Page 76 of Hold Me Today

“Where does that door lead?” I ask, ignoring his question because,hello, this house is like a treasure chest of secrets. I’m utterly enthralled with it already, although maybe that’s because I can sense Nick’s love for it. By default, my curiosity is at an all-time high.

“This one?” He braces a hand against the wooden doorknob. “It goes down to the wine cellar.”

My eyes practically bulge. “You have a wine cellar?”

Flashing me a grin, he shimmies the knob. “On the scale ofI’d-like-to-hug-you, what does a wine cellar get me?”

Stomach doing that weird flippy thing at our little joke, I boost myself up on one of the stools lining the island. “At least a nine-point-five.”

“Not a solid ten?”

I shake my head. “I have the right to reserve perfect scores until I decide to dish them out. Also, youdorealize we shouldn’t be drinking, right? I mean, unless you’re okay with thinning blood and a blotchy tattoo.”

His fingers freeze, panic dashing across his handsome features. “Ah,gamóto. I didn’t even think about that.”

He is way too cute when he gets all worried. It makes me want to give him a perfect 10.0 and wrap my arms around him. “I’ll take some water, if you have it on hand?”

Thankfully, he catches onto my joke immediately. “That was bad,koukla. Real bad. I’ve got all the water you could want. Except for sparkling—no self-respecting man drinks that.”

I tap my chin, faking a put-out look. “Well, damn. Sparkling is my go-to.”

He reads me in an instant. Disregarding the wine cellar, he crosses over to me and leans in close to drop a heady kiss onto my mouth. His fingers rip off my beanie hat and toss it on the granite island, and then they’re in my hair, tugging on the strands in the same way he’s tugged at my heart for years now.

God, yes.

His mouth moves roughly over mine, and it’s so deliciously wicked that I push at his coat lapels until the heavy material is dropping to the floor at our feet. He wastes no time in returning the favor. My wool coat hits the marble flooring, and then he’s planting his big hands on my knees, urging them apart. I spread them on command, reaching forward to hook my fingers through the belt loops of his jeans.

Nick needs no more encouragement than that.

He steps into theVof my legs, his mouth still molded to mine, our tongues dueling. “On the counter,” he growls when he breaks away. “Now.”

I like bossy Nick. Alot.

With a hand to his chest, I push him back with a flirty grin. His face is all rigid lines but his eyes . . . God, they set me onfire. More black than gray, they watch me steadily, never veering away. Wanting to provoke him—to see that tightly leashed veneer of his crack—I twist around, planting my hands on the wooden stool. I arch my back, sticking my butt out, rubbing up against the hard-on not even his jeans can hide.

He cuts loose a guttural groan, and I soak up the sound.

Step One to making Nick Stamos lose his ever-loving mind? Complete.

I pop the button of my jeans. Squeeze my eyes shut tightly.Here goes nothing. The only sound that echoes in the kitchen is the tab of my zipper inching down over each metal tooth. My fingers hook over the waistband, and I almost laugh at the way they tremble. Like this is my first time having sex—six years after everyone thought I ruined good, ol’ Nick during his wedding night.

Broad fingers fold over mine. “Let me,” comes Nick’s rough timbre.

So, I do.

I hear his knees hit marble behind me. I feel the heat of his hands graze my skin as he slowly, so slowly, inches the denim down over my hips. My sight is replaced by the sensation of touch, the way he kisses my exposed flesh like a man kneeling before an altar. It rocks me to my core, and Ifeelmyself grow wet, there between my legs.

My jeans and underwear are tugged down to my knees—right before Nick’s palm cups my butt cheek, right over my tattoo.

“You never fail to surprise me,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over the ink there: a wreath, the same one marked on Greece’s Coat of Arms, encircling a phoenix, the national bird, rising from the ashes. It’s no bigger than the palm of my hand, invisible to the eye when I wear underwear or bikini bottoms. It’s for me . . . and now for Nick too. “Why this?” he asks, voice low.

Lids fluttering shut, I ball my hands into fists on the kitchen island. I don’t want to lie to him, not about this, so I don’t. Facing away from him, the admission slips out easily. “For all the times I’ve never felt Greek enough. Not speaking the language doesn’t make me any less Greek—anEllenitha. Not being able to read the words doesn’t mean I’m not somehow connected to my heritage.” I pause to beat back the tears that threaten to spill. “IamGreek.”

He must hear the turmoil in my tone because he strips off my jeans completely, taking off my snow boots, too, and then rises to his full height. He towers over me, and I can feel his heat against my back when he brushes my hair over one shoulder and leans in. “One day,” he says, “you’ll trust me enough to tell me why this, of all things, turns your voice to fire.”

A gasp rips from my soul as I feel his fingers delve between my legs. Oh, God. “Nick—”

His mouth rasps over my neck, and a shiver rakes down my spine. “One day,” he goes on, just as reverently, “but not today.” He turns his hand sideways, wordlessly ordering me to spread my legs. His free hand grips the lip of the granite island, his knuckles white with restraint. My mouth goes dry. “But I’m gonna tell you this once, Ermione.Youare Greek. Your soul, your blood, your name that makes people stop in their tracks and ask for it again. You’re anEllenitha, koukla, and even if you weren’t, I wouldn’t give a damn.”

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