giddily out of control.
Talos still had hold of her thigh, his thumb making circular motions on the material so torturously barricading him from her skin.
She had no idea where her nerve came from—maybe her fingers had a life of their own, because they moved away from his hand to tentatively brush his thigh. He stiffened at her touch, his own hand tightening its hold on her.
The British Prince chattered on, clearly oblivious to the undercurrents playing out beside him.
Slowly her fingers crept over Talos’s thigh until her whole hand rested on it. The fabric of his trousers felt silken to her fingers, contrasting with the taut muscularity they covered. She could feel him.
He sat as stiff as a statue, making no attempt to move when, with a flush of heat she realised her little finger was right at the crevice of his thigh, the line of the V that connected it to his groin...
A feeling of recklessness overtook her and she swiped the little finger up a little further—deeper into his heat, closer to the source of his masculinity.
The statue came to life.
Talos swept his hand away from her thigh to reach for his port, which he swilled down before putting the glass back on the table. Not that she saw him do any of those things, rather she felt them, her attention still, to anyone interested enough to be watching, fixed on the British Prince.
Then Talos’s hand was back under the table and clasping hers, which was slowly stroking his thigh, her little finger brushing the V of his groin. Twisting it so he could hold it tightly, he entwined his fingers in hers.
‘Are you okay?’ the British Prince asked, pausing in his talk on water sanitation in developing countries. ‘You look flushed.’
She felt her neck and cheeks flame. ‘I think I need some air, that’s all,’ she said to the Prince, hoping she didn’t sound as flustered as she felt inside.
A warm arm slipped behind her back and round her waist and Talos was there, pressing against her, ostensibly having abandoned his conversation with the Duchess to join in with theirs.
‘Don’t worry, little songbird,’ he said, his deep voice sending reverberating thrills racing through her. ‘The banquet will soon be over.’
Talos felt as if he needed air too...
If her hand had moved any higher and actually touched the hardness that was causing him such aching pain he would have come undone on the spot.
Never in his life had he been so aroused, not even yesterday in the cottage where, despite their lack of clothing, it had been a different arousal.
He sensed no fear in Amalie now.
No, this was a special kind of sweet torture and in front of all Helios’s guests he was unable to do a damn thing about it.
So long as he kept her hand away from his crotch he would master it. The most sensible option would be to stop touching her altogether, but sensible didn’t count for anything—not when it was Amalie Cartwright he was touching.
He let out a breath of relief when the palace quartet entered the Banquet Room, mandolins and banjos playing out the guests with the folk music beloved of all Agonites.
The Agon royal party rose first. Keeping her hand firmly clasped in his, Talos led Amalie through to the adjoining ballroom, delighting in her gasp of pleasure.
The ballroom was by far the most majestic of all the palace rooms, both in size and stature. With high ceilings and a black-and-white checked floor, even Talos experienced a thrill of stepping into a bygone age whenever he entered it.
As soon as the royal party entered, the orchestra, situated in a corner, began to play.
Most of the guests took seats at the highly decorated round tables lining the walls, free to choose where they wanted to sit. The two ornate thrones at the top of the room shone under the swooping chandeliers. Looking at them sent a pang through him. They would remain empty for the duration of the evening.
He wondered how his grandfather was, his stomach twisting at the remembrance of the vomiting episode he had witnessed just a few short hours ago. He consoled himself with the knowledge that should his grandfather take a turn for the worse he and his brothers would be notified immediately.
Talos guided Amalie to a table and poured them both a glass of wine. Theseus joined them and, as was his nature, soon had Amalie giggling as he regaled her with tales of their childhood.
A strange tightening spread across his chest to see her so clearly enthralled, and with a start he realised the cause. Jealousy. His jealousy. She’d never laughed so freely for him.
This was becoming dangerous.
Desire was one thing, but jealousy... That was one emotion too far and too ugly.
That was what you got for spending so much time with a beautiful woman without bedding her. If he’d bedded her from the start her allure would have vanished already and he would now be focussing on getting her performance-fit without wasting energy wondering how she looked naked or whether she moaned loudly when she came.
For all his words about ‘partaking’ regularly, he hadn’t been with a woman in months—not since his grandfather’s diagnosis. It was as if his libido had gone into stasis.
And now his libido had gone into hyperdrive.
Forget noble thoughts about not taking advantage of her position on the island, or that she was there because of his blackmail. The chemistry between them had gone off the charts. All they needed was one night to detonate it. One night. Come the morning, their chemistry would be spent. If not, they still had three weeks to expel it completely, but they would have tamed the worst of it. They would be able to concentrate on nothing but her gala performance.
At that moment the orchestra broke into a waltz, indicating the start of the evening’s dancing. Talos watched Helios take a deep breath, fix a smile to his face and cross the ballroom to tap a princess from the old Greek royal family on the shoulder. She was on her feet like a shot, allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor. It was the cue for the other guests who fancied trying their hands at traditional ballroom dancing to get to their feet.
‘Shouldn’t you find a lady to dance with?’ Talos pointedly asked his brother in Greek.
Theseus’s smile dropped. He grimaced, his eyes darting around the room as if he were searching for someone. ‘I’ll have a drink first. But don’t let me stop you—you two make a beautiful couple.’
Talos narrowed his eyes and fixed Theseus with his ‘stare’. Theseus pulled a face and swigged his wine.
‘Would you like to dance?’ he asked Amalie. Talos might loathe dancing, but the thought of having her in his arms was a temptation not to be resisted.
‘I’ve never waltzed,’ she said dubiously.
‘Most of our guests have never waltzed. I will lead you.’ That was if he could remember. He hadn’t waltzed since the Debutantes Ball in Vienna, which his grandfather had forced him to attend when he was twenty-one. If his brothers hadn’t already been forced into attendance at
