Honey woke up when the warm Mediterranean sun streamed in through the porthole and spread across her face. She raised her head, dropped it back onto the pillow and groaned. Ouzo.
She remembered drinking it down like water, ignoring the burning path it took to her stomach.
She also remembered something else: Nick Stamos’s fingers playing her like a rare violin. Turning her head into her pillow, she groaned. Damn him, anyway. Damn her. One drink and she had absolutely no self-control.
Well, that would be the last time it would happen. It had to be. She tossed back the covers and sat up, holding her pounding forehead with the palm of her hand as she glanced at the other bed. Effie was gone.
She inhaled, smelling coffee, dark and pungent, noting that it sat on a tray on the table beside the empty bed. She took a sip, shuddering at how strong it was, and returned the cup to the tray. As she did so, she noticed a tall glass filled with another liquid. She brought it to her lips, wrinkling her nose at the unusual odor.
The door opened and Nick Stamos poked his head in. “Good morning.”
She gave him a sour look and turned away. “What’s so good about it?”
“Head hurt?”
“I can live with that; it will eventually go away.”
He raised an eyebrow. “As will I.”
She glared at him, angry, frustrated, wanting him, detesting him, anxious to leave him yet not wanting ever to leave. “Not soon enough. You took advantage of me last night.”
He was the rugged sea captain this morning, unshaven, hair wind-tossed, shirt open nearly to his navel, exposing his thick pelt of black hair. “You enjoyed it.”
She turned her gaze away, hating the way the sight of him made her feel. Lifting the glass with the awful smelling liquid to her mouth, she drank deeply, willing herself not to gag. When she’d finished, she glared at him again. “I hate you; you’re a cad.”
“I like it better the way you said it last night while you were purring and stretching like a cat in heat.”
Feigning indifference, she asked, “Where’s Effie?”
“Cosmos put her to work.”
Honey was horrified. “What? She’s ill; she shouldn’t be doing anything at all.”
His gaze lingered on her breasts and she felt them tighten and tingle beneath the gauzy cotton gown.
“He knows what he’s doing.”
She suddenly felt vulnerable, dressed as she was in her night clothes, and she crossed her arms over her chest.
He gave her a wicked grin. “Too little, too late. The way your nipples jut out, you may as well be wearing nothing at all.”
Insidious man, she thought, cursing her sensitive nipples. “Please leave so I can dress.”
His hot gaze didn’t waver. “Whatever you decide to wear, remember that we’re at sea and you want to be comfortable. In other words, Miss DeHaviland, don’t truss up like a turkey.”
“Well, then, since your uncle has my maid occupied elsewhere, perhaps you should pick out my clothing for the day,” she said dryly.
He didn’t smile, but his eyes were warm. “If you insist.”
Oh, dear, Effie was right; he was truly a dangerous man, but the danger was one that Honey couldn’t seem to avoid. Her body seemed to be a separate entity from her mind. When had she become so weak?
When your path crossed his at the marina, remember?
He crossed to her valise, hunkered down beside it and lifted out a black taffeta skirt. “Too heavy and too dark.”
“Most Greek women wear dark clothing. I should probably get used to it.”
Why? Last night you could easily have been wearing nothing at all.
“As long as you’re with me, you will not wear black.” His gaze locked with hers for a brief moment. “I much prefer what you’re wearing now.”
Her body trembled with the kind of need she’d come to expect when she was near him, and she was so angry with herself she wanted to weep.
He continued to go through the satchel, setting aside anything dark and heavy, which, unfortunately, comprised most of her clothing.
He pulled out her white, hand-loomed cotton camisole with the crocheted yoke. “This will do.”
She took it from him. “Now for a blouse—”
“No blouse. Just that.”
“But, my arms,” she argued. “They’ll get sunburned.”
“Do you burn easily?”
“Well, no, not really. I mean, I don’t know. I rarely spend any time in the sun.”
“You can’t stay down here all day, every day. Either you cover up all the time or get your skin accustomed to the sun. I suggest if you need something else, use a shawl.”
He looked up at her from his hunkered position, his gaze nearly burning a hole through her clothes to her skin. “I have quite a few stops to make on the way. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”
“Disappoint me?”
