Page 72 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

“The nature of a threat is mutable. Is it a promise? A suggestion?”

She lifted her chin, feeling defiant and not entirely understanding why. “I did not realize you were such a philosopher.”

“And I thought you were an expert on your many husbands,” he retorted in that sardonic tone of his. Almost chiding her. “But then again, you clearly enjoyed a certain...intimacy with my father that you and I do not share.”

Something about that prickled in her, some mix of indignation and shame and not a little bit of temper, besides.

“Are you talking about sex?” She laughed into the breath of space between them. “And here I was beginning to think that the modern-day whore of Babylon himself had come over all missish. What would all your favorite tabloids say if they knew?”

“I suppose it would take one whore to know another,” he replied, too easily. Too smoothly.

Because it took her one whole breath and half of another to understand that what he had really done was slide a knife in deep between her ribs.

The pain of it was so intense and so surprising, because it was so unfair, that she felt her eyes go bright.

“Don’t think that I don’t understand where all of this animosity is coming from,” she told him, using whatever blades she had to hand, and hurling them as hard as she could. “It must be so confusing for you to finally meet a woman immune to what I think I’ve heard called yourcharm.”

“Immunity would look like indifference, my darling wife,” he said, so softly. Too softly. “And you are many things in my presence, but indifferent? I think not.”

“By that metric, I suspect you must be half in love with me,” she said, lightly enough, yet sharp enough, to leave scars.

But before scars, there was blood, and they both knew she’d drawn his.

It seemed to shimmer there, in the air between them.

“Should we test that?” he asked, a scant breath that took the shape of words.

Even if she’d understood what he was asking, she would not have backed down from the challenge. Any challenge.

But she didn’t understand.

When he leaned in even closer, then set his mouth to hers, she was wholly unprepared. And there was nothing for it but to burn.

She had never confused Apostolis with his father. For a host of reasons, none of which she intended to share with him, now or ever.

But if she had, this would have scorched any stray wisp of a memory of Spyros from her brain.

His hands stayed on the arms of the chair. The only place they touched at all was at the mouth. The lips. The tongues.

But that was more than enough.

Because he did not simply brush his lips over hers and call it a kiss.

That there was any resemblance between that first kiss and thisincineration, that they should both share the same name, was almost laughable.

Because what he did was lick his way into her mouth, flooding her with the most intense sensation she had ever felt. Then, as if that would not have knocked her on her bottom had she not already been sitting, he angled his jaw.

He made it all...hotter. Deeper. And decidedly worse.

So much worse.

Distractingly, outrageously, irresistibly worse.

And this kiss that was so much more than a kiss went on and on.

It was a feast—a banquet of sensation—and she found herself responding against her will. There was nothing she could do but follow that fire, chasing that sensation any way she could.

Until it was as if their tongues were engaged in the same sweet, slick dance. As if they were both trying to burn each other alive, but this was not a flame that either one of them could control.

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