“It was just so impulsive, I just…”
“Just what….” He drags his thumb over mine, his smile fading a little, his golden eyes both penetrating and coaxing.
He trails his thumb into my palm as he waits for my reply.
A million sparks rush up my arms and back.
I feel so awake when I’m close to him and also so completely uneven. It’s as if he literally rocks my world, and it’s hard to find my footing when he’s near.
He’s staring at me again, so I tuck my hand away and nervously bite on my lip.
Christos is a shark for business but he’s a shark for everything he does as well. He has so much more mileage than me, even in relationships. I’ve never had a real one before.
It seems so easy for him to reach out and take my hand in his again, squeeze me tight.
My heart feels like it grows about ten sizes in my chest as I let the feeling sink in, let myself enjoy it.
There’s a reward in simple things like letting him hold my hand, here in New York, where so many other people walk past us, unaware of this being the first time I do this. The only guy that’s ever made me want to be with someone. With him.
“Christos, I want you to know that…I’m not playing games here. I know it may seem like that because I’ve been scared, but I’m not interested in some fling.”
“I’m not planning on this being a fling. I’m dead serious about you, Bryn.” He looks at me soberly, and I swallow with emotion and nod, relieved that he feels like this.
“So no other man for you? Ever?”
“No. I mean I dated for some time, but nothing serious. Not really.”
“I can’t believe all those idiots let you slip by.”
I laugh. “There’s not many of them, really. I know I seem extroverted but I’m more introvert, I’m drained around too many people. I used to think I’d be more extroverted when I grew up, but I find the opposite is actually true.” I glance at his thoughtful profile. “What about you, do you find you’re more open to friendships as you get older?” I say.
He shrugs. “Not really,” he finally says. “There are friends, then there are acquaintances. I can count the former with the fingers of one hand.” He shoots me a smile.
The wind blows through his sexy hair. I’m acutely aware of every inch of his body walking next to mine. Of everything about him. It’s never been like this for me, ever. It shouldn’t be like this with him, and not now. But it is; and it’s difficult to put a name to the things he makes me feel.
We continue walking. Talking.
“I’m not the kind of guy that trusts people easily. I keep my circle tight and to only a few.”
“And Cole?”
“I suppose Cole is more open to socializing. He wasn’t the one who took care of our mother as closely. When she passed, in a way my being the eldest made me feel responsible for not only myself, but for him too.”
“His father figure, so to speak.”
“Yeah, well. Without a dad for your whole life, someone needs to step into the role.”
I eye him. “Do you miss her? Your mom?”
“I do. But I’d seen her suffer long enough that I know she’s in a better place now.”
We fall silent for a while.
“I was obsessed with death in my college days,” I tell him.
“Why?” He seems shocked.
“Because of my parents…when they left on their trip, I never expected I’d be saying goodbye for the last time. Then I get a call from my Aunt Cecile, and she was crying so hard, she could hardly speak.” I trail off and Christos’s eyes shadow.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“I’m sorry too.” I swallow. “Did I ever thank you for the flowers?”
“Thank me later,” he says wickedly.
“Come on, you’re so not getting laid because of flowers.”
His eyes darken. He shoots me a look.
“You’re getting laid for other reasons,” I add, tongue-in-cheek.
He slips his hand into my waistband and caresses the skin on the back of my spine.
“I was pretty fucked up for the next few months,” I admit. “I kept thinking my time was coming too. I kept waiting for it to happen. It was only when I turned 21 that I finally felt like I should do something with my life and stop waiting. Because it might be a long time coming.” I laugh, but sober up to add, “My Aunt Cecile died shortly after. It was hard not to fall back into my grief.”
He studies me with a small smile. “So are you a hypochondriac or what?”
“No! I mean. No. It just hits you hard.” I lean back and sigh. “I read this book, Remembrance, by Jude Deveraux, about reincarnation and how we come back over and over and find our loved ones again, so I felt better about that. Like when I met you in high school. I would bet anything that I knew you before in another life.”
“Who was I?”
I smile shyly, feeling his amused gaze on my profile and somehow in my heart. “Someone crucial.”
“What? Like your brother?”
“No! You know what.” I snicker.
He smiles seductively, stares straight ahead, then at me. “I think knowing all this ends makes it even better, makes every moment count more. Right now this second,” he snaps his finger, “just gone.”
“Way to kill my enjoyment right now, Christos!”
He drapes his arm around me and we walk, laughing.
It seems natural that I press into his embrace, my whole body craving his body heat.
“Tell me something about you,” I say.
“What do you want to know?”
“How you came to New York.”
“I don’t know. I suppose it made sense. I was making millions, and I wanted to exponentially grow. I played with stocks, and real estate was big for me. There’s no more expensive real estate in the country than Manhattan. Might as well do something before I die,” he teases me.
I frown and slap his arm playfully. “You’re not nice.”
“I’ve never been nice. Isn’t that why you never went for me, bit?”
Flushing the color of sundried tomatoes, I look away and change the subject. “I was afraid you were…well, someone crucial,” I say, and his eyes are laughing as he stares down at me.
