HE KISSED HER before he could second-guess his intentions, before she could even realise what he was doing. He crashed his mouth to hers, lacing their fingers together behind her back, dragging her towards him, his tongue sliding into her mouth at first in a slow exploration and then a cataclysmically urgent conquest. He groaned against her mouth, deepening the kiss, ignoring the persistent voice in the back of his head telling him there were a thousand reasons he should have the common sense to resist her.
‘God, Santos.’ She tore her fingers through his hair, her kiss laced with hunger, and he responded in kind, pushing her underpants aside so he could brush his fingers over her sex, teasing her there as he kissed her so hard her head pressed to the wall. She whimpered in his mouth, whispered his name, the words disjointed by passion; and, right as he felt her tremors build up to an almighty crash, he pushed a finger inside her, relishing the sensation of her muscles, their tight spasms almost bringing him to his own deafening crescendo. Christos. He felt like a schoolboy again, incapable of even a shred of control.
Despite what he’d just told her, he didn’t actually make a habit of carrying condoms around his home. ‘We need to take this to my bedroom.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Through the house?’
He understood her hesitation. It was still early, but Chloe was probably awake. Leo too. ‘You’re right. Bad idea.’ He looked over his shoulder towards the pool house. Carrying Amelia wrapped around his waist, striding quickly, he shouldered open the door, placing her on the day bed in the middle of the room.
She looked so completely bemused and sexy, lying there with her dress hitched around her waist, that he despised the necessity of leaving her even for a minutes.
‘Stay here.’ The words were unintentionally curt. He softened them with a smile, though he suspected it too came out terse. ‘I’ll be right back.’
He moved through the house quickly, retrieving protection from his bedside table and stalking back through the lounge area onto the terrace. He had escaped being seen and he’d never been more glad of anything in his life.
He wanted to have sex with Amelia more than he’d ever wanted another woman. It made no sense, but a part of him wondered if his fascination with her would dull once they slept together.
She was sitting up when he returned, and when he strode in her eyes were awash with feeling. Christos, she’d changed her mind. He braced for it, staring at her, waiting for her to tell him to stop.
She stood up and walked towards him; he held his breath. ‘Well?’
Relief had him expelling all his breath in a rush, then grinning. His response was to kiss her, and at the same time to lift her dress from her body, pulling their lips apart for the shortest possible time, just long enough to drive it over her head... And then he was back, kissing her, running his hands over her soft skin, swiftly unclasping her bra, letting it drop to the floor so he could fully palm her beautiful breasts in his hands, no cotton in the way. She was slender, but her breasts were rounded, the perfect size for his hands. He felt their weight, delighted in the puckering of her nipples, the goose bumps that teased her skin. He lifted her again, feeling her legs around his waist, almost the most pleasurable thing he’d ever known.
He fell to the bed with her, his weight on top of hers, his kisses trailing down her body now, his mouth driven to taste every square inch of her. When he took each of her nipples into his mouth, she cried out frantically, throwing her head from side to side, her voice high-pitched, her cries reverberating around the pool house.
Her need for him was obvious and he was surprised by the strength of his own desires; they were tearing through him, demanding response. On the one hand he wanted to savour this, to delight in the feeling of teasing her, but on the other he just wanted to bury himself inside her. Just like the first time they’d kissed when despite the imperfection of that moment—the timing, the location—he had been desperate for her in a way that had driven all sense from his head. It was a miracle he remembered to draw the condom over his erection, his hardness aching at the touch, so desperate was he to fill her around him.
‘Christos.’ He buried his face in the space above her shoulder, his lips against the curtain of her dark hair, his breathing spasmodic. On autopilot he pushed his clothes from his body, impatience making his fingers catch in his zipper so that he cursed and then laughed unevenly. She was steadfastly watching him, her expression incomprehensible, her eyes fevered, her lips parted in a husky, silent invitation he couldn’t ignore. He kissed her, the weight of his desperation pressing her head back to the mattress and into its softness, his hands roaming her body, parting her legs so he could wedge himself between her. The tip of his arousal brushed her womanhood and he groaned, the anticipation of what this would feel like making his blood zip and hum.
