The Athena was bigger than Honey had remembered. And the sleeping quarters seemed smaller.
She stepped into them and had a flashback series of memories of that one night that distressed her deeply, for if she lived to be an old, old, woman, she would never forget them, and she would try. Yes, she would try. She shook her head, attempting to shove the memories away into a tidy corner of her mind.
She glanced at the wall across from the porthole and noticed the cot that had been made up for Effie. Well, thank God she would have company. The trip was going to be miserable enough without someone to visit with.
Conflicting sensations pummeled her like pinpricks and she was filled with too much nervous energy to sit. She went to the porthole and looked out at the Athens skyline, her gaze automatically pulled to the majestic but crumbling Acropolis. She wondered when she would see that site again; Crete was located farther away than any other of the Greek islands, and she couldn’t return to visit whenever she wanted to.
She shoved away a pang of regret, trying not to think about her future. Her thoughts automatically went to Nick Stamos.
She reflected on their first formal meeting; he’d kissed her hand, then he’d suggestively stroked her palm with his thumb. Or had it been unintentional? And then, of course, he’d annoyed her further by staying and visiting with her father. She was certain he’d done it on purpose, just to vex her.
Exasperated, she turned from the porthole and studied the bed, memories returning. She vividly recalled watching as he stripped off his shirt. Her reaction to him had been so disquieting, she’d gasped.
She stepped to the bed and sat; her gaze caught a stash of books piled on a small shelf under the night table. She reached over and pulled off the top one, her brow puckering with curiosity as she read the contents: Greek, Roman and Indian statuary.
She paged through it, noting that most female statues were modestly covered and posed. The male statuary, on the other hand, was blatantly sexual. One picture, inscribed to be a Barberini Satyr, showed a satyr lying exhausted, perhaps sated, his legs spread to expose his genitals.
Feeling guilty, she glanced at the door before she took another book. She leafed through it, taken aback at the contents. Men and women, naked, not simply posing, but doing things with each other that she had never imagined!
She turned a page and there, blatant as rain, was an orgy scene that nearly rattled her senseless: Women taking men into their mouths, men with their faces between the women’s legs. It was shocking! Common decency screamed for her to replace the book on the stack. Curiosity was stronger.
Swallowing hard, Honey read what someone—Nick Stamos, perhaps?—had written at the bottom: “This orgy scene represents a list of sexual actions, from fellatio to cunnilingus to vaginal intercourse—proving positively that there is nothing new under the sun.”
She was stunned to read that the painting, which was on a cup, was supposedly done five hundred years before Christ!
While that picture was scandalous enough, the next one made her gasp aloud. It pictured two Japanese women preparing to engage in sex. Two women!
Honey tossed another quick glance at the door. Heaven forbid that either Effie or Mr. Stamos should come in and find her drooling over pornography.
She studied one of the women, whose hand clasped an enormous contraption that was strapped around her partner’s waist. The waiting woman appeared eager, enthusiastic even, for her legs were open and her nether lips were swollen with excitement. The dusting of dark pubic hair surrounding her vulva lent an air of lusciousness to the unfolding scene, and although the picture was probably meant to titillate a man, it sent the intended message low into Honey’s belly.
“Shocking, isn’t it?”
She jumped; she hadn’t heard him enter. “I…it…” She turned and stared at him, hoping she hadn’t exposed her interest in the erotic pictures, but her cheeks were hot. “Do people actually do these things, or are they made up from an artist’s sordid imagination?”
“It’s merely art, Miss DeHaviland, nothing more.”
She brought her hand to her chest and fidgeted with the bodice of her blouse. “To you, perhaps, but I have never seen anything quite so obscene.”
“From the looks of you, I’d say you find obscenity titillating.”
She flushed further and demurely glanced away.
He sat down beside her on the bed, took the book from her and studied the page. “Ah, so this is what has got you so riled.”
Rather than trying to excuse herself, she said, “I simply don’t understand it, that’s all.”
