Page 9 of The Greek Tycoon's Unwilling Wife

She didn’t know if her own heart was jolting in sensual response to her memories, his touch or panic-stricken fear of the possible repercussions if—when—he realised how their relationship had changed from the one he believed it was.

‘Becca…’ he said again and her shocked senses, dangerously alert to everything about him, caught the change in tone, the slight thickening of his accent on her name, the faint roughness of his voice that told her without words that his mood had changed.

Curiosity had given way to interest, annoyance blending into awareness so swiftly that only someone who knew him well would notice.

But Becca knew this side of the man too well. It was the Andreas she knew more than any other. The sexually driven man who had taught her all she knew about passion, about desire—and most of all about pleasure. She knew that when his eyes darkened so much that they seemed all black, when his voice rasped in his throat in just that way, that he was turned on, hotly aroused by what he saw.

And she had enough experience of seeing this response to know when it was directed at her.

‘An—Andreas…’ she tried, her voice shaking and sounding almost as rough as his.

He shook his head, slowly, silently, his eyes dropping down to watch her mouth as she spoke.

And she knew that look too. Knew the way his own mouth had opened very slightly, the slow, heavily indrawn breath. He wanted to kiss her. Wanted it so much that it absorbed all his thoughts, took all his concentration.

He wanted to kiss her and she wanted him to do just that.

Her whole body was one stinging burn of awareness from the toes that curled inside her soft leather sandals to the prickling lift of each tiny hair on her scalp. She barely felt the point at which his hand was clamped around her arm, the warmth of his palm lost in the rush of heat that scoured her skin, stripping away one much-needed protective layer and leaving her raw and yearning beneath.

But who would he be kissing? The woman he had once asked to be his wife, then flung his wedding vows in her face as he rejected her and forced her out of his house before they had even been married for twenty-four hours? The woman he couldn’t remember. Or would he kiss the girlfriend—the mistress—he believed she was? The woman he didn’t remember ever asking to marry him.

And if he did kiss her would the moment that their lips touched jolt something in his brain, loosening whatever blockage kept him from recalling her?

She would risk it, she knew. From the moment that he had touched her, she had been lost. Adrift on the heated sea of physical hunger that he had always been able to wake in her.

She wanted him to kiss her. Wanted it so much that it was like a thundering, pounding refrain inside her head, so heavy and loud that she felt sure he must either hear it declared out loud, or read it burning behind the eyes she couldn’t find the strength to drag away from his stunning face.

Kiss me.

She could almost believe that she’d said the words herself, they sounded so loud and clear in her thoughts.

Please kiss me.

Andreas drew in a breath, heavy and low, then let it out again in a sigh. His head was angled slightly to one side, his gleaming black eyes hooded under heavy lids, the lush, thick lashes brushing his cheeks for a moment as he looked down, taking in her upturned face in a single, sweeping glance.

‘Beautiful…’ he murmured, his voice even huskier than before.

‘I…’

Becca tried to speak and failed, ending up with her mouth slightly open simply because she couldn’t make herself close it. She felt as if she was surrounded by Andreas, by the warmth of his body, the scent of his skin. Just inches away from her she could see the way his powerful chest rose and fell with each breath he took, almost hear the beat of his heart underneath the smooth, olive-toned flesh. It was as if the world had ceased to exist. As if there was only the two of them and the heated, sensual bubble they had created around them.

With that black-eyed gaze holding her still, frozen hypnotised, he lifted his hand and touched the backs of his fingers to her skin at her temple and then trailed them slowly down her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw, her chin. When the strong fingers reached her still open mouth, moving over the outline of her lips, it was all that Becca could do to hold back a moan of response. The temptation to part her lips even more, to let her tongue slide out and curl over that stroking fingertip, to feel the slightly salty tang of it on her tongue, remember how it had been to taste him all over, anywhere—everywhere—was almost irresistible.

But just as she drew in her breath, taking some of the essence of him in with it, fighting the primitive, carnal hunger that had suddenly reached out to enclose her, she hesitated for a second, for the space of a single heartbeat, suddenly terrified, painfully, cruelly aware of how far from wise such an action was.

And the next moment she could only be grateful for that sudden flash of control, of self-preservation. Because unexpectedly that stroking hand slowed, stilled, and then was abruptly snatched away, the rush of cold air where its warmth had once been and the sense of loss cruel enough to force her to bite down hard on her lower lip to hold back the cry of shock that almost escaped her.

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