“It will take that much longer to get to Crete.” His eyes never left hers.
She opened her mouth to speak, and then shut it. At this moment, she didn’t care if they never saw the Cretan shore.
He stood and drew close to her; his body heat warmed her clear through to the primitive parts of her. He grabbed the fabric of her nightgown over her stomach and drew her closer. “Sometimes I play games, Miss DeHaviland.”
“Games?” she asked lamely. She could feel the heat of his palms against her skin.
One of his hands roamed her back, down to the crack in her buttocks, which he gently squeezed, and then dipped a finger lower. She automatically raised one leg and wrapped it around his knee, hiking her gown up with the movement.
“Games, Miss DeHaviland. I enjoy little sex games.”
Her senses were whirling. “I…I wish you wouldn’t.”
“I’m the captain; I can do as I please.” His hand went beneath the gown and he caressed her buttocks, and then moved to the front, stroking her furry curls. Arousal was instant, and she pushed her pelvis against his hand, demanding more.
“If it were up to me,” he murmured against her ear, “we would spend the rest of the trip naked, exploring one another, continuing the mating dance we began weeks ago.”
Excitement washed over her in huge, billowing waves. “We would?”
“We would.”
She clung to him, her hunger devouring her. He dipped a finger inside her and she bit her lip to keep from releasing the moan that rose into her throat.
“Oh, you are wet, my proper Miss DeHaviland,” he murmured as he continued to assault her swollen nether lips. “Would you like another art lesson?” His voice teased, taunted, invited.
“Not at the moment,” she answered as she stretched toward her orgasm.
He stopped abruptly, putting her away from him. “But of course we won’t be spending that kind of time together, because you are an engaged woman.”
She went cold all over.
“And a woman who is engaged to another man would not find it proper to spend her time in such a way.” He walked to the door, turned and cocked his head at her. “Would she?”
After he’d gone, she went to the wash stand and splashed water on her face. How would she survive if she felt like this all the way to Crete? Oh, God, but how would she survive without this?
Damn him! Damn him and his ‘sex games.’ Damn him for teasing her, provoking her, and then leaving her unfulfilled. Well, two can play. She’d spurn his attentions from now on. She’d be an ice queen. Frozen. Cool. Aloof. She’d show him, yes, she bloody well would.
Nick waited for her to join him topside. He could have easily thrown her on the bed and made love to her this morning. She had been willing enough. And he would slake his lust with her this trip, when he was ready to do it. Hell, he got nearly as much pleasure out of pleasuring her as he got from pleasing himself. He wanted to thrust himself deep inside her. He needed to. But she had to be ready, so ready she wouldn’t put on that ‘I hate you; you’re a cad’ act when it was over. And it would happen. Yes, he was certain that, with escalated teasing and taunting and touching, she would beg for it.
She stepped onto the deck and he studied her as she approached. Her slender feet were bare. Her skirt was loose around her legs, and she had a shawl draped demurely across her bare shoulders. Her hair was piled loosely on top of her head and already several long strands had escaped and now fluttered in the breeze. Her camisole dipped low, exposing her milky cleavage. She reminded him of a taverna dancer or the young wife of a wine maker, ready to go out and stomp grapes.
She certainly didn’t resemble a missionary’s spinster daughter.
She stopped in front of him. “Will this do?”
He fought the urge to take her into his arms again and find her willing wetness again. “Fine. But when we go ashore, you’ll have to wear something on your feet. The sand can be blistering.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” she said dryly after giving him a jaunty salute.
He smothered a smile. “Don’t get too sassy, Miss DeHaviland, or I’ll have to punish you.”
“Oh, really? Just what sort of punishment does a sea captain mete out?”
He looked out at the sea, and then returned her gaze. “For this case I believe I would have to put you over my knee and spank you.”
Heat rose in her eyes and she glanced away. “I suppose I should be very careful then, so I don’t incur your wrath.”
He made a noncommittal sound in his throat. “You may never know just what it is that incurs my wrath. Why, it could be the simplest thing, some sin you aren’t even aware you’ve committed.”
