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She lay there, a boneless heap, and thought at least this time she hadn’t passed out.
He wasn’t finished with her yet, though. In fact, from the rigid hardness pressing against her, he was a long way off from it.
He started touching her again—this time his hands going between her legs, his fingertip slipping inside her, pressing massaging…making her ache all over again. He added another finger to the first as he started speaking to her, telling her how beautiful she was, how much she excited him, how different it was with her than any other woman he had been with, how she was made for him.
She didn’t think he knew what he was saying…she’d heard of sex talk…but she liked it. She didn’t care if he didn’t mean it. Hearing those things while he touched her so intimately made the experience absolutely right.
He built the ecstasy again, slowly but inexorably, until she was shaking underneath him and begging him with little whimpers to complete his possession of her body. When he did it, there was a stinging pain that made her cry out and try to push him off her.
But he didn’t move. At all. He just waited, talking in that low, seductive voice right in her ear. Telling her it would get better, that the pain was natural, inevitable in one so innocent. And he was right…it did get better. She made an experimental wiggle and an arc of enjoyment shot through her.
He began to move, and she realized the pain wasn’t gone completely, but pleasure was there too. And it was so special, so incredibly intimate to have him inside her, that she would not wish him anywhere else.
He reached between them, carefully touching the bud of her pleasure as he continued to talk to her between kisses, coaxing her body into the response he wanted. And when he climaxed with a shout, the pulse of warmth, the swell of his flesh inside her at the last moment, sent her over the edge again. This time she collapsed back onto the lounger, just barely with it enough to notice the sting as he withdrew slowly.
“Does it hurt every time?” she asked.
“No. But we need to let you heal before we repeat this experience.”
“Oh.” Healing sounded good. The experience had been awesome, putting all her fears about him not being truly attracted to her at rest, but she was going to be feeling it for a while, she could tell.
He cuddled her for a long time, before bathing with her, keeping constant physical contact, but he wouldn’t let her spend the night because it would upset her parents, he said.
His insistence that she leave heightened her certainty that she had to go through with the proposal for him and her father she had been working out in her head over the past twenty-four hours. She was pretty confident of their physical relationship, but there were still some assurances she needed.
They made plans to meet in her father’s office the next afternoon, and then she drove herself home, sure that if he loved her she wouldn’t be spending the night alone—not after they had made love the first time.
Spiros watched Phoebe come into the room with a foreign hunger. It was more than simply being turned on by her presence. He was hungry for her, not just her body. He’d missed her over the past weeks, and last night had only brought into sharp relief how much.
He’d hated sending her home after their time of intimacy. But he would not be responsible for her parents getting angry with her or denigrating her actions.
In some ways he understood her need to test their compatibility. He’d done too good a job of convincing her that their first kiss had meant nothing to him. And he had hurt her. Something he would not easily forgive himself for and a reality he would do his best to make up for.
He had never reacted to a woman so strongly. On any level. At first he had believed the difference was their close friendship, but he was beginning to wonder if there wasn’t more to it. Love.
Could he have fallen after spending a lifetime determined to avoid the emotion?
“Good afternoon, Father. Spiros.” Phoebe did not smile, and she was dressed as if they should be in a boardroom.
Although, looking around the older man’s office, Spiros considered that perhaps discussing their upcoming wedding here was little better. It was why he’d taken the contracts to the Leonides home the first night. For him, this was not merely a business proposal.
“Good afternoon, Phoebe,” Aristotle said. “I called your office earlier, but you were not there.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
The older man frowned at the non-answer.
Spiros stepped forward and gave Phoebe a traditional greeting. She was stiff in his arms, but she did not reject him. Was she shy now, in front of her father? Worried he would know what they had done?
Aristotle indicated a seating area surrounding a low table over by the window. “Let’s sit over there. Though I still think we should have at least met at a restaurant.”
“Why?” Phoebe asked as she moved across the plush carpet in her Italian heels. “This is a business meeting—business I prefer will have no chance of being overheard by a passing waiter or fellow eater.”
“You have a point,” the older man said heavily.
Phoebe sat down in a chair, leaving either end of the couch for Spiros and her father. Both men sat.
“I take it you are now willing to agree to the marriage?” Aristotle asked.
