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“Rose…” he said again, a warning this time. He leaned forward to wrap his fingers around her ankle, which was his mistake.

Her skin felt as soft and smooth as silk beneath his fingers, the bones delicate and even fragile. His fingers tensed around her ankle before, without even meaning to, he slid his hand slowly up her calf, all the way to the delicate underside of her knee, the tips of his fingers skimming along that sensitive skin.

A soft gasp escaped her, and Christos had the almost overwhelming urge to knock aside the table and all its dishes, to pull Rose toward him and end these silly games and lighthearted teasing right there and then.

Looking at her parted lips and dazed eyes, he was pretty sure she had the same thought. She was still slouched in her hair, her leg outstretched, his hand on her knee. It was ridiculous and enflaming at the same time. Then, keeping his gaze, Rose lifted her foot and rested it on Christos’s taut thigh, her toes stretched toward the throbbing juncture of his thighs. It felt like a dare, and it made him lose his last shred of common sense, of cool logic. All he could think about was experiencing more. More of this, and more of Rose.

His hand tightened on her knee and then slid an inch, then two, higher, so his thumb was skimming the soft, silky flesh of her inner thigh, and a shudder escaped her. They were at an impasse; neither of them could move any farther with the table between them, and Christos wondered which of them was going to break first.

This was a mistake, he kept telling himself, a terrible and potentially costly mistake, but the trouble was…

It didn’t feel like one. At all. And in any case, he no longer cared if it was.

* * *

Rose sat there, half lying in her chair, Christos’s hand on her thigh, her toes resting on his. Part of her felt like bursting out laughing at the surreal situation…and an even greater part of her felt like bursting into flame. With a single finger, he stroked the inside of her thigh—a soft, feathery touch. An electric jolt of longing went right through her core, melting every resistance, every coherent thought. This was crazy. It was also unbearably exciting.

His whiskey-golden gaze was steady on hers, no sign of how he was affected save for bright slashes of color high on his strong cheekbones. He stroked again, and she couldn’t keep a small, soft moan from escaping her as her body melted even more. She stretched her foot out another inch or two, acting on instinct, and when her toes brushed the bulge of his manhood, Christos started and then rose from his seat in one fluid movement, so Rose’s foot fell to the floor.

Still slouched bonelessly in her chair, she stared up at him wordlessly; she couldn’t tell if he was angry or just intent. She got her answer when he came around the table to haul her up by her elbows, sliding his hands to her shoulders as he stared down at her, her head tilted back so she could meet his blazing gaze.

“No more games,” he ground out.

She still found she couldn’t speak, so she just shook her head, an agreement, although in truth she didn’t know what no more games would look like. Feel like…

And then she got her answer again when he stared down at her for another moment, a look of conflict, even torment, twisting his features and shadowing his eyes. Rose was pretty sure they both knew this was a big mistake, and yet…

It seemed it was one they were making.

Muttering something that sounded like a curse under his breath, Christos bent his head and kissed her, his lips coming down on hers in a kiss that felt both hard and soft, gentle and punishing at the same time, a surrender as well as a demand…for them both.

Rose put her arms around his shoulders, reveling in the feel of corded muscle bunched underneath the soft fabric of shirt, a sense of power only barely leashed. Her body pressed against his—breast, bump, hips, thighs as he slid his hand from her shoulder to cup the fullness of her breast, his thumb running over the taut peak of her nipple so she couldn’t keep from letting out a jagged cry.

He broke the kiss, staring down at her, his expression harsh. “This is a mistake,” he grated out like he was trying to convince himself, and she nodded dumbly.

“I know.”

He kissed her again, more slowly this time, lingering and languorous, as if he could somehow prove to them both that it wasn’t a mistake, that it didn’t have to be. That he didn’t want it to be.

Rose answered by arching even further into him, heat flaring as their hips pressed and then rocked. A groan was torn from Christos’s mouth before he kissed her again—her lips, her jaw, the sensitive curve of her neck. Rose’s mind blurred with both pleasure and need as she angled her head to give him more access.

Somehow he was backing her up to the sofa. Then, with one reckless glance behind him, he swung his arm up under her knees and carried her as easily as if she weighed nothing into the bedroom suite of the plane.

Rose’s mind was still a dazed blur of sensation as he kicked the door closed behind him and then set her down gently on her feet. Their breathing was ragged, but then Christos heaved a steadying exhale as he raked a hand through his hair.

“I meant what I said, that this is a mistake,” he told her, his voice quiet, his breathing still hitched. “But it’s one I… I am willing to make.” He let out a ragged laugh. “More than willing. You…do something to me, Rose, and not…not just physically.” Rose felt how much that admission cost him. “So I need you to tell me if it’s a mistake you still want to make.”

Was it? Every sense was screaming yes, especially after what he’d just told her, and yet…

Maybe it was time for a little honesty.

“I…” Her voice wobbled as she shook her head, feeling embarrassed all of a sudden, as well as rather ridiculously shy, considering what they’d just been doing, and how shameless she’d been about it all. “Maybe this is when,” she began uncertainly, “I should tell you that it’s a mistake I’ve never made before…if that makes sense.”

Christos stared down at her in obvious confusion, his face still flushed, his breathing uneven. He looked at her as if the words couldn’t compute, and maybe they couldn’t. She was pregnant, after all. There was pretty much one other time in history when a pregnant virgin had been a thing.

“Are you telling me…” he began, and then stopped, looking shaken. Rose decided the best thing to do was find the humor in the situation. Laughter always helped, right?

“Yup, pregnant virgin,” she confirmed with an attempt at an insouciant smile. “But not an immaculate conception, obviously.” She tried for laugh but only managed a wavery breath. Christos was looking positively dumbfounded now, and maybe even a little angry.