He pointed to the oversized contraption strapped to the woman’s waist. “This is a dildo, Miss DeHaviland, and women have been strapping them on for thousands of years.”
She tried to retain her dignity, which wasn’t easy. “But, why would they need to?”
He studied her. “You do realize that there are women who want nothing to do with men, in bed, that is.”
“Of course,” she snapped. “I’ve read about them. I believe they are called lesbians. But I didn’t even think about how they…” Her voice trailed off. She looked at the picture again, trying desperately to stifle the shudder of desire that rose within her. It was lusty, unorthodox, and totally improper. And she couldn’t tear her eyes from it.
“Many women, lesbians or not, find sexual stimulation in having something, whether a real penis or a fabricated one, inside them. For some, like lesbians, a dildo is especially useful because there isn’t a burdensome man attached to it.”
The humor in his voice caused her to look up at him. “You sound as if you know quite a lot on the subject.”
He flipped casually through the book. “I began studying ancient art at Harvard. It wasn’t until I’d graduated that I discovered the wealth of erotica that is available, if one wants to find it.”
More curious still, she reached over and paged back to the orgy scene. “This,” she began, pointing to the figure of the woman with the man’s penis in her mouth. “Does this sort of action have a name?”
“It’s called fellatio.”
She took a quiet breath. “What does it mean?”
“Loosely, I believe it’s Latin for ‘suck’.”
The word ‘suck’ had never sounded so improper before. “But is that what a man enjoys, having a woman do that to him?”
He smiled his wicked, addictive smile again, his eyes dark and hot. “Oh, yes.”
Her cheeks continued to burn. “What does it feel like, and why is it better than…well, the regular way?” Oh, God. She should simply drop the subject. “I’m sorry, forget I asked. It isn’t important, and it doesn’t matter.”
“No, it’s all right. I appreciate a woman who isn’t afraid to ask questions.”
She stood and paced the room. “Of course I’m not afraid to ask questions.” She simply didn’t realize that she was interested in the subject.
“The mouth is very versatile, Miss DeHaviland. It can do many things that are not possible to do otherwise.”
“You mean, when giving a man pleasure.”
“A woman’s mouth and tongue can send a man into ecstasy,” he admitted.
“In other words, the woman does all the work, and the man gets all the pleasure.”
He laughed, startling her, for she had not heard him laugh out loud before. It was a hearty sound, one that came from someone who enjoyed a lusty life. Somehow she hadn’t pictured him that way, although after what they had shared, she shouldn’t have been surprised.
He turned the page. “Read on.”
She returned to the bed and studied the picture, her flush spreading. “And I suppose there’s a name for this as well?”
“Cunnilingus, meaning ‘one who licks the vulva’.”
Hearing the words made her uncomfortable; this entire conversation was ludicrous, at best. Yet, she couldn’t stop herself from continuing it. “I’m not completely naïve, Mr. Stamos, but do women actually allow men to do that to them, and if they do, can they really get pleasure from it?”
He gave her an innocent look. “Well, I don’t know. Should we give it a go?”
She dropped her gaze, knowing she was in way over her head. “You’re teasing me.”
He was quiet a moment then said, “Not necessarily.”
She hastily dropped the book on the bed; it opened to a page depicting a statue of a short man with an astonishingly large penis, sitting with his hands braced behind him. It was almost comedic.
“That looks ridiculous,” she murmured, trying to lend some propriety to the subject.
“It does, doesn’t it?”
“Are men really so obsessed with their size?”
“Indeed. At one time even I assumed that because my penis was large, I could satisfy a woman without much effort.”
Her stomach did a bit of a flip. Ah, yes. She remembered his size. “And, size doesn’t matter?”
He shook his head. “Even a small penis can stimulate the clitoris enough to bring a woman pleasure, if she’s willing to give herself up to that pleasure, and if he’s patient, skilled and understanding.
“But here,” he said, turning the page. “Men dream on, as you can see.”