“I don’t regret that I waited,” I blurt out.
“You can’t mean that.”
“I do. Otherwise all this…I’d be missing out on all this. Tonight.”
“You’re enjoying tonight?”
“You have no idea,” I admit, sliding my hand up his wrist and then back down, into his.
“I’m sorry about your mom. I can tell you still miss her. It makes me want to…hug you.”
“Huh?” he asks, puzzled about what I mean.
Impulsively, I reach out, and Christos lets me press his face to my chest and envelop him in a hug. He turns his head, between my breasts, and leaves it there, shaking. Oh God, is he crying? I peer down. He’s laughing.
The bastard is laughing.
“I can get used to this,” he mumbles, sliding his hands around my waist.
“You pervert. I’m trying to give you the hug I wanted to give you every time I thought of your mom sick and dying and you taking care of her, juggling school and a job, all at once.”
We’re smiling when we straighten.
“It’s okay. I mean, it hurts, but it’s okay.” He stops smiling and his eyes are a little shadowed and tender as he looks down at me. “You’re sweet. Smart, funny. Unique. I think the one who needs a hug is you.”
“Why?”
“You’re like a four-year-old, why? Because I say so?” he smirks.
He grabs me by the back of the neck and pulls me into his arms. Seriously, being enveloped by these thick arms feels too good.
I love how playful he is being with me right now. How easy it is to talk to him. To tell him things.
We head to his apartment with his hand still on the back of my neck, pressing me to his sid
e. I’m warm all over by the time we head inside and grab wine and snacks.
“So when did you get the idea for House of Sass?” he asks.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. I settle down on one of the couches while he drops a few inches away on the same couch and pours wine for us. “I guess a few years after my parents died, after my Aunt Cecile died, and I dropped out of college. I’m drawn to things you can physically touch. I didn’t consider getting into the tech side of the business until you asked me to make it bigger.”
He hands me a glass of wine. “Tech has been big for years, and I see it continuing to be.”
“I really like the fact that we’ll have both—a physical store but a virtual advisor. I suppose I was anti-tech for a time simply because I read a study which predicted that, in our future, many of our experiences would be virtual, and what’s the fun in that? I mean, a virtual kiss is not like a real one, you’re kissing air.”
“That’d be a business I’d go for, a virtual experience where you can smell the person you love, touch them, or at least trick your brain into thinking you’re with them.”
“But you aren’t and you will always know that you aren’t,” I contradict.
He sets down his wine glass. I can tell by the mischievous gleam and the challenging lift of his eyebrow he sends my way that he’s up to something. He lifts the lid of a small ivory-encrusted box on the coffee table, and extracts something silver. “Let’s try it out. Close your eyes.”
“What?”
He waits—obviously expecting me to hop to do his bidding. I’m tempted to ignore him, except there’s that glint in his eye of pure mischief and I want to know what is causing it. So I close my eyes, smiling, and feel the barest brush over my cheeks. “Am I touching you or not?” he rasps.
“What?” The flutters in my heart caused by the touch on my cheek is proving too distracting.
“Is this my touch, or is it the tip of this pen?” he asks again.
I inhale, keeping my eyes shut as I concentrate on the feeling. His scent is too close; I can’t concentrate really. He smells like my high school years, like my most secret wishes, and like a dream. Inhaling one good whiff, I exhale it reluctantly. “It’s your finger,” I finally say.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because!” I cry in exasperation. “You’re the selfish, possessive type, you wouldn’t give a pen the pleasure of doing something you want to do.”
Amusement laces his voice as I try to open my eyes, and he runs the tips of two fingers over my eyelids to urge them back shut. Close to my ear, he says, “Newsflash, little bit. The pen has no feelings or pleasure, whereas I do, I’ll give you that. Which finger?”
“I don’t know. Don’t mindfuck me.” I exhale exasperatedly, my eyes still closed as I try to concentrate on the feeling. “It’s your pinky.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Positive?”
“Yes. Wait…it’s your middle finger.”
“Open your eyes.”
I look down and spot his pinky, then feel my stomach burn with wanting him to keep touching me, and to hide my reaction, I laugh.
“Your instinct was spot on,” he says.
“Then I blew it. Now me.” I reach out for the pen. “Okay, so close your eyes.”
He does.
I look at him, trying to determine where to touch him and with what. I pause and just look at him. I can’t take the heavy feeling I get in my chest, like there’s a giant pressing his foot on my ribcage.
God, he’s so gorgeous. I’m just having the time of my life with him tonight. It was always easy to talk to him, I always craved his company, but it was hard to endure it without feeling all these same things I’m feeling now.
I’m older now, a little less scared of them, a little more curious about them to fear leaping in…so here I am, gazing at his chiseled face, his strong features, his nose, his forehead, and his full plump lips, and even the blond tips of his eyelashes resting against his cheekbones.
I lean over, and press my thumb to his lips—like he did once—and then I press my lips to my thumb and ease my thumb downward so that my lips are touching, intimately pressing, against his full, perfect mouth.
