Page 38 of Forbidden Greek Mistress
They hadn’t made it out of that private dining room, either. That time, he’d leaned her over one of the chairs and hiked that dress up to her waist once more. Then he’d wrapped his hands around her hips and slammed his way into her again.
And when they’d made it home to the bed right there in the next room even now, he had her keep it on as he moved his way around her. Until he’d made her lie face down as he teased every bit of flesh that the crisscrossed back straps exposed.
With his mouth.
And only when she was writhing against him once more had he finally stripped her entirely, and then glutted himself.
Thanasis could have sworn that she was remembering all of those same things. He could feel it. He couldtasteit.
He was hard as hell, and he suspected she knew it.
There had never been a time in all the years he’d known her that he hadn’t been absolutely right about what she was feeling, especially when it came to sex.
“Thanasis…” she began, and he knew he wasn’t imagining the color on her cheeks. Or that understanding in her gaze.
“Twelve o’clock,” he told her, with a coolness that cost him dearly. “Bring the dress. And whatever else you need for a weekend in Manhattan.”
Then he made himself walk away. Before he didn’t.
Before he couldn’t.
And that night, he took her to a masked ball on a glittering Manhattan rooftop. They danced around and around, their identities hidden while flashbulbs went off all around them and far below, New York City gleamed and sparkled in all of its chaos and mystery.
Thanasis held her in his arms. He spun her around. And he thought even more that there was no possible way she could move with him like this—as if they were two parts of one whole—and still maintain that she did not know him.
He didn’t see how it could be possible.
Later, they walked down a Manhattan street together, hand in hand. This was New York City. No one paid the slightest bit of attention to two people in formal attire, masks firmly in place, out on the street. No one cared if he had his hands on her. If their fingers were intertwined.
And if he didn’t ask her why it was that Selwen from Wales would let a man she thought so little of touch her, well.
Maybe he didn’t want to know if she remembered him or not. Maybe he wanted to bask in the notion that she might.
And that was what their weekend was like. A carved-out bit of space in a country off across an ocean where they could have been anyone.
The last time Thanasis had felt like this it had been in that flat in London, where he could simply be himself.
He took her out for dinner on the night they were leaving, in a crowded New York restaurant where no one would have cared who they were even if they knew.
“Why do you seem so much happier in New York?” she asked him.
The way Saskia might have, because she’d known him so well.
He smiled, tucked away in the corner of the loud, bustling restaurant, for he was completely unconcerned about anyone seeing them or knowing who they were in the first place. It was safe here. He did not have to worry about his half siblings or his father or even the European paparazzi who chased him—but never here.
“New York is anonymous,” he told her. “We could be anyone here. No one is paying attention either way.”
She was dressed like his Saskia. She was wearing the same effortlessly chic jeans she’d been wearing all day, in a dark gray shade. She’d changed from flats to heels and had dressed it all up with a black sweater and quietly elegant jewelry.
God help him, she was perfect. Still and ever, she was peerless and his.
His,something inside him insisted.
She studied him. “I don’t understand.”
Thanasis would have indulged her anything, particularly on a night like this. He reached across the small table and took herfingers in his again, and he felt her shiver, though she didn’t look at him while she did it. But she didn’t pull her hand away, either.
“What don’t you understand?” he asked her, aware that his voice was rougher now. That was what touching her did to him.
