep them. I’ll think of you like this every time I see them,” he said.
He brought his mouth between her legs, and she involuntarily bucked against him. He set his hand on her hip to settle her. Excitement and pleasure pulsed between her legs. He took his time, licking, sucking, caressing her until she was frantic with need. He knew what he was doing, and she tried to stay calm. Watching him in that intimate position, she felt affection and warmth flood over her.
“I need you inside me,” she said. “Please, Demetrius.”
He moved over her and reached into his bedside table. Donning a condom, he positioned himself at her opening. With almost no effort, he pushed inside her. She was hot and wet and so ready for this. The sensation of him filling her, of him reaching deep inside her, was utterly amazing.
He moved with hard, insistent thrusts, seeming to enjoy the thump of his body delving into hers. She ran her fingernails down his back, digging them into his buttocks, and lifted to meet him.
She felt pressure building between her legs. Everything inside her spun with pleasure and desire, pushing her higher and higher until she was plummeting over the edge of ecstasy. Their eyes locked, and she felt a shudder go through his body as he spilled his essence.
As her body relaxed beneath his, he collapsed on top of her. She welcomed the weight of him. She kissed his shoulder and rubbed his calf with her foot. The words I love you were on her tongue, but she refused to speak them, scared of what they could mean, fearful they were coming too soon or may be an excited utterance.
Most of all, she was scared they were true and she had fallen for a ruthless dictator who would hurt her all over again.
Demetrius couldn’t give Iliana time to think. He was banking on her agreeing to marry him immediately. Sated by the passion and excitement of their encounter, she’d fallen asleep beneath him. He extracted himself from her. After cleaning himself up in the bathroom, he dressed.
He could read her. She wasn’t a poker player. She was falling for him. He reached into his bedside table and brought out the gray-and-black marble ring box. He’d had the ring commissioned earlier that week and sized to her finger. She’d left a ring on her desk once and he’d traced it onto a piece of paper when her back was turned. She wouldn’t want to be proposed to in bed. She’d want a story to tell her cousin and her friends.
He slipped the engagement ring into his pocket. This would happen today. By tomorrow, she would be his wife and he would have what he needed to complete his plan.
He picked up his dress shirt from the floor and carried it to the bed. Sweeping her red hair to the side, he kissed her cheek. “Iliana? I want to show you something.”
She mumbled into the pillow. Into his pillow. That pleased him enormously. He rarely allowed women into his bedroom. Come to think of it, Iliana was the first. The first and the last. She moved down into the blankets, her red hair spread across his sheets, the fabric showcasing the silhouette of her lithe body.
“This will only take a moment. It can’t wait.”
She sat up, pushing her hair back. “Why do I have to get up now?”
He slipped his shirt over her slim shoulders. For the sake of decency, he buttoned the middle buttons. She looked good. She would be a good wife—of that he was certain. “I have something to show you.”
“Interesting that you want to dress me,” she said.
“I don’t like the idea of my staff seeing you naked.”
Though his staff members would not utter a word about anything they saw in the house, especially in his private wing, he was protective of Iliana. He didn’t want to share her in any way.
She pulled on her underwear, the green pair, and her slacks. She left her feet bare.
Demetrius led her outside into the garden. It needed attention, but that task had fallen behind more pressing matters. His private garden was still tended to perfection. He unlocked the green wooden gate. He had refinished the gate himself, sanded it, painted it and rehung it. Though he could have asked someone on his staff to handle the matter, physical labor helped him clear his mind after hours of meetings. The high stone walls around the garden provided the privacy he craved.
He held the door for her, and she stepped inside and gasped.
“What is this place?” she asked.
“My garden. I work here in my spare time.” A source of pride and enjoyment for him.
He took pleasure in watching her walk up and down the paths. Solar lights illuminated the rows of plants and shrubbery. He walked behind her, not wanting to rush her. The timing had to be right. Much was riding on this proposal.
She
