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Phoebe began to shake all over, and all she could do was watch, as Anastasios moved to the bronze statue and lifted it in his palm, staring at it in shock.
“Did he give this to you?”
Goosebumps lifted across her skin, but she wasn’t afraid. Her father had taught her about violence and abuse, and she could tell the difference between anger and violent rage.
“Yes,” because, why lie?
“This was my sister’s.”
The words were raw. Sympathy swallowed Phoebe. “I know.”
He swore under his breath. “He told you about her?”
“Yes.”
He cursed then, in Greek. “He loved you.”
Phoebe’s heart soared, because she really, really hoped that was true. But she wisely said nothing of that to this man.
“I told you, we were friends.”
“My father didn’t speak about Val. Ever. It was as though she’d been erased from the family for him.”
“I think he felt—,”
“Don’t.”
And now Anastasios was moving closer to her, closing the distance between them, staring down at her with a wild mix of emotions tangling in his eyes. “Don’t tell me how my father felt. I knew him. All my life. I’m his oldest son and you’re—,”
“His friend,” she supplied, meeting his gaze head on, refusing to be cowered by his proximity and obvious physical strength.
“Damn you,” he groaned, but he stayed where he was, so close, and something sparked in the air around them, so Phoebe’s senses kicked into overdrive and the anger she’d been feeling, the frustration, changed gear, and unfamiliar sensations throttled her, rolling her, making it hard to breathe, impossible to think.
“Anastasios,” she said helplessly, needing him to rescue her, to help her at least, to control this situation that was threatening to burn wildly out of control.
“You are far too beautiful,” he said with condemnation, but he didn’t pull back, and nor did she. In fact, she leaned closer, or perhaps he did, because a moment later, their bodies were cleaved together and each ragged breath she drew forced them together.
Hell.
“How can this be happening?” He asked, fiercely, angrily, but an anger that was directed all at himself.
“What?” She looked up, losing herself in the depths of his eyes.
His answer was to swoop down and kiss her, claiming her mouth with the desperate hunger of a starving man, his lips parting hers, his tongue pushing into her mouth, punishing her at first then slowing, deepening into addictive inspection, understanding, need.
She groaned, because it was the kind of kiss stories were written about, filled with everything a person was capable of feeling. They were both grieving and hurt, both angry and frustrated, and somehow that had bubbled over to form the most compelling, urgent sense of need Phoebe had ever experienced.
She tangled her hands in his shirtfront, needing—something. More. Everything.
“Damn you,” he groaned into her mouth, as he pushed her back against the wall, propping one thigh between her legs, and she cried out at how good that felt. Her pulse was going crazy, her mind in overdrive. Pleasure spun through her, but it wasn’t enough.
Common sense was demanding that she stop, that she take a moment to think about what was happening but Phoebe couldn’t listen to that voice. She could do nothing but feel.
Even when his hand skimmed her sides, lifting the t-shirt she wore, to reveal her naked torso, she did nothing but shiver, because some strange compulsion was driving her, and when he lifted her around the waist, holding her to him, she said nothing. He carried her into the only other room—where a narrow single bed was pressed up against a window.
“It’ll do,” he muttered, dropping her unceremoniously onto the bed and bringing his body over hers immediately, seeking her lips, so the fires in her veins exploded into lava streams and her hands were pushing wildly at his clothes, some ancient, feral rhythm driving her every movement. This defied sense and logic, but she didn’t care.
His chest bare, she stared at him for as long as she dared, unable to process the perfection of his ridged abdomen.