So yeah, I kiss him—a peck on his mouth, feeling happy, carefree, light.
Maybe high on the enjoyable evening.
As I ease back, he opens his eyes. So do I.
He clenches his jaw, cups my face, and opens my mouth, tilting my head to kiss me harder.
“I need to pee,” I say, and I giggle-groan when I realize I said that out loud.
I leap to my feet in my urgency.
He chuckles and shakes his head, his eyes raking me, head to toe.
I head into the guest bedroom, do my thing, then I step out to the large sink area and wash my hands. My gaze is trapped by the view outside the bedroom. I feel him approach like a tension pulling at my belly.
“Come to bed, bit,” he whispers in my ear as he drapes the shoulder of my dress an inch down my arm. “My bed,” he specifies, kissing the round curve of my shoulder.
He turns me to face him with one hand, and I’m breathless when I see the look in his eyes as he leads me there.
He releases me inside his bedroom, walks to pull the curtains closed, then slowly turns to watch me stand in the middle of the room. I’m so nervous and yet so eager I can’t breathe right.
“Come here.”
I do, because he asks and because I want to, very much.
He pulls me close.
“You’re driving me crazy, you know,” he says, his voice so sexy and husky.
“I know. You do the same to me. You’re a mirror.”
“Am I? Can you see how gorgeous you are to me in the way I look at you, huh?”
I can’t get enough of his looks actually, but I can’t talk.
“Can you see how much I want you, bit?”
He strokes a hand down my side. My body has never responded like this to any sort of stimuli, living or not.
The first time he tried to kiss me I was afraid and yet so excited about it, I tossed and turned all night, picturing what it would have felt like and what he would have tasted like. Well, he tastes like rain and cinnamon and mint. I’m surprised how delicious the combination is.
I lean closer. My nipples hardened like pearls. I meant to only kiss him like we did the last time, but his hand goes to my breasts, cupping one gently as he holds my face in his other hand and kisses me some more. I’m shivering, and I don’t know why because I’m not one bit cold. My walls are down, my fears are gone, my reservations gone. Nothing remains but his touch and his mouth, and when he steps back to look at me—just his eyes remain. Gold-green, endless, and fiery with protectiveness, possessiveness, and lust.
There is nothing else but here, this room. The feelings. The sounds.
I’m shaken.
Chasing my breasts in and out.
What is this?
I don’t know but I know I shouldn’t be scared anymore.
I know that he knows I want something that could possibly lead to more. That he is the man I could see myself having more with.
I want it so bad—more more more—I tremble for it.
He strokes his hand down my sides.
I stand here, shivering. Already his, in most every sense. Listening to the hush of his silence and touch.
I stare at his figure in the blackness.
Among all the shadows, the dark, living substance of him.
Strong, highly vibrant and alive.
I inhale and his scent pours into me.
His eyes watching me.
I’ve never seen a darker green, darker gold, darker look in him.
“Hold me,” I whisper. His arms come around me.
Memories bubble up, of him.
Carrying boxes for me at Kelly’s.
Chasing some guys who were trying to catch my attention at the cafeteria.
Looking at me wh
en I visited the shop.
Looking at me as I left school, as I arrived at school, in the halls.
And me…thinking of him, almost too much.
Christos is looking at me now, my body still dressed but somehow my soul completely bared to him.
Christos pulls down my dress and exposes my breasts, his hand guiding it down my hips and farther down, still, to pool at my ankles. He eases my bra off, and cups me in his hand and sucks my puckered nipples, and I reach out and stroke his hardness over his slacks.
We don’t kiss on the mouth. I don’t know if it’s to avoid any more intimacy or to enjoy the feeling of the touches—everything so intense, building and building as his fingers trail over my bare skin.
He starts kissing my mouth, all while he removes his shirt, unfastens his pants, and sheaths himself. His cock suddenly presses to my entrance —and then he’s lowering me down on the carpet and pressing in.
I’m so full I can’t breathe for a few seconds.
And still, I want more of what he is. What he has. Of him.
I hum deep in my throat as he moves in me, stretching me to the limit, filling me to the hilt. I feel the muscles of his back bunch up under my fingers.
He licks my throat and rises up to his elbows and watches me; his eyes are wickedly dark and sexual as he drags his hand down my sides and squeezes my ass, pulling me up to take all of him.
We’re starting to move out of control, faster and faster, my nails in his back, and his mouth everywhere. He whispers something against the tip of one of my breasts, but I can’t make it out over the harsh sounds of my own breathing.
He’s mounting me, moving in me, and this is how I want to burn, for him to burn with me.
Raw and primal and physical.
We’re moving, making mating sounds, sounds of heat and lust.
He pulls out and then back in, and I arch my back and raise my hips and roll my head side to side as the pleasure keeps building. He grabs my hips and takes what I so willingly offer, driving into me with the most delicious, measured but really hard and fast thrusts.
I take him in me and he takes me. I don’t know who takes and who gives here. But Christos is taking me and giving me all I want, even as he takes my everything away from me.
He says words that are hot. Wicked. Wicked Miss Kelly.