Page 166 of Modern Romance March 2025 (5-8)

“You look angry right now.” She sent a teasing look to the aggressive thrust of his erection. “Can I, um…?” Her hand hesitated to take hold.

“That’s part of our shared property now,asteri mou. Help yourself.”

She hummed a noise of amusement and gently gripped him. Her hand was soft, her touch hesitant, but deeply seductive all the same.

He cupped her jaw and kissed her while she explored, learning the shape of him. His own fingers found the opening in her robe and discovered that she had, indeed, been thinking about this. Her wet heat called to him. He wanted to taste her again and imagined her tongue where her thumb was riding the sweet spot on his tip.

Desire rose so sharply in him, he had to cover her hand to still it.

“Should I stop the water?” she asked in a voice soaked with arousal.

He glanced at how slowly it was rising.

“We have time. But why don’t you watch it, just in case. Turn around and hold on to the edge of the tub.”

Her eyes flared with shock, then glittered with libidinous interest before she did exactly as he’d commanded.

Oh, she was dangerous. If he wasn’t careful, she would have him wrapped around her finger before he knew it.

He remembered to get a condom, barely, then returned to sweep the robe up to the middle of her back, before losing himself in her perfection.

CHAPTER SEVEN

ATLAS HAD HATEDhis father’s boxy, institutional brick manor house from the moment he’d arrived here at fourteen.

The country estate was an hour from London and Atlas had felt every minute of that rainy drive today, exactly as he had seventeen years ago. On that first day, he had left his mother behind in Greece. Today, he left Stella in his penthouse in London, but the knowledge she was there, not next to him, pulled at him like a barbed hook in his skin.

She was busy choosing a gown for the party Saturday night, the one where he would steal focus from his father’s celebration of his sixty-fifth birthday. As a courtesy, Atlas was warning him, face-to-face. Man-to-man.

“The prodigal son returns,” Carmel said when he entered the parlor where she lounged in her silk pajamas, legs draped over the arm of the chair, hair spilling off the other side as she tilted her head back to look up at him with a smirk. “Shame about Iris.”

“It all worked out in the end.” He kept his left hand in his pocket. “Where’s Oliver?”

“In his library, writing you out of his will if there’s a god. What do you mean it worked out? How?” She gathered herself to sit up and tucked her legs under her.

“I’ll tell you after I talk to him.”

“Sounds ominous. Do I need to call my sponsor?”

“Perhaps.” He had legitimate concerns about her reaction to his marriage.

Carmel had celebrated a year of sobriety last month and had begun taking her position with Davenwear more seriously. She was in a good place, but she was a mercurial person and she’d always felt threatened by him.

“Your life won’t change, though,” he assured her. “No matter what happens, I’ll always look after you. I hope you believe that.”

“Said the scorpion to the frog. ‘It’ll be fine. Just get me across the river,’” she mocked.

“I’m not the scorpion.” He chinned toward the stairs.

“And I’m the frog? What are you? The river that drowns us both?” She dropped her gaze to his trousers. “Why are you acting like you’re twelve and found a hole in your pocket?”

To hell with it. He showed her the band on his finger.

“Who?”she demanded, eyes brightening with alarm.

“Stella. The woman from the photos.”

“That hotel maid?” She cackled. “Who made her wedding gown?Mice?” She rolled back into the cradle of the chair and picked up her phone. “Good luck with Daddy. I’d say it’s been nice knowing you, but we both know it hasn’t.”

---