Honey looked at a watercolor depicting a contest in which the winner’s penis was so large, it required four men to pull the cart on which it rested. The winner, looking worried, carried a fan, presumably to make sure his penis didn’t overheat and burst into flame.
Honey laughed, and then put her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s quite amusing.”
“As it’s supposed to be,” he assured her.
They studied one another now; Honey was the first to look away.
He closed the book and stood up straight. “Will you be comfortable in here?”
She nodded. “Thank you. It will be fine, I’m sure. Good evening.”
He turned at the door. “Cosmos will bring you and your maid some dinner once we’re on our way.”
Cosmos was Nick Stamos’ uncle, she had learned, and the only other passenger on board. A barrel-chested man with an enormous black mustache hanging over his lips, he had given her a wide, toothy grin when she boarded, then had winked at her. Not really in a lascivious way, but rather like they shared a secret.
“We’re to eat alone?” she asked without stopping to think.
His expression was innocent. “I thought you would prefer that, Miss DeHaviland. Since you’re so anxious to get to Crete, it wouldn’t do to have me, the captain, lollygagging at mealtime when we could be sailing swiftly toward your beloved.”
She watched him dip his head as he went out, and she had the strangest urge to throw something at the door.
Effie straightened the clothes in Honey’s trunk, her head down as though the work were somehow taxing.
“What’s wrong, Effie?”
The maid cast Honey a sidelong glance, but said nothing.
Honey gave up an exasperated sigh. “If this is how it’s to be all the way to Crete, we’ll both die of boredom.”
“He’s a dangerous man.”
“Who?”
“You know who,” Effie accused.
Yes, Honey knew. She’d been studying her feelings ever since he’d left her, knowing she should never have encouraged him to explain things to her the way he had. She had no idea what he truly thought of her.
First, she let him make love to her, then she nearly shoved him off their property for fear he might say something to alert her father to her behavior the night before, and then she allowed him to explain sexual terms that no lady should hear, much less gaze upon pictures of such things. She certainly had not acted proper in any instance.
“What makes you think he’s dangerous?” she finally asked.
Effie turned and stood. “In here,” she said, pointing to her eyes. “I see intelligence in his eyes.”
Honey began to undress for bed. “I hardly think that just because a man is intelligent, he’s dangerous.”
Effie spat a guttural Greek curse. “You are not thinking with your head; you’re thinking with this.” She pointed at her crotch.
Honey winced, for Effie could often be indelicate. “Truthfully, I hardly think of him at all.”
Effie snorted. “Don’t lie to me.” She made a face and held her stomach.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Effie leaned against the wall. “I don’t feel so very good.”
“It couldn’t have been supper; we ate the same things.” Honey hurriedly slipped into her nightgown, went to her maid and touched her face. “You’re cold and clammy.”
Effie pushed her hand away and stumbled toward the door. She threw it open and raced topside, toward the railing.
Honey could hear her retching. She hurried after her and gripped her maid around the waist. “Oh, you poor dear.”
Suddenly Nick Stamos was at her side. “What’s wrong?”
Honey rubbed Effie’s back. “I’m not sure. Either it was something she ate, or she’s seasick.”
“Mal de mer.”
Effie raised her head and looked at Honey, her expression grim and her coloring surprisingly pale. “I hate boats.”
“Oh, dear thing,” Honey sympathized. “But we aren’t even moving right now, Effie.” They had pulled into a cove of one of the minor islands; it was risky attempting to sail at night.
Effie returned to the railing, leaning against it, her head over the side.
“It’s the movement of the vessel,” Nick said. “Here, let me help her get back to bed.”
Honey allowed him to take Effie into his arms and return her to their cabin. Once inside, he moved toward the cot.
“No, wait,” Honey said. “Put her in the bed.”
He turned and studied her. “Where will you sleep?”
“I’ll take the cot. Poor thing should have some comforts if she’s going to be ill tonight.”
He laid Effie on the bed and pulled the covers over her. “She won’t be ill just tonight. She will undoubtedly be sick a good share of the trip.”
