Page 52 of Husband for the Holidays

“Nemo will.”

“Not if he wants to keep his job.”

“Then I’ll pick a random day and call it your birthday,” she warned as she straddled his lap, pleased that her frothy skirt allowed it.

The confection of white feathers piled around her like a snowdrift and he dug his hands into the folds to bracket her hips while she affixed the chain beneath her loose hair. She centered the stone against the wine red of the top that hugged her torso.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “It’s very pretty.”

“So are you.”

She loved seeing his expression relaxed like this. His gaze leisurely caressed her braless breasts—yes, she had forgone a bra for him. It meant her nipples were constantly stimulated by the soft knit, standing at subtle attention and now prickling and tightening that little bit more as he admired her.

It was such a perfect moment that she almost said it. Almost admitted she loved him. It wasn’t the immature crush of her teen years or infatuation with an idea of a man. It wasn’t the beguilement of being showered with gifts, either.

She was beginning to know him, truly know him. He was withdrawn, yes, but beneath that hardened veneer was a man who had a chewy caramel center. He was outrageously generous—in bed and elsewhere. He kept his promises and he made her feel special and sexy and cherished. If he hadn’t been able to afford a sapphire, he would have found another way to make her feel as though she was incredibly important to him, of that she had no doubt.

He was important to her. Did he know that?

Sliding her fingers into his hair, she leaned forward and set her mouth to his, trying to make him feel the love that was brimming out of her. She didn’t know what the hidden sadness in him was, or what made him cynical or who had deliberately hurt him, but she wanted to heal all of that. The only way she knew to do it was to love him. To pour her feelings over him and dispel all his inner shadows with the golden light that glowed from the depths of her heart.

His breath hissed in and his fingertips bit through the downy skirt. She thought for a moment that he was going to move her off him, as though she was touching some part of him that was too raw.

Then a groan rattled deep in his chest. His hands found her breasts through the cashmere and his thumbs stroked against her nipples.

It was good, so good, but also a tiny bit painful. Not physically. It was painful to love him this much and not know how he felt about her. She wanted to tell him how she felt, but feared he would push her away if she did.

So she showed him. She burrowed her hand beneath her skirt and found his fly.

He bunched her skirt up and out of the way, then ran his finger beneath the placket of the tanga she wore. When she was stroking his steely erection, he moved the silk aside and helped her guide his tip to her entrance.

With a small shudder, she sank upon him. The anxiety of not being able to fully reach him dissipated when they were like this—not just joined physically, but connected on a deeper level. When he caressed her, he seemed to know where and how she needed it. When she pressed her mouth to his, their kiss ebbed and flowed between sweet and passionate, inciting and easing, then inflaming again.

They had made love only a couple of hours ago, much like this, so it shouldn’t have felt this urgent. At first, it was simply pleasure and desire building at its own pace. They barely moved as they sought skin and ran their mouths into each other’s necks and exchanged wordless praise and appreciation.

But for some reason his talk of things ending in pain and loss played in her ears like a ticking clock. She didn’t want him to be right. She wanted them fused indelibly for the rest of their lives. She began to move with more purpose, as though she could forge a more permanent connection through force of will.

Her clamor seemed to ignite something similar in him. His kiss grew harder. Hungrier. His hands clamped onto her hips, urging her to take him deeper. Her breathing grew erratic and she clung to the back of the sofa as she rode him, feeling as though she raced toward a paradise that could turn out to be a mirage.

It was real, though. It had to be, because orgasm was slamming into her and his arms were folding around her, crushing her as he threw back his head and lifted his hips and shouted out her name.

Joyous pleasure cascaded through her, but so did something else. Fear.

She folded onto him and closed her eyes, suffused with bliss, but also a sense of being stalked. Of the future being uncertain and clouded and dark.

When she turned her mouth against the side of his face, his profile was grave, making her wonder if he felt that same lack of permanence, too.

They flew to Athens on the morning of the twenty-seventh.

Eloise’s mother had invited them to marry in her villa on the morning of the twenty-eighth. Since it was the home Eloise had grown up in, she thought it would feel as though Ilias were with them in spirit. Konstantin said he was happy to indulge her and her mother.

Lilja had been texting a lot more than normal, seeming to have reclaimed her phone for wedding plans. She was determined to make Eloise’s day as special as possible and was fussing over every decision from flowers to music, from wedding breakfast to photo sitting. She even wanted Eloise’s approval on her mother-of-the-bride dress.

Antoine was still managing to be a pain, though, now putting all his energy into stonewalling Konstantin.

“I haven’t even asked him for the audit I want,” Konstantin said with disgust. “He refuses to give my team contact info for his lawyers and accountants. Their request for a list of assets that belong to you, to include in our prenup, is being ignored altogether.”

“Because there aren’t any,” Eloise pointed out.

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