‘Please!’ She arched her back, rolling her hips in an ancient, primitive invitation that he had no intention of ignoring. Another time, he might have drawn this out, teased her desire to an even greater fever pitch, but his own needs were there, making that impossible.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, the word simple, his arousal pushing between her legs. He had wanted her almost the first moment he saw her and that desire had only increased with every day that had since passed, so now that he was on top of her, poised to take her, he had no patience for a gentle coming together. He drove himself into her, releasing a guttural cry as impossibly tight muscles almost tormented him, almost rejected him. Beneath him her body stiffened and the tightness inside her gave way, the feeling unfamiliar to him at first, so he pushed up on his elbows to stare at her, a frown on his face. She was looking at him, her skin pale, her eyes not meeting his.
It couldn’t be... ‘Amelia?’ he demanded, knowing he should pull out of her but unable to make his body obey his brain’s commands just yet.
Her eyes, frustratingly, were shielded from his. He pressed a finger beneath her chin, wondering at the different emotional responses that were pounding him from the inside—a sense of betrayal chief amongst them, but even that wasn’t enough to dwarf the still-present longing for her.
‘Amelia?’
But colour was returning to her cheeks and she was moving her hips now, arching her back, his erection buried inside her, her own needs obvious. He watched her for a second and then groaned because, whether she’d been a virgin or not, she definitely wasn’t now, and desire was still threatening to engulf them.
He shifted his weight, pulling out of her a little so she lifted up higher, her eyes finding his at last. ‘Don’t stop.’
He was rarely surprised by anyone or anything but he was surprised now—and furious at himself for being so unable to read her. Looking back, there were myriad signs of her innocence, but he’d been too swept up in his own physical attraction to her. No; it wasn’t just that. She was a woman in her twenties—a schoolteacher, for Christ’s sake—why in the world would he assume she was a virgin?
How was that even possible?
‘We need to talk about this.’ The words were grunted from between snatched breaths—all that his raging blood made possible.
‘Later,’ she insisted, still moving her hips, so he made a noise of acquiescence and dropped his mouth to hers, kissing her once more, pulling out of her slowly and easing himself back into her depths; trying with all his might to be gentle and to avoid hurting her when he wanted to take her with all his strength. It commanded every shred of willpower he possessed, but he held himself back, making love to her in a way that was only a fraction of his usual intensity; needing her to enjoy her first time, constantly needing to remind himself that she wasn’t like him at all—this was all new to her.
Her muscles began to spasm around him, squeezing him hard, releasing then squeezing again, and her voice grew higher in pitch until she was saying his name over and over, the richness of his name in her plum British accent something he could listen to for ever. Later he would make her scream his name, when he took her just as he wanted, but for now...
The thought hit him from left field. Later? For now? There could be no ‘later’. She was a virgin. This was her first time having sex. Hell, for all he knew she was imagining this to be the beginning of something longer term, and he didn’t do longer term. But she knew that, didn’t she? So why the hell was she having sex with him now?
Frustration gnawed at his belly. Santos hated not having all the answers almost as much as he hated surprises and today she’d made him feel both. She’d also made him feel as though he were floating through heaven on a cloud but that didn’t matter. She’d lied to him. Not directly, but by omission; he wanted an explanation, and he swore to himself he’d get one.
‘Well,’ she said quietly when their breathing was more like normal. His weight on top of her was unexpectedly blissful, the roughness of his chest, his hairs there, pressing to her soft contours a new level of eroticism. Everything about this had been unexpected. She hadn’t spent much time thinking about sex. It wasn’t as though she’d had a reason to give it much consideration, having never really desired a man before. She understood the science behind it, and she’d obviously read books and seen films that featured sexual relationships, but nothing had prepared her for this.
Nothing.
Her body felt as though it had been pulled apart piece by piece and then reshaped gently, lovingly, into a whole new being. She sighed softly, stretched a little then stopped when the very movement threatened to dislodge him from her—she didn’t want that.
When he lifted his head above hers, though, his expression was like ice. His cheeks were still slashed with dark colour, the way they had been when passion had filled his veins, but his features were now trained into a mask of cool inquisition. ‘You were a virgin.’
It wasn’t a question so much as a statement. An accusation. She swallowed hard, a small frown forming a divot between her brows.
‘Yes.’ There was no sense in lying.
He nodded stiffly then shifted, pulling away from her so she was tempted to reach for him and draw him back. Only, when he stood, his spine, was ramrod-straight, tension emanating from him with every step he took. She watched as he strode across the room, disappearing for a few seconds before returning with a towel slung low around his hips, his eyes boring into her from across the room.