“Oh, I certainly hope not,” Honey said. For Effie’s sake as well as her own, Honey needed the woman’s company. If she didn’t have it, she might be tempted to seek out Nick’s, and that wouldn’t do.
He stopped at the door. “If she gets worse, come and get me. Either Cosmos or I can spell you so you can get some rest.”
Once she was alone with Effie, Honey crawled into the cot and tried to sleep. The boat did, indeed, sway, but for Honey it was soothing, rather like rocking in a rocking chair.
But she couldn’t sleep.
She slid from the cot, found her robe and shrugged into it, tying the belt tightly around her waist. She crossed to the bed; Effie slept fitfully, but at least she was asleep.
Honey left the cabin and went topside, dragging the brisk, salty air into her lungs. The sky was clear; the stars countless and breathtaking. How often she had marveled at the Greek sky. Back home, she would never have imagined that there were so many stars, for it was often so cloudy or foggy, it hid the majesty of the skies.
“Spectacular, isn’t it?”
His voice had startled her. Gripping the lapels of her robe together, she said, “There’s nothing quite like your Greek heavens.”
“I know what you mean. When I first arrived in Boston, I was disappointed at the night sky. I learned that I had taken everything about the beauty of Greece for granted.”
His nearness unnerved her, yet was also comforting, for his body was big and he exuded warmth.
“How is your maid?”
Honey gave him a little shrug. “She’s sleeping, for now.”
He cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to be forward, but would you join me for a glass of ouzo? I’m afraid it’s all I have on board.”
No. The voice in her head was very firm. “Well, I—”
“The quarters are not nearly as fine as yours, but—”
“It’s not that,” she said quickly. “I should probably get back and keep an eye on Effie.”
“I’ve already sent Cosmos in to do just that,” he informed her. “He’s very good at playing doctor.”
She tossed him a quick look to see if he was implying something indecent, but his eyes appeared innocent.
Don’t go.
It was merely for a drink, nothing more, she scolded the voice. “Well, I will admit that I could use a spot of something stronger than tea at the moment.”
Don’t go.
She went.
He lit the lamp. “The room is small, as you can see. I hope you don’t mind sitting on the bed.”
She shook her head and sat on the edge of the bunk, her back straight and her legs together; she looked terribly ill-at-ease. She glanced around. “If you sleep here, where does Cosmos sleep?”
Nick went to the tiny cupboard, took out his bottle of ouzo and two small glasses, and then filled each. “Anywhere he wants. Actually, he prefers sleeping on deck, under the stars.”
She gave him a tentative smile as she took the ouzo from him. “He seems like a very nice man.”
Nick chuckled. “Cosmos is a rock.”
“Does he have a family?”
“No, except for me, that is. I’ve asked him why he doesn’t marry, and he always tells me he hasn’t found a woman who is his equal.”
“I didn’t think Greek women were supposed to try to be a man’s equal.” As she sipped her drink, her tiny, pink tongue came out and she licked her lips.
He remembered those lips. Although they had not kissed that first night, she had rubbed them over his chest. “It is true that Greek women have their place, but that doesn’t mean Greek men don’t look for something special in a wife.”
There was a curious look in her eyes as she studied him, then she took another drink. “What do they want?”
He avoided answering her by saying, “Don’t drink that too fast. You’ll wake up in the morning thinking the top of your head has blown off.”
She took another deliberate sip, and then saw the book on his night stand. Cocking her head, she read the title aloud. “The Last Days of Pompeii?”
“It’s a fascinating piece of work.”
“So, you don’t limit your reading material to erotica and pornography?” Her eyes held a touch of humor.
“I hope I’m a little deeper than that,” he answered, studying her. He suddenly realized how compromising their circumstances were. He didn’t give a damn. She looked delicious with her magnificent hair tumbling over her shoulders.
More than once over the past weeks he’d wondered how a woman like her had justified sleeping with a stranger. He was curious to know her reasoning. She was an intelligent, educated woman. She came from a respectable background. She was not altogether naïve. She surely would have known the dangers.
