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She didn’t know what she was doing. Or maybe that was a cop-out. Maybe she knew exactly what she was doing. Maybe what she’d said to him was true, after a fashion. She was putting out all this effort. She was already linked with him in the press and everywhere else. The whole world thought she was engaged in a torrid affair withtheConstantine Skalas, which did not horrify her the way it should have. Oh no.
Molly knew, keenly, that the sixteen-year-old idiot girl who’d been so enamored of him would have loved to find herself in this situation. Had, in fact, wished and dreamed and hoped for precisely something like this to have come along back then.
What she couldn’t seem to handle—because the longing for him had become a pulsing thing between her legs, on the insides of her wrists, at her temples, in her throat,everywhere—was not getting the opportunity to actually have that affair.
Because she’d spent her whole life not having affairs.
Not only with Constantine Skalas, but with anyone. The world kept turning and people were out there having life-altering sex, apparently. All while Molly just writhed about in photo shoots, selling sex to the camera yet having none herself.
If he was going to blow up her life anyway, she might as well enjoy the fire while she burned. Why not?
And since she had the distinct impression that they were going to end up in bed together anyway, once he finished playing his little revenge games, Molly could admit that she took a certain pleasure in moving things along her own schedule.
Because she had the feeling it might very well be the only thing she would control when it came Constantine. Ever.
“I thought I made it clear,” he said, still regarding her in that way that made her want very much to squirm. If she was a person who squirmed. Until tonight, she never had been. “If you want me, you must beg. I do not mean pretty words, though I fear I do require them. I will have you on your knees, naked, begging for the privilege.”
“You really do like a pageant, don’t you?”
He gave a very Greek sort of shrug, more his chin than his shoulder. “The only people who do not care for a pageant,hetaira, are those who know one will never be thrown in their honor.”
“Fair enough,” she murmured.
And it was one thing to want sex at last. Right now. But another to do what he was asking. To debase herself—
But who was she kidding? She had already debased herself to the moon and back for this man, and more, had loved it more than she’d hated it. What was a little more where that came from?
Letting out a long sort of breath—a soft sound of surrender—Molly reached around to the side, where the zipper of the current dress she was wearing was cunningly concealed, and zipped it down. She let the gown fall, then pool around her feet, then she kicked it aside.
She let him look at her for a moment, stood there in nothing but heels and a push-up bra, and then she kicked her shoes aside and pulled off the bra at the same time. It was so easy to undress, she thought a little wildly, even though it took hours to get her looks put together so she could look effortless in public.
That is because fashion is always about sex,a beauty editor had once told her grandly.
Tonight Molly agreed.
Naked, she glided across the room until she stood before Constantine. And the longer she looked at him, the more her heart thundered inside her chest.
And the slicker, and hotter, she felt between her legs.
“Beg,” he ordered her, though his voice sounded slightly hoarse. Rough like his hands would be against her skin. “And make it good, Molly. I’ve been waiting for it for a long, long time.”
Molly took a deep breath. She wanted to smile but found she couldn’t.
Instead, she did the only thing she could.
The thing she’d been wanting to do for longer than she cared to admit.
She sank down onto her knees before the devil himself, tipped her head back so he could see her face, and begged.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ATLAST.
Constantine had waited so long. All the plotting. All the planning. The angry seed of vengeance that had been planted so long ago when his father had brought home a new bride. The small, wiry green shoot of fury that had developed when dreamy Molly, unaccountably, had shot to prominence as Magda.
Those years when he’d seen her face everywhere. Like a taunt.
And the exquisite, almost unbearable weight of what had dragged on between them now for nearly a month.
