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What she could remember in stark detail was lifting upher gaze from the screen of her mobile when she’d sensed the man standing before her.
She could rememberher first sight of him so clearly. His dark black hair. The gleaming arrogance of his shocking blue gaze. He was tall and perfectly built, though she spent her life around men who could claim the same. Yet there was something about Crete Asgar. He was bolder. Wilder. It was as if he carried a storm with him, and it was evidentin the width of his shoulders, the hard planes of his face. He was a perfect combination of his Greek mother and Scandinavian father, and it was easy to imagine him as some kind of Spartan warrior, prepared to storm the gates of Valhalla if he wished.
Looking at him had felt like an ancient ritual, sparked with drums deep within herandecstatic dancing beneath the hidden moon. Timoney had felt as if the act of locking gazes with himwas something like...obscene. Too precious and private to be happening out on a London street.
She’dseen a pulse beat in his neck.She’dseen a kind of recognition flaring his gaze.
He’dreached out his hand to slide it over her jaw, as if to test whether she was real, and she’d been lost.
It was possible she had never been found.
Crete had muttered a curse. He’d taken her hand, then led her away from her post and into the party.
She remembered the heaving club as if itwasa part of him, of them, of that mad current that had flared between them from the start. She had felt it between her legs.She’dfelt itall over her skin, like a terrible tattoo.
Terrible and wonderful, and then he had drawn her behind himinto what she realized, only much later, was a cloakroom.
Who are you?he’dasked, breathing her in, and then his mouth had been upon her.
She liked to think that she had found herself againat the stamp of his hard possession, the slide of his tongue against hers.
Crete had not so much kissed her as taken her, stormed her, claimed her forever.
And later, she would learn the details that made what happened there marginally less sordid—not that she had cared at the time. That his security detail had paid off the cloakroom worker and stood sentry at the door, so there was no possibility that anyone would walk in on them.
But Timoneyhadn’tknown that then. She had only been swept away. The fire between them so intense, so overwhelming, that her only choice had not beenwhether or notto surrender, but only how.Or how much.
She told herself to recast the scene in her mind, now, all these bitter months later. She told herself it had been a sickness on her partthat had led her to tear her mouth from his to follow a spark of feminine intuition shecouldn’tpossibly have named when she had so little experience to her name. Still,she’dsunk down onto her knees before him,because she’d wanted nothing more than to worship at the altar of... Whatever this was. Whatever he was.
Whoever he was.
She’dnever done such a thing in her life. She had neverwantedto do such a thing, but her hands had seemed to find the fly of his trousers of their own accord. Timoney had wrenchedthe zipper down, finding him huge and hot and pushing out to meet her.
And then she taught herself what it was to worship a man, there on her kneeswith the music lighting her up, the drums deep within, and a need so profound it made her sway her hips back and forth as she knelt there and took him deep into her mouth.
She followed instincts shehadn’tknown she possessed, running her tongue up the length of him, then sucking him deep. Out here in a cold Christmas Eve, she told herself she should be ashamed. That she should feel wretched that she had esteemed herself so little, that she had debased herself like that, losing herself completely in the slide and the stretch of him inside her mouth.
But try as she might, thatwasn’thow she remembered it.
It was never how she remembered it.
For Timoney hadnever felt so alive, so powerful. She knew his strength by the way his hands gripped her hair, taking control of her, guiding her head,and then, as everything seemed to brighten, to get bolder, to crystallize into something—
He had pulled her away and stared down the length of his body,his chest moving and his face so intense with need and hunger that he had seemed nearly cruel.
But the kind of cruelty she wanted to wrap herself around and writhe against.
Have you ever done this before?
It had been a low, rough whisper.
And it had felt like a sacrament as she’dknelt and beheld him. A quiet, sacred moment, all theirs.
Timoney hadbeen lying to her friends for years, pretending she possessed the casualness and sophistication they all seemed to exude so effortlessly. They had assumed she had partaken of the same experiences they did, and she had never corrected that impression. But shecouldn’tlie to the stranger. To him.
She hadshaken her head,no.
And an expression she could not possibly have read had flickered across the carved sculpture of his face.