And she hadn’t been a virgin when he’d entered her. He had gnawed on that until he thought he would explode with curiosity. “Tell me something.”
She stifled a yawn and arched her back. “My life is an open book.”
“On which page did you lose your virginity?”
She bolted upright and stared at him, her fingers at her throat. A pinkish flush stained her neck. “That’s a rather personal question.”
“After what we’ve shared, I wouldn’t think it’s personal at all.”
She studied him, and then exhaled sharply. “I was engaged nine years ago.”
“What happened?”
She shrugged and played with one of the long, loose curls that streamed over her shoulders. “My mother became very ill, and I had to choose between selfishly having a life of my own or staying home to help my father care for her.”
“Couldn’t you have done both?”
She ran one finger over the fringe on her robe. “He was a missionary, like my father, and he was scheduled to go to Africa. If I’d married him, I would have had to leave my father to care for my mother alone; I couldn’t do that.”
“You look like you could be a missionary’s wife, but I doubt you would have been happy.”
She frowned. “Why would you say that?”
“Well, unless he set out to seduce you and bring you joy in your marriage bed, you would have felt unfulfilled.”
“In what way do I look like a missionary’s wife?” she persisted.
“At the moment you don’t. But you did when I rescued you—until you undressed for me.”
She closed her eyes and put one hand against her mouth, but said nothing. “You’re like a dog that gnaws on a bone. Will you never stop talking about that?”
“I’m a curious and persistent man, Miss DeHaviland. Was he a good lover?”
“Who?”
He hid a smile; she affected innocence well. “Your fiancé.”
She flushed. “Oh, him. I would have to say no, he was not. I guess that’s why I never bothered to do it again; I saw no great joy in it.”
“As the daughter of a missionary, you must have known that sex outside of marriage was frowned upon.”
She laughed, although it lacked mirth. “You don’t have to be the child of a missionary to know that. What has always annoyed me is that society almost applauds a man for having experience in the bedroom, but it punishes a woman.”
“There is a double standard, I will agree.”
“It isn’t fair.” Her jaw was set and her eyes glittered.
“Why did you let him take your virginity?” God, why was he so damned relentless on the subject?
She refused to meet his gaze. “It’s a bothersome thing. It was mine to do with as I chose, and I chose to get rid of it.”
He was quiet for a moment, and then asked, “Why did you let me make love to you that night?”
She didn’t respond, and he wondered if she was constructing an answer that she thought he might believe, or if she was now willing to tell him the truth.
“I’ve already told you it isn’t your concern.” Her voice was sharper now, more impatient. She downed the remainder of her drink.
He sat down beside her. “But it is. I was at the reciprocating end of your little adventure and I think I have the right to know.”
“And I have the right to refuse to tell you.” She stood, swaying to one side. He caught her before she fell.
“A bit dizzy, are we?”
She groaned and made a face. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“You need some fresh air.” Nick carried her out onto the deck. “Take some deep breaths.”
Cosmos approached, saw her in Nick’s arms, and then chuckled before disappearing below deck.
She felt so damned good. Her body beneath the robe was soft, not bony, but then, he’d seen her without a stitch of clothing on, so he knew she was perfectly formed.
Her hair smelled of flowers and summer showers, and the heat radiating from her skin reminded him of hot Greek nights and sweet, warm wine. It rankled that she was marrying that milquetoast from Crete. Hell, the man wouldn’t appreciate her, not the way Nick could.
“Ass,” he said under his breath. He was a horse’s ass for feeling anything but desire for this woman.
He looked into her face; her eyes were closed. “Don’t go to sleep.”
Her eyelids fluttered open. “I want to sleep. Or I want to throw up, one or the other.”
Reluctantly, because he enjoyed holding her, he stood her by the railing. “Now, breathe in that air.”
He watched her inhale and exhale, her chest rising and falling, the promise of succulent breasts beneath the fabric. Gusts of night air gently blew her hair away from her face. He put his arm around her and she snuggled close.