“I see. Then how will I know?”
“You won’t; not until it’s too late.”
“And, this, this spanking,” she said. “How would it proceed?”
He detected a tremor in her voice; he suspected it was not from fear. “I would demand that you pull up your skirt and your petticoat and…”
“And, what?”
“And pull down your drawers, of course.”
He saw her swallow repeatedly. “What would you use? A strap?”
“Oh, no, Miss DeHaviland. I would use my bare hand.”
“I see.” Her voice was breathy.
“I’m not sure you do. You see, with each crack of my hand, I would dip one finger into your soft, womanly flesh. If you remained dry, I would stop. If you were wet, I would continue, for I would know that you were enjoying it.”
“I would think it would be the other way around. Why would you want to pleasure me?”
He pinned her with a lusty gaze. “Why wouldn’t I?”
She quickly looked away and studied the distant mainland. “I’ve always thought of Greece as being so majestic, yet it’s really not.”
He smiled to himself, not surprised that she had changed the subject. “There are no harsh extremes,” he said. “No towering alpine mountains. Nature made Greece on a human scale and the people followed suit by creating their gods in human form.”
He examined the retreating land mass, his gaze moving fondly over the lesser rocky heaps that peppered the Aegean and formed the minor islands. Dazzling sunlight spread through everything. It was almost as if the air had disappeared, leaving purity that so astonished the eyes, heart and lungs that it robbed one of breath.
Just as she did, he thought, looking down at her beside him. But once he’d taken her in every port, on every private stretch of beach, in every way conceivable, he’d be happy to be rid of her. He would have to be, because she was marrying another man. And one thing Nick did not want was marriage. To any woman. Ever.
Honey DeHaviland might appear to be honest and forthright, but, like women everywhere, once she snagged her man, she would change. He almost felt sorry for Christophides. But better him than Nick.
She pulled the shawl closer, as if reading his mind; the breeze kicked up and pulled more hair from the nest atop her head, blowing it across her face. “You love it here, don’t you?”
“I can’t imagine being anywhere else in the world.”
He felt her gaze on him, but added nothing more. Finally, it was she who spoke. “What’s our next stop?”
“I have some supplies to deliver on Mykonos. I must pick up some other provisions, but they may not be ready immediately. We may have to stay there a couple of days. I hope that won’t be a problem for you; I know how anxious you are to get to your betrothed.”
She slanted him a glance. “Are you being sarcastic?”
He offered her his best innocent look. “Why would I be sarcastic?”
She arched an eyebrow. “I don’t know, the words seemed to hold more meaning than usual, that’s all. And, if I were anxious to get to Crete, I would have found a quicker way to get there.”
“Then, you’re not anxious to marry Mr. Christophides?”
She pulled the shawl closer, as if it were some kind of protection against him. “Of course I’m anxious.”
Anxious, he thought, as in eager, or anxious as in nervous and fearful? He would guess the latter.
They were quiet as Mykonos came into view, the white-washed buildings sparkling like sugar cubes against the blue Aegean sky.
They arrived before noon, and once Nick’s duties were done, he returned to the boat and called for Honey to join him. They walked through the harbor, passing fishermen with fresh catches, and stopped at a small taverna where they ate sun-dried, rock-pounded octopus that had been grilled over charcoal. Nick washed his down with beer; Honey ordered retsina, the light, local wine.
Afterwards, they meandered down to the beach and walked on the sand, neither speaking.
Finally, Nick said, “This is one of my favorite beaches.”
Honey inhaled deeply, her gaze moving across the long, desolate expanse of white sand. “It’s really beautiful. It’s almost like sugar.”
They wandered into a private cove; he sat down and removed his boots. “Take off your shoes, Miss DeHaviland.”
She did as he asked, but suddenly realized how foolish their formalities were. As she wiggled her toes in the soft sand, she said, “Do call me Honey, please?”
He smiled at her. “Only if you call me Nick.”
She cocked her head in assent. “Done.” The trip would be tolerable as long as he stayed friendly and didn’t tease her with sexual innuendo.
Suddenly he ran toward the water. “Join me!”
Horrified, she stood her ground. “I will not.”
