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"Greek, like my family," he growls in a deep, sexy tone that goes straight to my core.
My fingers slip and it takes two tries to get the code into the keypad and my apartment door unlocked. I don't remember ever being this hot. Desire runs through my veins like lava.
Is it because it's been so long since I had sex? I'm not like this though. My vagina keeps clenching and it feels empty.
Sex is fun, but it's not necessary.
At least that's what I've told myself for the past five years. It's how I thought of it before my husband was killed in the war over territory in Detroit. I don't want to think about Tino right now, or my life before I came to Oregon.
I am a new woman and apparently my body got the memo. Because I want this man who uses Greek endearments and makes my heart race in my chest. Enough to leave the club in the hands of my employees and bring him into my personal sanctuary.
I don't bring strange men home. I don't bring men home at all. I don't even invite my friends over, but this man? I want him here. In my bed.
Is it because I'm finally realizing my dreams? Have my body and mind slipped the tight leash of relentless work and effort of the last five years?
He shoves the door open and pushes me inside. His roughness doesn't make me nervous. It turns me on. But then I was once married to a mafia soldier. Normal men don't scare me.
This one though. He is something else. He wouldn't even be intimidated by the don.
Kicking the door shut behind him, he starts unbuttoning his shirt. "Do you like that dress?"
"Yes."
"Then take it off before I rip it from your body." There is no teasing in his blue gaze, merely intent.
I'm so freakin' aroused right now. My panties are soaked, and I can feel slick wetness where my thighs rub together.
Reaching behind me, I undo the zip and then pull the dress off, leaving me in the red lace panties and matching bra I never expected anyone else to ever see. Lingerie has been a private indulgence since I ran from Michigan with my brother-in-law. The single reminder that I am still a woman, not just a nightclub owner earning money to support the last living member of my family.
Those blue eyes heat, burning over my body like a physical touch. "You are fucking beautiful."
I feel beautiful with his gaze on me. Sexy.
"Your turn."
His shirt is unbuttoned, giving me a glimpse of his sculpted chest, but that's as far as he's gotten. Shrugging out of his shirt, he reveals the rest of the chiseled perfection of his arms and chest. He has tattoos. Lots and lots of tattoos.
His right arm has a full sleeve of monochromatic images inked into his skin. A snarling three headed dog guards his heart. Under it is something written in Greek letters.
I had no idea I found body art such a turn on. Does he have ink on his back?
Wanting to know, I ask, "Can I see your back?"
He gives me a smoldering glance and then turns around. His entire back is covered with a tattoo so detailed, it looks real. A Spartan warrior stands victorious over a dead bear with a sword sticking out of it and rivulets of blood running from the wound.
The blood looks wet; the warrior's muscles almost ripple.
Unable to stop myself, I step forward, my hand outstretched to touch.
Something about the Spartan feels familiar.
The only facial features showing behind the Corinthian helmet are the warrior's eyes, mouth and chin. The eyes are the same blue as the man on whose back I'm ogling. The lips and jaw are the same shape too.
"It's you," I say.
"Yes."
My fingertips trace the tattoo, and I discover small ridges under the colorful ink. Scars?