Feeling at a distinct disadvantage, she sat up and reached for the closest thing she could find, a blanket that was loose at the foot of the bed. She wrapped it around her shoulders and somehow managed to speak calmly when she next addressed him. ‘And you’re annoyed about that?’
Perturbation expressed itself in the flattening of his lips. ‘I don’t give a damn about your sexual history except for one point, Amelia. I don’t sleep with virgins.’
‘That feels like a form of sexual discrimination.’ She attempted a joke, but it fell flat. His mood was positively arctic and a shiver ran down her spine. Something like a stitch was gripping her heart, but a thousand times more painful than any she’d ever known.
‘I don’t want to date you.’ The words were like a whip on her spine. ‘I’m not interested in a relationship—with you or anyone. I’m the last man in the world you should have given your virginity to.’
The antiquated turn of phrase had her feminist hackles rising. ‘I didn’t “give” you anything,’ she snapped, then made an effort to grab hold of her temper. ‘We had sex—and you might not have known I was a virgin but I did.’
‘Exactly,’ he retorted decisively. ‘You knew and I should have known. You should have let me decide if I wanted to be your first lover.’
‘You make it sound like some great chore.’
‘It is a responsibility and it can bring with it expectations. Christos, Amelia, what were you thinking?’
The truth was, she hadn’t been thinking. It hadn’t really occurred to her that he might notice, let alone mind. ‘I just...’
But he was furious and it showed. ‘Do not make the mistake of thinking this means anything.’ He slashed his hand through the air. ‘Nothing about this changes what I wanted from you when we came in here.’
His words were cutting—deliberately so, she suspected—as though he was looking to hurt her as a way of demonstrating how ill-suited he was to be her first lover. How disinclined to offer any kind of tenderness.
And his assumption had her temper bursting through her, its ferocity a relief from the throbbing ache that was spreading in her blood—not a physical pain so much as one born of rejection and hurt. She’d known both those feelings often enough to recognise them now, and she knew that refuge lay in her temper, so she armed herself with it gladly, fixing him with a glare she hoped would pass for impatience.
‘You wanted to make love to me,’ she said darkly.
‘I wanted to have sex with you,’ he corrected.
She almost rolled her eyes. ‘And now that we’ve had sex you think I’m going to fall in love with you? Are you actually standing over there all terrified that I’m waiting for a proposal or something? Geez, Santos, I don’t have much experience with men but I’m twenty-four years old—I have a fair idea of how the world works.’
And now she gave into temptation and rolled her eyes, pushing off the bed while carefully keeping her blanket tucked around her shoulders. Her dress and underwear were in opposite directions. She prioritised her dress, scooping it off the floor then turning her back on him while she dragged it over her head, dropping the blanket as the dress fell into place before whirling around to find him staring at her with a small frown on his face.
He opened his mouth, about to say something, but she cut him off. ‘I wanted what you wanted. To have sex. And now I want nothing to do with you.’ Her glare was only slightly reduced in effect by the suspiciously moist layer over her eyes.
She held his gaze for two long seconds and then began to stride towards the door; she’d come back to find her underwear later. But when she was almost at the door he was galvanised into action, his fingers curling around her wrist, spinning her round and holding her still.
‘Damn it, Amelia, that’s not—’
‘What?’ A single tear slid down her cheek and she ground her teeth.
Hold it together.
‘I was anything but gentle with you. If I had known it was your first time—’
‘Then you’d have never slept with me,’ she snapped.
His eyes narrowed, his chest pushing out with the force of his breath. ‘So you chose not to tell me?’
‘I—no. I wasn’t thinking clearly.’
‘Damn straight. Did it occur to you that I wouldn’t want this—to be your first lover? Did it occur to you that I prefer to sleep with women who know what sex is all about?’
Hurt and mortification contorted her features. She angled her face away and when she answered him it was in a voice that was rich with hurt. ‘It didn’t occur to me that you’d notice. Or mind.’
His laugh lacked humour. ‘I’ve been with enough women to know the difference.’ She doubted he meant the words to hurt but they did. Her insides were still trembling with the force of his possession, pleasure still receding, and he was reminding her of how many conquests he’d had?
‘Yes, well, I was a virgin. I’m sorry you were disappointed, or whatever, but that wasn’t my intention.’ She yanked her wrist out of his grip, covering the slightly pink flesh with her fingertips, but not before his eyes had dropped to her wrist and observed the small marks there.
