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She climbed out of bed in the heavy silence, trying not to let her hurt from this additional rejection show on her face. After all, this situation was not his fault and it was time she stopped treating him like he had done it on purpose. He may have forgotten her because subconsciously he wanted to, but he had no way of undoing the damage now that it was done.
He grabbed her arm before she could leave the room. "Stranger or not, you are my wife. You sleep with me."
"It's all right, Aristide. Really."
"As you said, we do not wish to upset my family. My mother will not be pleased to find you in another room in the morning."
He had a point. "I could get up before she does."
"Good luck. Even I do not."
This was true. Phillippa required less sleep than her sons, Which was superhuman in Eden's mind. She looked back over her shoulder. The bed was a king-size.
They could sleep the whole night without touching. "If you're sure you won't be too uncomfortable."
"You make me sound like a nervous virgin." And that was the last way he saw himself.
She actually laughed. "I can't imagine anything further from the truth."
She turned around and gasped inaudibly as he dropped his towel and climbed into the bed.
The thought of sharing even such a big bed with his naked body and not having the right to reach out and touch him sounded more like torture than restful sleep.
She went to the opposite side of the bed from him and slid beneath the covers. She stayed as close to the edge as possible, feeling lonelier than she ever had even when Aristide was gone on a prolonged business trip.
Eventually, she fell into a fitful sleep.
Sometime in the night she migrated toward his side of the bed, waking up in the pre-dawn hours with his body wrapped around hers.
She knew she should move, would be mortified if he woke and found her on his side of the bed, but it felt so good, so safe, that she stayed. She lay there almost not breathing, not wanting to end the small bit of heaven in a series of days that could only have been dreamed up in hell itself.
She leaned forward the tiniest bit so she could inhale his scent and found herself on her back being kissed to within an inch of her life without the slightest warning.
CHAPTER FIVE
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It wasn't the first time this had happened.
Aristide didn't even need to be fully awake to begin making love to her, but this was the first time she wasn't absolutely positive she was the woman he was making love to in his head.
She couldn't seem to make that matter, though…not with his lips devouring hers and his big, familiar body warming every square centimeter of her skin.
She dove into the kiss with all the enthusiasm of a starving woman facing a feast. Her hands roamed over his naked back and torso, touching skin that was all satin strength and heat.
Oh, man, she needed this. Affirmation that on some level, at least, they still connected.
He divested her of the nightgown she'd donned earlier and closed one sure hand over her breast. Her nipple beaded immediately against his palm, throbbing with the need for his attention. She arched her back and he took the silent hint, breaking the kiss and tasting his way down her neck to her breast. He laved the soft flesh with his tongue, teasing her until she moaned with desire. He took the hard nipple into his mouth, pressing it against the roof of his mouth with his tongue and sucking hard all at once. It felt so good, so right, that tears filled her eyes.
She dug her fingers through his silky black hair. "Oh, Aristide…my love."
He released her nipple and blew on it, making it sting with a pleasurable ache. "Baby, you taste so good," he said against her breast. Then he said something low in Greek she didn't quite catch.
But baby? He'd never called her that, not once in all the times they had made love.
Her troubled thoughts splintered as his hand delved between her thighs. Long, talented fingers pleasured her most private flesh with knowing assurance. He might not remember her, but his body remembered how she liked to be touched.
She squirmed, reaching down to touch his hardness. He was big, but she knew he fit…that he felt perfect inside her. She wrapped her fingers around him, though the tips did not quite touch.
He groaned. "That's right, baby, touch me just like that."
She gritted her teeth, but in the end couldn't stop the question. "What's my name?"
His head came up, but she couldn't read his expression, not in the dark. "What?"
"Who am I?"
"My lover."
His mouth closed over hers, the kiss all consuming, but a small part of her refused to get lost in it. No matter how good his touch and lips felt devouring hers, she needed to know it was her he was making love to and not a phantom in his mind, or worse…another woman.
After several blissful moments, he broke the kiss and started trailing his lips down her neck toward her breasts again.
She forced herself to ask, "Who are you making love to, Aristide?"
He stopped with his lips over one aching and throbbing nipple. He lifted his head as if trying to see her expression in the dark. Maybe he could. He'd always had better night vision than she did.
"What is this about, Eden?"
Relief surged through her. "Nothing. It's all right, now." He'd called her by name. He wasn't making love in his mind to some other woman.
He was still for a heartbeat. "What was the problem?"
"You called me baby.'
"And this is not normal?"
The fact he had to ask pierced the haze of sensual pleasure. "No. It isn't."
"What do I usually call you?"
"Eden…or yineka mou." How she loved that endearment that labeled her both his wife and his woman, ever since the first time he'd told her what it meant.
"I cannot call you my woman when I do not remember you as part of my life."
Though spoken apologetically, the words were better at dousing her ardor than a bucket of cold water. "That's true… and how can you see yourself as my husband either?"
"I don't feel like a husband." He didn't sound like that bothered him all that much, but the words tore away the last remnant of the sensual blinders she'd been wearing since waking up feeling so secure in his arms.
She pushed against him. "I can't do this."
His finger brushed over her sweetest spot, eliciting a moan. "I think you can."
"I don't want to," she said desperately.
"Why not?"
"In your heart, we aren't really married."
"But we are in my head." He grabbed her hand and touched her wedding band. "This ring proclaims you are my wife."
She pressed against the spot on his chest where his heart resided. "But this tells you that I don't belong in your life."
"I want you."
"For sex."
"What is the matter with that? You were not always so scrupulous or we would not have a son, nor would we be married. But then maybe that was planned, sex for the big payoff. Have I been paying for your affection since then?"
"That's a terrible thing to say." He was comparing her to Andrea in his mind again and she couldn't stand it.
"Is it? The truth is not always pretty."
Her heart was breaking, but she wouldn't cry. Not now, with him. "Get off of me."
"Why should I? I'm sure we can come to some amicable arrangement. After all, I'm a rich man and I want you. Tell me, what did you get out of me the last time we had sex?"
She hit his shoulder with her fist. "Get off!"
He rolled away and she scooted off the bed, her body shivering uncontrollably, like she was standing naked in a blizzard. But the only ice bombarding her was the shards coming straight from his heart.
"You want to know what you gave me the last time we made love?"
"Yes," he ground out cynically.
"The knowledge that I was yours and you were mine. That you wanted me, not just a body. You gave me pleasure, but that pleasure wasn't about the way you touched me with your hands…though, heaven knows, you are an incredible lover. You gave me tenderness. I felt safe and appreciated, if not loved. Now, all I feel is dirty." The last words came out choked around the tears tightening her throat.
She rushed into the bathroom before he could answer.
Aristide sat up, his sexual frustration so acute, he was in pain. How dare she say he made her feel dirty?
He was her husband, not some stranger who had propositioned her. He might not remember her, but she remembered him, damn it. So, he did not feel married himself, that did not mean he wasn't. Damn illogical woman.
The sound of her sobs reached him.
