Aris wrapped his fingers around my throat with just enough strength to make me feel the delicious threat of his control. “Youwill take every inch of me, agápi mou, yes?” he murmured, his voice rough with promise.
My eyes burned. This was the last time. It had to be. After tonight, I’d never feel this again—never feel him again. Never hear that endearment from his lips.
I wanted to memorize his weight above me, the stretch when he filled me, the way his accent thickened when he lost control. Soon memory would be all I had, and I already knew it wouldn’t be enough.
His free hand found my nipple, pinching hard enough to make me whimper before his mouth replaced his fingers, sucking hard. Then Aris thrust inside, filling me in one brutal stroke.
I cried out, my back bowing off the mattress, my legs trembling. The sensations—his cock filling me to the brim, his teeth grazing my sensitive peak, his fingers tightening around my throat—sent me spiraling. I could feel my orgasm building, something deeper and more intense than anything I’d ever experienced.
“Aris—I can’t…”
The words dissolved into a broken moan as his hips snapped against mine, his rhythm punishing. My muscles locked, my breath hitched, and then a rush of warmth flooded between us, soaking the sheets beneath me.
My eyes flew open in shock. “Oh my God—did I just—?”
The girls had talked about squirting—Michelle especially, always oversharing after her third glass of wine—but I’d never...
Embarrassment burned through me as I tried to scramble away, but Aris held me in place.
“Aris, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make a mess.”
His dark chuckle sent a tremor through my core. “Do not apologize.” His voice was thick with male satisfaction. “You know how fucking beautiful this was, yes?” His thumb brushed my clit, sending aftershocks through my oversensitive body.“This, it is what I do to you, moro mou. This is how good you feel.”
I stared at him, stunned, aroused, and mortified all at once. At forty-two years old, I thought I knew my body. Thought I’d experienced everything.
Aris proved me wrong.
“You will do this again before I am done with you, yes?” he promised, leaning down to capture my mouth.
8
“Antonis Tsolakidis has hired an army of attorneys overnight,” Kostas said, his voice tight with concern. “They’re demanding access to the museum’s security footage to find out who released that sex tape of his daughter.”
Dimitrios waved a dismissive hand. “Let them search. I’m sure Santo was smart enough to cover his tracks.”
Their words drifted past me. Under normal circumstances, any potential threat to my son would have pulled me to full alertness. Yet this morning, seated in our family’s salon, my mind was anchored to silk sheets, bronze skin and to waking in an empty apartment.
“We can’t be certain it was Santo,” Kostas defended. “He may be impulsive, but he’s not crass enough to expose a woman in that manner.”
“Aris?” Dimi’s voice cut through my thoughts. “You’re unusually quiet on this matter.”
“I’ve raised my son to handle his own battles.”
“Since when?” Kostas laughed. “You’ve protected him since you brought him home from the hospital.”
I reached for my coffee, taking a sip before setting the cup back onto its saucer. Chrysanthos was vengeful when wounded—a trait I recognized all too well—and probably guilty of orchestrating Katalina’s embarrassment at the gala the previous evening.
“Even if it was him,” I said carefully, “dwelling on it solves nothing. What’s done is done.”
Kostas’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s it?”
“Chrysanthos is a grown man.”
“Unbelievable,” Dimitrios laughed. “Any other day, you’d be calling him into your office and delivering a lecture. What’s different today?”
What was different? In twenty-four hours, Dede would board a plane and disappear across an ocean, taking with her the happiness I hadn’t known was missing until I’d found it in her arms.
“I simply recognize when a situation requires action and when it requires patience.”
