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He grinned. “They say a little suffering is good for the soul.”
“It looks like a lot of suffering to me.”
“Easy,” he said lightly. “First you tell me I’m nice. Then you say I’m a candidate for sainthood. If you aren’t careful—”
“Sleep with me.”
Her voice was low, the words rushed. He told himself he’d misunderstood her but he hadn’t, otherwise why would a pink stain be creeping into her cheeks?
“Just—just share the bed with me, Damian. Nothing else. I just—I don’t want to think of you, all cramped up in that chair.” She licked her lips. “If you won’t share it, I’ll have to sleep in the guest room. Alone. And—and I really don’t want to. Be alone, I mean. Unless—unless you don’t want—”
“Move over,” he said, his voice gruff, his heart racing.
Ivy scooted away. He climbed onto the bed, slid under the covers, held his breath and then thought, to hell with it, and he put his arm around her waist and drew her into the curve of his body.
“Good night, agapi mou,” he murmured.
“Good night, Damian.”
He closed his eyes. Time passed. The storm moved off. Ivy lay unmoving in his embrace, so still that she had to be asleep and he—he was going to lose his mind. He would be a candidate for sainthood, by morning.
“Damian?”
He swallowed hard. “Yes, sweetheart?”
Slowly she turned toward him. He could feel her breath on his face.
Her hand touched his stubbled jaw; her fingers drifted like feathers over his mouth.
“Ivy…”
Her hand cupped the back of his head and she brought his lips down to hers.
His heart turned over.
“Ivy,” he whispered again but she shook her head, kissed him and drew even closer.
One of them had to be dreaming.
Her lips parted. The tip of her tongue touched the seam of his mouth. He wanted to roll her on her back, open her mouth to his, savage her mouth with kisses.
But he wouldn’t.
He wouldn’t.
He would do only what she asked of him. He was not a saint but neither was he a beast.
Ivy whispered his name. Lay her thigh over his.
Damian groaned, caught her hands and held them against his chest.
“Sweetheart,” he said raggedly, “glyka mou. I can’t—” He cleared his throat. “Let’s—let’s sit up. In the chair. I’ll hold you and—and when sunrise comes, we can watch it together and—and—”
She silenced him with a kiss that told him everything a man could hope to hear. Still, he held back and she took the initiative, rolling onto her back, holding him close, arching her body against his.
“Ivy,” he whispered, and let himself tumble into the hot abyss with her.
He kissed her mouth. Her eyes. Her throat. She gave soft little cries of pleasure and each cry filled his soul.