For some asinine reason, he didn’t want to leave her. “Feeling any better?”
She nodded. “I like the air out here. Sometimes the cabin gets a bit stuffy.”
He guided her to a deck chair, sat, and pulled her onto his lap.
She pulled away and looked at him through lazy lids. “What are you going to do?”
“Do? Why, nothing. I just thought we could sit here a while and enjoy the night.”
She gave him a skeptical glance. “I’m not really all that drunk, you know. I’m just a little woozy, so don’t think you’re going to—” She stopped, closed her eyes and rested her head against his shoulder.
“Going to, what?”
“You know,” she answered. “Have your way with me or some such thing.”
He laughed quietly. “Why, Miss DeHaviland, it wasn’t even on my mind.”
She snorted into his ear and bit down gently on his lobe. “Liar.”
His penis hardened, and he had to restrain himself from unbuttoning his trousers and lifting her astride him.
Instead, he took one of her small feet into his hand and massaged it. She purred and nuzzled closer. “Feels good.” Her voice was barely audible.
As he moved his fingers over her ankle, he pressed his thumb to her ankle bone, circling it, slowly inching higher.
She sighed again, snuggling closer.
His palm embraced her calf and he worked the muscles with a small amount of pressure. Her skin was soft, her muscles flexed now and then, allowing him to feel the strength in them.
With his other hand he untied the sash of her robe. More of her scent reached his nostrils, and he dragged it in, trapping it in his lungs, wishing it were something tangible so he could capture it and tuck it away for when she was gone.
“You stopped.” She sounded disappointed as her voice broke into his thoughts.
He continued stroking her calf, reached her knee, and touched the soft underside.
She squirmed and pressed her lips against his neck. Her tongue, that perfect, tiny pink tongue, licked his skin and he grew so hard beneath her, he had to swallow a groan.
“I guess I am drunk,” she purred into his ear. “I should call you a black-hearted knave and slap you.”
He smiled into the dark night. “Why is that?”
“Because you’re taking advantage of me.”
Reaching higher beneath her soft gown, grazing the insides of her thigh, he said, “Because I’m doing this?”
She arched and expelled a little gasp of pleasure. “Yes, because of that.”
He wouldn’t have gotten beyond massaging her feet, had she been sober. He shouldn’t take advantage of the fact that she wasn’t. But for him, she was more of an intoxicant than the ouzo. One touch and he became so drunk on her; he didn’t care if he went to hell.
He just had to run his fingertips over her, stroke her, and feel that luscious wetness between her thighs.
He inched higher, his fingers touching the downy fur that covered her delicious entrance.
She swore at him and spread her legs just enough so that he knew she wanted more.
“I hate you; you’re a cad,” she said, her voice soft and filled with desire.
Once again he smiled into the darkness. He would not take her, but he would pleasure her. His need to touch her was almost as strong as his need to bury himself deep inside her, but it was safer, if not more pleasurable.
He lowered his head to the nipple that poked out through the sheer fabric of her nightgown and took it in his mouth. She arched toward him, opening up for him. He felt her tremble, heard her quick, jerky breathing and he began rubbing her clitoris and the surrounding swollen wetness in earnest.
She spread her legs wide, allowing him entrance, seeming not to care that she was bare to the world. “Oh, yesss,” she all but hissed. “It feels good; it feels so very, very good.”
His fingers slid over her, her clitoris was thick and hard and sweet juices oozed from her, wetting his flesh.
Suddenly she screamed and stiffened, bucking against his fingers, clutching at his shoulders, her orgasm so strong he had to hold her or she’d have fallen to the deck floor.
Afraid he might buckle under the pressure to enter her, he lifted her into his arms and took her to her cabin, where he laid her on the bed.
She gazed up at him, moonlight bathing her face, and she said, barely awake, “You are a black-hearted knave.”
He bent and kissed her forehead and then left the cabin, horny as a goat and randy as a bull.