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She could have left him to clean the shirt himself, but Phoebe went, drawn as if by a powerful magnetic force. The bathroom was small, clearly not for public use, as it was filled with personal artefacts.
“Here,” she said, her voice husky. “Pass me the shirt.”
He cocked one brow as he lifted it over his head, avoiding spreading the offending mess any further.
“I can do it,” he said, without handing it over, without making any efforts to clean it, either. They stood like that, toe to toe, eyes hooked, their breath sounds filling the small space.
Slowly, she lifted a hand, gripping the shirt, but he didn’t release it. Eyes met, breath intertwined, hearts raced. Phoebe swallowed, her throat thick and parched.
“Here,” she murmured, tugging the shirt a little.
He frowned, releasing it, but stayed where he was, so close.
“You know,” her voice was impossibly husky. “They say it’s good luck.”
“Do they?”
She made a gargled sound of agreement, letting the water run out the poop, careful to keep most of the shirt out of the stream so it remained dry, not taking her eyes off what she was doing, because the alternative was to look at Anastasios and if she looked, she’d want to touch, and if she touched, well, she’d be lost. Even more lost than she already was.
“And what do you think, Phoebe?”
She swallowed again. The water ran clear, the offending stain removed. She wrung out the area with fingers that shook, still not looking at him.
With a small sound of frustration, he shifted, bringing his powerful body closer to hers, pressing a finger beneath her chin and tilting her face to his.
“Is it a sign of good fortune?”
The shirt was balled in her hands, her eyes latched to his, her heart somewhere in the region of her throat now. “I’ve never found it to be so,” she admitted.
“Maybe this is a first, then?”
She couldn’t speak. Her vocal cords simply wouldn’t cooperate. As if understanding, he reached for the shirt, taking it from her hands. She stayed right where she was, eyes hooked to his, breasts tingling as she inhaled and they brushed his bare chest.
“You’re so different to what I imagined,” he murmured. She didn’t have to ask what he meant. He’d arrived in London expecting to find some money-grabbing woman, who seduced men for sport and profit, and that was nothing like Phoebe.
“Yes,” she said softly, leaning forward, swaying, inviting him to kiss her with her body.
He lifted his hand slowly, as if against his will, his fingers curving around her cheek, his thumb brushing the sensitive flesh to the side of her lips. She trembled, expelling a soft breath and an even softer sound of submission. His eyes flared, sparking with hers and she shifted forward, lifting one hand and pressing it against his chest. His heart thumped beneath her palm. She closed her eyes, breathing, trying to calm her rattling nerves.
“Look at me.” It was a growled command she didn’t dare disobey. Conflict ravaged him; she could feel it pulling at the fibers of his being. “I hate that you were his,” he said darkly, his thumb moving to tease her lower lip, stroking across it until she shuddered. “But not enough.”
She didn’t know what he meant, her brain couldn’t operate, but a second later, his lips crashed down on hers, his body pushing her backwards until she collided with the tiled wall, captured between the hardness of his body and the tiles, moaning as she trembled with the delight of his touch. His kiss was one of madness, as if this was their last moment on earth, a kiss that was needed to sustain, to breathe, to exist. He kissed her hard, desperately, hungrily, leaving no room for air nor breath, nor time for thought, there was only the passionate possession of a man driven crazy by the desires he’d tried to master.
Finally surrendering to his body’s needs, he kissed her with all the evidence of that desire, ravaging her mouth then dropping lower, to her neck, teasing the skin there, his hands roaming the kaftan hungrily, his search for skin futile, denied by the length of the dress she wore so he growled and pulled at one of the straps, pushing it down just far enough to expose the top of her breast. He dropped his mouth there and sucked, a hand cupping her other breast, his fingers teasing her nipple as he marked her skin dark purple, pulling up with eyes that showed triumph, eyes that screamed, ‘Now, you’re mine’.
She shivered at the intensity of what they’d just done, of how completely it felt like a beginning and not an end, and of how desperately she needed more of this, and him.
Having always run from strong emotions, courtesy of her father, she felt them pummeling her now, from the inside, and from Anastasios, who physically reverberated with the strength of their desire.
He swore in Greek, dropping his head to the curve of her neck and inhaling, as if to bring himself back under control. She stood where she was, trembling, supported by his body and grateful for that strength, because without it, she might have spooled to a puddle on the floor.
When he separated, after a minute, he was himself again, calmly pulling his shirt over his head.
“Come on,kardia mou, they’ll come looking for us if we take any longer.”
“You go ahead,” she said, clearing her throat and smiling weakly. “I need another moment.”
More triumph lit his eyes but he nodded, dropping his head and kissing her once more, so she shivered. She waited for him to leave and then breathed out, flames licking the insides of her soul.
