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Chapter8
HE WAS, FINALLY, THINKING of his father, and the dark pit of grief in the pit of his gut, when he heard the noise, a scream so filled with terror that despite his assurances earlier, it galvanized him into action. The state-of-the-art security system deployed at all Xenakis residences made intrusion impossible, but then again, nothing was completely foolproof, and the beast that stalked Mila was determined.
He ran, legs thumping, heart pounding, as he crossed from one side of the villa to the other, brushing past ancient tapestries and renaissance paintings, turning corners then throwing open the door to her room without a moment’s pause. She sat in the middle of the bed, child-like in a white nightgown, eyes huge, face pale, hair clumped to her.
“What is it?” he demanded, looking around the room, assessing for signs of danger. His eyes fixed to the window—still closed. He moved to it anyway, checking the locks, looking around again. There was no sign of disturbance, no sign of intrusion.
“I—,”
Her mouth barely worked. She stared at him, but almost as though she wasn’t really seeing him.
As a child, Dimitrios had experienced night terrors. His cries had filled the home, eerie and unsettling and utterly inconsolable, and when they’d looked upon him, he’d been just like this, as if hidden behind a veil, brain active but not engaged, eyes open, but unseeing.
“Mila,” he sat down on the bed beside her, hand on her slender thigh, squeezing gently. “I’m here.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed. She was shaking like a leaf, trembling from head to toe. He closed his eyes for a moment and then, instincts took over. He needed to fix this; to make it better.
He stood and lifted her in one movement, before he could second guess himself, carrying her slim, shivering body cradled against his chest, into the ensuite bathroom, and setting her feet on the floor. He paused for the briefest moment, wondering if this was a mistake, but then, he knew he needed to wake her up, and make her feel better, all at once.
“Lift your arms.” The gruff command was wrenched from deep within his soul, steadiness of voice collateral damage of his internal struggle between good and evil, want and need versus the restraint he knew he must show. This wasn’t about him, it was about Mila, about helping her. About fixing her. He didn’t ask himself why that mattered so much, but he knew it did.
She was still trembling, but she did as he said, staring at him, so trusting, that he swallowed a groan as he bunched her cotton night gown in his hands and lifted it, over her body, higher and higher, across her face then over her arms, removing it completely before dropping it to the floor. Her skin was covered in goosebumps despite the warmth of the evening and still she shook uncontrollably.
He dropped to his knees, the task at hand most important now, curling his fingers into her underpants and lowering them, trying to curb his body’s natural response to their proximity, to her sweetness, to her nudity, as he moved the lace thong lower, over her thighs and then her calves, and finally her ankles. She stepped without being prompted, so she stood before him completely naked, and then, Leonidas moved before it was too late, before desire overtook him completely.
He stood, stepping back, turning from her and striding into the shower. It was a large size, running along one whole wall of the bathroom, and rather than a shower door there was a single panel of glass. He moved around it, flicked on the tap until it ran warm, then returned to Mila, ignoring the perfection of her body, her gently rounded breasts and slender waist, keeping his gaze focused on her face. At least a little colour had returned and she was no longer looking as though she was of the other world.
“Shower,” he commanded, his voice harsher than he intended, simply because it was he who now needed rescuing. Not from an external danger but from the strength of his own desire for her.
She nodded, lifting a hand to his chest and touching it briefly. “Thank you.” It was a whisper, and then, she stepped into the warm water, tilting her head back, closing her eyes. He stared, locked into position, unable to look away, eyes devouring her in that moment, watching with fascination as water droplets ran down her naked frame, clinging to her body, and he ached for her, burned for her, in a way that was foreign and overwhelming.
“Leonidas,” his name on her lips was a groan and a plea and when he dragged his gaze reluctantly to her face, she was biting down on her lip, her eyes huge, lashes clumped together. “Would you—,”
He didn’t need her to finish the question. He shucked his shorts quickly, and stripped his shirt as he began to walk towards her, but at the entrance to the shower, he paused, probing her.
