Page 26 of The Billionaire's Seduction Revenge

And then he was pulling away from her, only so he could lift his powerful body from the pool and draw Emma to her feet first and then off them, cradling her in his arms, against his broad, wet chest, as he strode away from the water and towards the pool house.

7

HE’D HAD ENOUGH ASSURANCES from both of them to believe their story. She hadn’t slept with Costa. They weren’t romantically involved. Hell, of course they weren’t. Costa was right: Emma was beautiful, young and could have any guy she wanted. It was only the trauma of seeing his father and grandfather seduce so many women, oftentimes so much younger than they were, that made the supposition at all likely.

And yet, when she’d insisted Costa should never know about this, rather than take that at face value for what it was—concern for the older man—Vasilios immediately suspected worse, that she didn’t want Costa to know because she was perhaps playing the long game. What if she still intended to set her cap at Costa? To try to ingratiate herself into his will?

It was ridiculous to think like that but Vasilios had learned from a young age to be mistrustful and those habits died hard, particularly with beautiful women.

Almost as soon as the thought had occurred to him, he knew he had to excise the possibility once and for all. He wanted to make love to Emma, to drive the thought of any other man from her mind, to make her so completely his that if she did turn out to be a fortune hunter, she would switch her attentions to Vasilios instead. After all, why should she not target him? He was one of the wealthiest men in the world, with more money than many small countries.

But he was also careful and guarded, whereas Costa evidently trusted Emma with his life. Clearly the older man would be an easier mark.

Except he didn’t really, rationally, believe Emma capable of any of this. It was just his past experiences that made him wary, and he halfway hated himself for being so doubtful of her.

He pushed all thoughts, rational or not, from his mind, and allowed his body to do all his thinking. His mouth sought hers, as it had earlier that day, but this was so much better, because she was completely sober, and oh so willing to lose herself to the kiss.

It had been months since he’d touched a woman, since he’d felt soft skin beneath his, but even then, there was something about Emma that made it impossible to compare her and this to any other experience.

He was barely conscious of the wet footprints he left on the tiles as he crossed to her bedroom, and when they reached it, he paused only to flick on the lights because he wanted to see her, all of her, and he wasn’t disappointed. Her face was flushed and her eyes glittering when they met his; her passion was visible.

His hands glided over her skin as he placed her feet on the floor; she was soft and smooth and smelled like apricots. He dropped his mouth to her shoulder and kissed her there; she flinched in response, moaned, leaned closer, her hands coming around behind his back, holding him at first before they began to roam his flesh, their slow, curious inspection lighting fires beneath his skin.

Her touch was gentle, too gentle. He needed more. Lifting his lips back to hers, he kissed her again, this time with the passion and urgency that was firing his bloodstream, his hands moving to the bottom of her shirt and lifting it so he could touch the bare flesh at her sides, could feel her, and she cried out into his mouth, as though it was the beginning and end of what she wanted.Cristo,she was beautiful.

Emma was losing herself to him. She was certainly losing her ability to think clearly, but losing herself felt so good, did she really mind? He lifted her shirt higher, then removed it completely, dropping it to the floor and turning his attention to her bra, which he dispensed with quickly also—though not so quickly she couldn’t have objected if she wanted to stop this.

She didn’t.

Emma’s pulse was racing so fast, it was all she could hear, a frantic, desperate onslaught of need lighting her up from the inside out.

The night was warm, but the air brushing against her now-naked torso made her breasts tingle and her nipples harden. She trembled in his arms, but not just from the temperature change. He was mostly naked, his chest bare, lightly hair-covered and wet from the pool. So many textures against her sensitive breasts. She clung to him, kissed him, revelled in these feelings, in the sheer animalism of this, in the banishment of her past and pain and grief, in the rediscovery of a side of her that she’d long ago lost. Perhaps she’d never even known it, really? Emma wasn’t sure she’d ever felt like this.

A heat had been building inside her since they’d first met and Vasilios was making it unbearable now. She was fully in the fire, in the middle of the flame, but he would also be responsible for quenching it, for helping her rejoice in what came after.