‘Before I came here you told me I’d barely see you,’ she said stiffly, moving to the door of the pool house. ‘I hope you honour that promise.’ Tilting her chin away from him, she turned her back and walked past the pool—even when she felt like running—and into the house. The sun had risen over Agrios Nisi but it breathed no light into Amelia.
He wasn’t conscious of how long he stayed in the pool house. He dressed slowly, his mind ticking over what had just happened. Something caught his eye; he reached down and lifted her underwear off the floor, stuffing it in his pocket. Knowing it was there sent something spiralling through him—an urgent wave of need that hadn’t been alleviated by their coming together.
How had she thought her virginity wouldn’t matter to him? Why hadn’t she realised it was something a man would want to know before having sex with a woman?
He stood at the foot of the bed, staring at it before sweeping his eyes closed and seeing Amelia—seeing her as she’d been in the throes of passion, and then in anguish afterwards, as he’d separated from her and hurled accusations at her until her eyes had gleamed and tears had moistened her beautiful, expressive eyes.
Christos.
The idea of being in a relationship with a woman was anathema to him and always had been. Not once had he questioned that. His father was blithely unaware of the true cost of his constant pursuit of ‘love’, but Santos wasn’t. Santos had seen the emotional consequences first hand—initially with his mother, who’d had to be hospitalised for severe depression after the divorce, and then in Nico’s subsequent wives. Each of them had suffered at the hands of his father and Santos had promised he would never be like him.
He enjoyed the company of women, and he loved sex, but sex was easy to control—it was an exchange, no different from the kind of commercially motivated deals he made every day. True, there was no exchange of money, just satisfaction, but the parameters were as inviolable as if a contract had been formed. Santos offered a good time in bed. Full stop. The end. There were no gifts, no promises, no damned romance that went beyond a drink in a bar, and only then as a precursor to a night of passion.
He didn’t swap life stories with these women but on some level, he was always careful. Finely honed business skills served him well in his private life; it was impossible to switch those traits off. He never slept with a woman who didn’t fit the mould he sought—a woman who was sophisticated and experienced, who understood what he wanted and was happy to oblige. He was, ordinarily, painfully careful to not take any woman to bed who didn’t share his view on relationships.
A virgin? Christos. Even with what Amelia had said, the derisive way she’d scoffed at the very idea of waiting for a marriage proposal, it didn’t change the fact that someone’s virginity should mean something. Her first time should have involved more than a quick lay in the pool house, for God’s sake. Surely she could see that? So why the hell had she come here with him? Why hadn’t she told him, so he could at least have been gentle with her?
He ground his teeth together, all the ‘what ifs’ in the world not changing the facts.
He’d slept with her; he was her first lover. And he’d hurt her. Not physically, necessarily—though, hell, he’d taken no effort to ease her into it; he’d simply driven into her, removing the barrier of her innocence and making her completely his.
More than that, he’d hurt her with his behaviour afterwards. He’d been angry and, though he’d had every right to feel that, he should have exercised more control, keeping a grip on his feelings in deference to hers.
He hadn’t. He’d said everything he’d thought and witnessed the ramifications of that. The way she’d looked away from him when he’d told her he was used to lovers who knew what sex was about! Talk about offensive and insensitive.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply; the room smelled like her.
Thialo. He’d hurt her. Amelia had been wrong not to tell him the truth, but she was still Amelia. Kind, generous Amelia who’d come to his house to beg him to be a better father to Cameron. And she deserved better than this—his mistreatment and now his disdain. With a dip of his head he moved out of the cabana, cutting across the terrace and moving through the house, taking the steps two at a time.
He knocked on her bedroom door; there was no answer. He hesitated only a moment, figuring he’d already crossed a line with her, before pushing into her room. It was empty. A second later he heard the shower running and something punched at his gut: it was as if she couldn’t wait to wash him off her.
That stoked his masculine pride. If he’d been less in control of his impulses he might have pulled the shower door open and joined her, whispering against her flesh that he wanted to show her what her first time should have been like.
He didn’t.
Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed and he waited. He hated that he’d hurt her, but not because Amelia meant anything to him. This was his own code of honour, one he’d sworn to uphold, and for the first time in his adult life he’d done something that didn’t sit well within the bounds of that. He’d fix it, and then move on.
Easy.