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* * *
Kassiani sat back down after Damen stepped outside, shoulders slumping, fear enveloping her.
She didn’t know how to do this. She didn’t know how to be the wife he wanted. She only knew how to be herself—a misfit.
Perhaps if she had more confidence she could trust that everything would be okay, but she had no experience to judge this relationship by. It was her only relationship and she was making such a mess of it.
It would be so much easier if she cared less.
It would be so much better if she didn’t want to make him happy.
But she did. He was difficult and demanding but he was also gorgeous and fascinating and maddening and addictive. He entered the room and she felt something inside her light up. When she didn’t see him she felt restless and incomplete until she was back together with him.
And maybe part of her anxiety was because she never had been in a relationship before. Maybe she didn’t know what relationships were like. Maybe she was the problem...she with all her fears and insecurities, insecurity from never being wanted, never being desirable, never being good enough for even your own family.
“You didn’t go.” Damen’s deep low voice came from the glass door.
She straightened quickly, hoping she didn’t look as woebegone as she felt. “That seemed too easy. Apparently I enjoy conflict more than I should.”
She was rewarded with a faint smile. Creases fanned from his eyes. “I think you do like to poke the bear.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It takes two. I’m not one to back away from a good fight.”
“Have you ever been in a fight? A real fight?”
“Of course.”
“Are you a good fighter?”
“I win more than I lose.”
“I don’t doubt it,” she said softly, feeling a perverse thrill that he could handle himself so adroitly in a fight. “My brother, Barnabas, doesn’t win many. I remember my dad once telling him only fools start fights they can’t win.”
“So your brother has given up fighting?”
“He has people now who manage those situations. He calls them security, but honestly, they’re more babysitters than anything else.” She looked up at Damen, feeling terribly uncertain about everything. “I don’t mean to be difficult. Apparently I just am.”
Damen smiled faintly. “You’re not that difficult. You are who you are, and I like you.”
Some of the tension in her chest eased. “You do?”
“You’re my wife.” He must have seen her disappointment because he shook his head, his expression rueful. “I don’t have to like you. There was nothing in the agreement saying we had to like each other. I like you because I do.” One of his dark eyebrows lifted. “Or do you want to argue about that, too?”
She shook her head swiftly. “No. Should we do something else?”
The air suddenly felt electric and he gave her a slow, scorching look. “I can think of a thing or two,” he said lazily. “But before I make you dessert, I think we should have some dinner. Chef has set a table for us upstairs in the wine bar. Care to join me?”
“Yes.” She rose, smiling. “Absolutely.”
Their footsteps were muffled by the carpeted curving staircase in the yacht’s stairwell.
The enormous venetian glass chandelier hung from the ceiling, and descended midway down the first flight of stairs, filling the stairwell with glorious gold-and-rose light. The rest of the yacht’s interior was sleek with mahogany walls and gleaming wood and chrome railings, and for a moment Kassiani allowed herself to be distracted by the stunning glass artistry and how the golden base covered with countless rose, violet and red glass flowers reflected glittering light onto the adjacent walls and banister railings, before she caught a glimpse of her husband’s even more striking profile.
Butterflies filled her tummy and her pulse did a jagged little dance. She was so attracted to him, and found him ridiculously compelling.
He caught her side-glance and gave her a faint smile. “What are you thinking?”
“Just that you are deliciously handsome.”
“You flatter me.”
“I don’t. Women must fall all over themselves trying to get close to you.”
Her words had the wrong reaction. His brow darkened and his features hardened. “Some women only want what they can’t have,” he said. “And I don’t care about any other woman. Just you. You are my wife, and I will be loyal to you.” They’d paused at the top of the stairs, and he lifted her chin, his gray gaze holding hers. “I don’t have a mistress now. I won’t take another mistress again. There won’t be any affairs. You are my wife and I promise you my fidelity. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Good. Because I expect the same of you.”
“Of course,” she answered, somewhat perplexed by how serious he’d become. But then, Damen was serious. He was clearly scarred from a past she didn’t yet understand.
* * *
Dinner was delicious, with course after course, from shrimp saganaki to scallops and pasta. Kassiani ate until she couldn’t take another bite, and then coffee and dessert were served, a gorgeous Greek custard named galaktoboureko that melted in her mouth.
Finally she truly was finished and she glanced up to discover Damen watching her.
The dark intensity in his gaze made the air catch in her throat and the blood heat in her veins. Just a look from him and she went hot and molten. “What are you thinking?” she asked, her voice dropping, growing husky.
“I think you know.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I’m sick of words,” he said.
She flashed a provocative smile. “And I can’t get enough.”
He made a low rough sound that made her breasts tighten and her skin tingle. “If you’re not careful I will have you on your knees worshipping me,” he growled.
Her nipples hardened and heat rushed through her, making her prickle and ache. “I’d never say no to you.”
The air thickened, heavy with desire. Damen pushed away from his seat at the table, and approached her. “Have I told you that you’re not as demure as you look?”
“I do believe you’ve told me I’m not demure at all.”
“Ah.” He hit a button adjacent to the bar and the curtains across the wine bar closed. He pressed another button and she heard a soft click, as the door locked.
“No security cameras here?” she asked.
“I’ve already taken care of that.” He took a step away from the bar, pointing to the marble floor. “Come here.”
She rose from the couch and crossed the room, going to stand before him. Lifting her chin, she gazed up at him, her eyebrow arching.
“Closer,” he murmured.
Her pulse raced and she took a step closer. They were now practically touching. Again she looked him in the eye, and his upper lip curled. And then he reached for her, and turned her around to unzip her delicate chiffon gown, slipping the sleeves from her shoulders to allow the gown to puddle at her feet, revealing her black lace bustier and garter belt. He hissed a breath.
“What is this?” he demanded.
“Something sexy for you.”
His hands cupped her breasts and then shaped her waist. “Where did you get it?”
“I brought it with me from California. If you have a beautiful dress, you should wear beautiful undergarments, don’t you think?”
“I do,” he answered almost reverently, stroking her hips and then the curve of her buttocks. His fingers slipped between the garter belt, and her skin. “You are testing my control.”
“And you do hate that,” she teased, unbuttoning his shirt, before reaching for his belt, and then unfastening his trousers.
Naked, he swung her into his arms and carried her to the l
ow dark leather couch in the corner, the leather soft and supple as he laid her on her back.
For a long moment he just looked at her, and then he caught her hands in one of his and raised them over her head, pinning them to the leather. With his other hand he explored her curves, and then under the black satin of her panty to the damp heat between her legs. “So wet,” he murmured, finding her delicate nub and making her shudder with pleasure.
He straddled her hips, his shaft hard and heavy against her belly. “What do you want?”
“You.”