He waded into the water, stirring it up as he went. “It’s refreshing,” he taunted.
She continued to walk down the beach. “I’m perfectly happy here, thank you very much.”
All at once he was there, tugging at her arm. “Come, you’ll like it, I promise.”
He sounded like a little boy trying to convince a playmate to try something naughty. “No,” she insisted, amused by his playfulness.
“Come on.” He tugged at her again, pulling her shawl off and dropping it on the sand.
“I don’t want to get wet, now stop it.” She tried to be firm, but his good humor was infectious.
“Well, then, you leave me no choice.” He picked her up and she squealed, pounding his chest and shoulders with her fists.
“Nick Stamos, put me down!” She laughed and shrieked as they headed for the water, where he unceremoniously dropped her. She sputtered to the surface, spitting out the taste of the brackish water and shoving hanks of wet hair from her face.
He stood over her, grinning like a great, big, mischievous child. “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
She dove at him, grabbed him around the knees, tumbling him into the water beside her. The look of surprise on his face was worth anything he’d planned as revenge.
“So that’s how it is, is it?” he growled.
She got up, gained her footing and ran from him, laughing and giggling. But when she turned, expecting to find him on her heels, she saw that he was still sitting in the water, his head down. She stopped. “Nick?”
He didn’t respond.
Her heart pounding, she called again, “Nick? Mr. Stamos? Are you all right?”
He didn’t move.
She ran to him and bent down beside him, putting her hand on his arm. “Nick?”
He let out a great roar, swiftly pulled her beneath him and straddled her, laughing so hard he was nearly in tears. “Did I frighten you?”
She stared up at him, noting his dark laughing eyes and his even white teeth. An odd feeling penetrated her insides, one that worried her, so she punched him hard on the arm. “That wasn’t funny. I thought you were hurt, you beast.”
He brought her arms over her head and held them there. “And you were worried about me?”
Her insides jigged again, and she wriggled to get free but could not. “Foolishly, yes.”
He lowered his head and studied her; he smelled of beer and salt water. He still had not shaved; his black stubble made him appear almost menacing. She briefly wondered what his mouth would taste like, and then she scolded herself for such a thought.
“Have you ever made love in the water?” he asked as he rolled off her and brought her on top of him.
Heat flared in her belly at his words and she fought him briefly, feigning disinterest. “Certainly not.”
“Where did you and your missionary make love? In a proper bed, properly clothed?”
She glanced away, remembering the incident with distaste. “I hardly think that’s any of your business.”
“Why won’t you tell me? What difference does it make now?”
“I don’t want to speak of this.” She struggled to get off. He held her fast.
“Did you really make love, Honey?”
She struggled again; he gripped her arms.
Humor him. “What else would it be called?”
He stroked her arms, his touch sending shivers through her and as she straddled him, she felt him grow beneath her. This should stop; this must stop.
“It’s called a lot of things, Honey, depending on how you feel at the time.”
The quickening between her legs dismayed her; she did not want to feel this way toward him. “I suppose I must ask, or else you may never release me.”
“Well, if there was a hot, intense, wild sensation between you, one that was so filled with lust it couldn’t be stopped, it might be called ‘fucking’.”
She made a face. “That word is entirely inappropriate.”
“All right, how about ‘dancing the blanket hornpipe’?”
Honey couldn’t help laughing. “Too amusing.”
“Hmmm, well, then, ‘doing the buttock jig’?”
Her laughter rose. “That picture is too awful to imagine.”
“‘The matrimonial polka’?”
“We weren’t married,” she answered, still chuckling.
“‘Pickle me, tickle me’?”
Still amused, she said, “Where do you find these terms?”
“I’m a font of information on the decadence of lust.”
Her humor softened. “Of that, I have no doubt.”
They studied one another for a long moment, something powerful and palpable hanging between them.
He broke the silence. “Do you want to hear more?”
“Unfortunately, what we did probably isn’t written down anywhere in one of your books, because it wasn’t enjoyable.”
He pressed his bulge against her. “You mean, you didn’t ‘do the naughty’?”
She shuddered and refused to look at him. “No.”
