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And then, he kissed her, he kissed her hungrily, passionately, and as though he’d die without her. He kissed her and everything in the world slid into place and she sighed into his mouth even as her hands lifted to tangle in his thick dark hair, her fingertips latching together, holding his head against hers.
“Take me to bed,” she heard herself demand, and then laughed a little shame-facedly, her desire so strong she didn’t stop to think if she should try to hide her need for him.
“Bed?” He drawled, striding through the water, to the edge of the pool. Here, she could stand, and he placed her down, only so that he could strip her from the wet, black bathers she wore. He dropped them into the pool; they floated beside them, and his own briefs joined them a moment later. “Who needs a bed?” He teased, catching her at the wa
ist and lifting her once more, wrapping her legs around his waist.
She groaned long and slow as he drove into her, the water surrounding them, his arousal filling her, her muscles squeezing him with desperate hunger. And she lay back in the water, staring at the sky as his body thrust into her, and pleasure was like a drum, beating through her soul. His hands held her, supported her, his body pleasured her, and she existed purely for this, for him, for all that this was.
He dropped his mouth forward, taking a nipple in his mouth, biting down on it just hard enough to send arrows of pleasure pain shooting through her body, and she made a noise of urgency, of wanting more, of needing that again and again. He laughed a little, a throaty sound of pleasure as he lifted his head and flicked the same nipple with his fingertip, hard enough to make those same little darts of sharp, searing pleasure careening through her body.
His name rushed from her lips, a curse, a cry, an incantation; she called his name into the ancient skies, and as her pleasure built, like a wave she couldn’t – and didn’t want to – escape, he spoke to her in Greek, his native language adding another layer of magic and a sense of destiny to what they were doing.
She lifted up, clinging onto him as the pleasure became almost too intense to bear, and his hands cupped her rear, holding her tight, digging into her rounded flesh. She clawed his shoulders; sensual madness overtook her.
In the warm waters on the edge of his private island, on a cool autumnal evening, Bella’s pleasure broke like a storm, and Vitalo was right there with her, tipping himself into her, emptying all of himself, his body frenzied with the same fever that had filled Bella’s bloodstream.
She slept like the dead.
Vitalo Katrakis stared at his young wife with a bemused smile on his face. She was so still, so completely still, her lips pouted in her sleep, long lashes sweeping like two black crescents over her tanned cheeks. She had freckles, he noticed now – a tiny smattering dancing across the bridge of her nose. Her dark hair ran like a skein over the pale pillow, and he remembered how he’d fisted it in his palm the night before, when they’d finally made it to bed, holding her when she’d straddled him, taking him inside of her, moving up and down his length, her moans the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. She’d used his body, taking his cock inside of her, stoking her own flames, driving herself to orgasm and he’d watched, fascinated, at the literal awakening of her sensuality, at the way she was discovering who she was in bed, and what she liked as a woman, before his very eyes.
And then he’d gripped her hips and held her low and still on his length as he’d bucked into her, and she’d cried out again, renewed pleasure fevering her skin, making her cheeks pink and her brow moist with perspiration. He’d thrust into her until he’d exploded and he’d watched pleasure screw up her face, and a look of wonderment too, as she added ‘being on top’ to her list of things she liked about sex.
And now, despite the bright morning light streaming in the French doors that led to the balcony, she slept.
Was it any wonder?
They’d made love until the early hours of the morning, but even without that, she was pregnant, and everything he’d read on the subject had said it was an exhausting task – growing a human.
He’d done a lot of reading on the subject before their wedding – in the five days between proposing to Bella and making this wedding official, he’d absorbed enough information to be an obstetrician.
Sex was fine, he reassured himself, as he looked at her sleeping face and felt a kernel of guilt for the way they’d made love. Sex was fine, but he definitely shouldn’t wake her the way he wanted to. He shouldn’t move his body over hers and kiss her until she was begging him to take her.
No.
She was exhausted, and while she was in the first flush of sexual awakening, he was far from a horny school boy. He could control his desire. He would control his desire.
With an intense feeling of regret, he stepped out of bed, and strode into the walk in wardrobe. He grabbed out some running gear and, with one last look at the bed, telling himself that only if she woke up of her own accord would he go back and kiss her, he waited for several seconds and then shook his head, moving from the room.
He showered in a guest ensuite, knowing making as much noise as he could in the bathroom that adjoined his – their – bedroom would have been a sign of weakness, and dressed quickly.
He ran often – to relieve tension, to keep fit, to think through problems at work. He ran as a form of discipline and strength. And he pushed himself that morning to run harder, faster, further, tracking east along the beach, the morning sun warm as he went, its light bouncing off the ocean with a golden glow.
He ran, but he couldn’t outrun the thoughts that were – at last – demanding his attention.
Because marrying Andrew and Kat’s daughter was anything but simple, and sooner or later, he’d have to work out how to break the news to Kat. Somehow, he’d have to explain how he knew Arabella’s parents.
He’d have to remind her that they’d met before, years earlier, when she’d been about eleven years old.
He’d have to remind her that he came to stay at their homestead. She’d only been a girl, and she’d spent most of the time playing tennis or scrambling up trees reading books. She’d been blonde then, like her mother, with hair that fell halfway down her back. She’d been quiet and serious, whereas Sophia, her younger sister, had been precocious and perspicacious.
Without realizing it, he smiled now, remembering Sophia arguing with him one morning, when he’d made a coffee, over the environmental impacts of wealthy people using private jets. She’d told him how she’d implored Andrew only to fly commercial, and to lobby for the abolition of first class seats. “Wouldn’t it be better for all the airplanes to fit as many people as possible on board?” She’d demanded. But he hadn’t really been giving the child his full attention.
He’d been distracted by Kat. Kat who did her level best to catch him on his own at any moment of the day. Kat who was ten years his senior and the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Kat who made him laugh and who he felt an ache to protect. Kat who was lonely and thought her husband was losing interest in her.
Kat who begged him to make love to her, to make her feel like a desirable woman once more.
Would Bella remember him, when he reminded her? Would she wonder about the man who’d come to stay? Had she seen anything of him and Kat together?