His hands cupped her breasts, not gently, just perfectly, his fingers brushing over her nipples so she made noises that were unintelligible, not words, not anything sensible, just sounds dredged from the depths of her being, and then one hand slid down her back, rested in the small indent at the base of her spine before pushing lower, into the waistband of her skirt and cupping her bottom, pushing her forward, against his arousal, so that were it not for their clothes, he’d almost be inside of her.

She wanted that. A thousand feelings were swirling in the back of her mind, feelings of betrayal and uncertainty and wrongness because her husband had died and surely she shouldn’t be feeling this for someone else? Even when she’d never really felt it for Jack? That didn’t matter. She’d married him and they were supposed to live their lives together. Instead, he’d been buried at twenty seven and Emma was alone, on the other side of the world.

All these thoughts swirled, but they were too quiet, too distant, too remote for her to grab hold of any of them, certainly to act on them. She wanted this—that was the loudest thought in her mind, all that she was aware of.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured against her ear, the words tickling her and teasing her and making her heart squeeze.

She blinked up at him, momentarily jarred from the moment, because they were virtually strangers and Emma didn’t do things like this, but when their eyes met, she realised that wasn’t true. They weren’t strangers. She felt as though she knew Vasilios, and she couldn’t explain why, only that she had the strangest sense that they’d known each other for longer than a matter of days.

“Please,” she said, lost, because a thousand needs were hammering against her from the inside out. He understood. Moving quickly, he shucked his shorts and then her skirt, his hands lingering on the elastic of her underpants, eyes locked to hers, as if he too was reassuring himself, or questioning the wisdom of this, and if Emma had any doubts about how she felt and what she wanted, the moment she considered thathemight changehismind, she knew with certainty that her desire was real and overwhelming. She felt as though she might almost die if he were to walk away now.

She gripped his hips, tightening her fingers into his flesh, eyes swirling with need when they met his and he made a strange, laughing sound, shook his head a little then pushed her underwear down, so she was fully naked and so was he. Emma’s heart leaped. The sheer physicality of this was so intimate, so perfect.

He half pushed, half lifted Emma back onto the bed, so they fell as one, a tangle of limbs and need, kissing frantically now, heat firing, as they touched each other all over, fingers gliding, brushing, acquainting, promising, his hands so sure and confident, so skilled at evoking responses with a minimum of effort. Emma trembled beneath him, and the heat between her legs was almost unbearable.

His mouth deserted hers and she felt it instantly, wanting him to keep kissing her, to tangle their tongues, but then he found his way down to the sensitive flesh at the base of her neck, across her décolletage and lower, to one of her breasts, which he kissed gently at first, teasing her with flicks of his tongue before taking her whole nipple in his mouth and sucking on it, rolling it, pressing his teeth to it until she was a mess beneath him, the pleasure and hints of pain so phenomenally, explosively perfect that she couldn’t think straight.

His hand toyed with her other breast and then moved lower, stroking her flat stomach and parting her legs, teasing her sex by brushing lightly when she needed so much more and surely he knew it. His mouth then travelled lower, following the path lit by his finger, over her stomach, placing kisses like breadcrumbs, until he buried his head between her legs and his clever, clever tongue began to do things she had no idea any man was capable of.

Emma cried out with no effort at restraining her voice; she couldn’t. Effort of any kind was beyond her, she was purely instinct. Her hands wrestled with the duvet, clinging to it, as her feet pressed into the mattress, pushing up, trying to hold onto something, anything, even as she was losing her grip completely.

“Vasilios,” his name was a curse and a plea. How dare he make her feel like this? But also, please let him never stop. His hands were on her thighs, holding her legs wide, and when she would writhe and twist in an unconscious reaction to the explosion of pleasure, he held her steady and kept tormenting her, until Emma felt herself bursting and exploding, flying like an object into the heavens, amongst the stars, the moon, the galaxy, where feelings like loss and grief no longer had any relevance; there was only this sense of wonderful disembodiment, of sheer, mind-sapping perfection.

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