“Join me,” she whispered, holding out a hand, and he understood then what she needed. There was one way to obliterate these nightmares from her mind, to draw her back to the here and now, to make her feel connected to the real world.
He closed the distance between them so water careened over his back, but he barely felt it. There was only him and Mila. He wrapped his hands around her back, pulling her to him, and his cells practically screeched as they rejoiced in her proximity. He kissed her, a kiss that was borne of dominance—not of Mila but of her fear, of her terror, of her perfection. A kiss that aimed to drive anything from her mind but this. His tongue dueled with hers, his lips mashed hers, and then, he was lifting her, easily, wrapping her legs around his waist as he pushed her back against the tiles.
He couldn’t say whether he’d drawn her over his arousal or if she’d shimmied there herself, perhaps a combination, but he entered her and they both moaned, their coming together a moment of euphoria and relief that each experienced. Her breasts were at his head height and he gave into his obsession for them, cupping them first, feeling them in the palms of his hands, petite and perfect, before he dropped his head and took a nipple in his mouth, sucking it hard, then soft and slow, his tongue flicking the tip until she moaned. His other hand tightened around her breast, his fingers tormenting her nipple in unison with his tongue’s demands, and she cried out, wriggling her hips, pushing down, ankles hard in the base of his spine as she sought better purchase, more of him, more of this.
Hell, he was lost. There was no duty now, no thought, no awareness of how he should behave and what was ‘right’, only the certainty that this was necessary and unavoidable, that this went beyond sex and had moved into a whole other terrain, inevitable, just as they’d agreed.
He’d thought she looked to be of the other world; well, perhaps he was too. He felt barely human as he shifted within her, his cock moving of its own accord, thrusting deep, hard, his mouth travelling from her breast to her neck and sucking her flesh there, drinking the water, his stubble leaving pink impressions on her flawless skin. He kissed her mouth then, hard, so hard he pressed her head to the tiles and she cried his name into his mouth, and her nails scraped down his back, forming angry red lines that he would revel in later—proof of how utterly lost she’d been, as lost, he was sure, as him. Her ankles dug harder and then, she was crying out, her muscles spasming around his length as her orgasm threatened to split her in two.
He stilled, focused on rediscovering his control, on needing to feel everything about her without losing himself too. He ground his teeth together, the effort monumental, and then, he kissed her, swallowing her frantic breaths, her impassioned cries, drinking in the raw, visceral heat of her passion.
“Leonidas.” The way she said his name was such an aphrodisiac. He devoured it, and then, moved, needing more of her, so much more.
He eased her to the ground, along his own body, and she whimpered, clinging to him, wanting him still. It was a heady, affirming moment and he thanked Christ for that, because his own needs were threatening to swallow him whole.
He turned her, needing to feel every bit of her, wanting to be deeper, to own her, to control her, to mark her. He couldn’t understand what was happening to him, but something was controlling him now, driving him, so he bent her forward, and she braced her arms against the glass of the shower. The mirror across the bathroom showed a fogged version of their images, the reflection shrouded in mist, but it was erotic and he stared at it as he dug his fingers into her hips, his cock nuzzling between her butt cheeks. She whimpered, softly, then whispered, “Please, Leo, please.”
He wanted to respond by driving into her, but waiting was its own form of torturous pleasure. He moved his hands from her hips, lower, to her butt, running his palms over the smooth curves, his thumbs stroking her flesh, towards the center, so she sucked in a quick breath and pushed back a little, the invitation silent but unmistakable.
He pressed forward, one hand seeking her breast, addicted to the feeling of them, to the sensation of holding them, the other lingering on her rear, moving closer to her center, a finger pressing close to her there, so she moaned and again, pushed back, wriggling her bottom, begging him silently to take her there.
Did she have any idea what she was asking? Did she know how desperately he wanted to make her his in every way?