“No ‘connubial bliss’?”
“None.” In spite of her resolve, she rocked forward, pressing her swollen clitoris against his erection. The sensation was immediate and intense.
“It doesn’t have to be that way.”
She pulled back, hoping to stifle her need for him. “I’m beginning to realize that.”
“So it wasn’t passionate?”
“No, there was no passion.”
“Did he use the ‘missionary position’?”
She groaned. “Oh, don’t tell me someone named a position after them?”
“Was he on top?” He surged against her again.
Despite her attempt to distance herself, she felt the ache intensify between her legs. “Yes, on top.”
“That’s the ‘missionary position’.”
It sounded right; he lay atop her, robbing her of breath, taking his pleasure and leaving her none.
“So, you didn’t want to rub up against him, wiggle your sweet ass at him and hope he’d undress you and enter you from behind?”
She couldn’t quite imagine poor Lesley Helms tearing off her clothes and doing such a thing to her. “No, I did not.”
“Did you ever want him so badly, your body burned for him?”
The bulge beneath her grew; her desire increased. “Stop it.” Her words were stern but they were softly spoken.
His grip tightened. “Answer me, Honey.”
She swallowed hard and avoided his gaze. “I don’t have to.”
“Did you get all wet and slippery for him?”
Once again she tried to leave, but he held her. “Please, you must stop this—”
“Did your juices run down your legs for him?”
“Oh, God, you dreadful man!” She felt close to tears but stopped them.
“Well? Did they?”
She fought again, remembering only that poor Lesley’s first thrust and everything that had followed was painful. Suddenly she found herself saying, “No. It was agonizing.”
“Then you were dry. He didn’t prepare you, did he?”
“He probably didn’t know how.”
“Perhaps he was as naïve as you were. Didn’t he touch you at all before he came into you?”
“No,” was all she could say.
“Didn’t he press a finger there, rubbing it back and forth against your swelling, aching nub?”
She shook her head but refused to look at him.
“Didn’t he test your softness, your wetness, and coax your legs apart so he could watch your desire for him develop?”
Again she just shook her head.
“And he didn’t rub against your desirable clitoris with the palm of his hand until you screamed with need either, did he?”
She felt like weeping, perhaps not only from the humiliation that swept over her, but the desire that followed. Not because of any fond memories of Lesley Helms, but of Nick’s persistence. And his wicked talk. “No. He didn’t touch me at all,” she confessed, on the verge of tears.
He drove his thumb between her thighs, between her soft, wet lips. “He didn’t do this?”
The sting of tears continued to press against her eyes; she wasn’t even sure why. Was it the mortification of her confession or the shame of wanting his touch so badly, she could barely stand to be inside her own skin?
Desire swirled through her like fingers of fire. “No,” she admitted. “He wouldn’t have known how.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being innocent if both of you can learn the pleasures together,” he said.
Beneath her, his erection hardened further, giving her a thick pole to ride. Against every rational and logical thought, she moved against him. “Yes, but I didn’t love him. I didn’t want him.”
He matched her movements, and they rocked together. “Was it quick?”
Her body was getting wetter and more swollen with each word Nick spoke. “I think it took seconds.”
“I’m glad he failed to ignite your fires, Honey. I’m glad it was me, instead.”
The words made her hungry and she felt herself swell, and a precious ache continued at the juncture of her thighs, but through it all, she still felt like sobbing.
“Have you ever wondered how long he wanted to get into your drawers before he actually succeeded? How many wet dreams he had thinking of you before he went to sleep at night? How many times he had to leave a room and masturbate just imagining what it would be like to crawl between your thighs?”
She turned her head and closed her eyes. She must stop this. She must. She must. She must.
His hands were under her skirt, moving slowly up her thighs.
Stop him.
“How long had you wanted him, Honey? Did you ever lie in bed at night, wondering what it would be like for him to touch you as I’m touching you now? Did you ever touch yourself, trying to picture how it would be?”
“No!” Her answer was vehement, and truthful. But his fingers continued to slide across her tender flesh, inching toward her vagina, and although the voice in her head ordered her to stop, she rocked forward, searching for some kind of release.