“Isn’t what I asked for. It’s what you said I needed, because apparently I need a meek, submissive wife.” He arched a black brow. “Now, there are things I would enjoy from a submissive wife, but it would probably not be what you’re thinking.”
Or would it? She silently countered, as unbidden images came to mind, images of her kneeling before him, worshipping his body, drawing his thick shaft into her mouth, sucking, licking, making him groan and slide a hand into her hair, his fingers wrapping around the strands, holding her head so that he could take his pleasure.
Kassiani exhaled again, her body hot, her senses stirred. Flustered, she pushed back a heavy wave of hair from her face, feeling overly warm, and more than a little claustrophobic, because suddenly the atmosphere felt charged, the air heavy, crackling with awareness, and desire.
She could tell that Damen felt the tension, too, as the look he gave her was blatantly sexual, as was his slow, possessive perusal, his gaze resting on the jut of her breasts and then lower to the swell of her hips and then finally to the hem of her nightgown where it clung to her thigh.
“Let me see you,” he said slowly, arms folding over his chest.
“What do you want to see?”
“Everything.”
“Then let me see you.”
“What do you want to see?”
“Everything.”
He laughed softly and gave his dark head a shake. “You are a fearless negotiator. I admire that.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Now let’s see how good you are at asking for something. What do you want, Petra Kassiani? What would be your pleasure?”
She hesitated, thinking. “Something new. Something we haven’t done. But something I would like,” she added quickly, fighting her blush.
“Oh, that’s easy, then. I haven’t even taken you from behind yet. I think you’ll like that position very much.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
HE WAS RIGHT. She did like that position very, very much.
She was still trying to catch her breath after the most intense orgasm of her life, and Damen was stretched out next to her, his hand lightly running over her back, caressing from her back to her butt, and then up again.
Part of her was so relaxed but another part of her was already being stirred.
“Tell me something about your boyhood,” she murmured, trying to distract herself. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“None. I was an only child.”
“Why?”
“There were complications during my birth. My mother was lucky she and I both survived the pregnancy.”
“That’s scary.”
“I am sure if we lived someplace else, and had easier access to doctors, it might have been less dangerous.”
“You were poor.”
“Very.”
She curled closer to him, her arm wrapping around his waist. “And yet you have so much now.”
“I made a vow when I was fifteen that I would never be poor again, and it’s driven every decision I’ve made since then.”
“What did your father do?”
“He worked in an olive orchard. My mother did, too. They earned so little that they couldn’t afford child care for me, so from the very beginning I went to work with them, first strapped to my mother’s back as an infant, and then later I ran about, trying to help. I didn’t actually get paid until the year I turned ten. That was a big deal for me, and my family. It wasn’t much compared to what my father earned, but it helped.”
She pressed her hand to his chest, just above his heart. They’d had such different backgrounds, such different lives, and yet here they were together. “When did you find time to go to school?”
“I went seasonally. When I wasn’t needed in the groves or the olive press.”
“It doesn’t sound like you had a lot of formal education, then.”
“I attended off and on until I was fourteen—” He broke off, jaw hardening, brow darkening. “And that was the end of my boyhood. I never went back to school, and within eighteen months, I left our island, Adras, for good.”
“Where did you go?”
“Athens. I got a job in the dockyards and worked hard, and here I am.”
“How does a relatively uneducated boy become...you?”
“Relentless ambition.” He smiled grimly. “And the desire for revenge.”
She pushed up on her elbow to get a better look at his face. “Revenge? Why?”
“When you are poor, you are dependent on others.” His jaw flexed. “There is a terrible imbalance of power.”
She frowned. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing I discuss. It’s just...fuel. Anger and desperation are remarkable motivators.”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he answered carelessly, his voice hardening. He sat up and kissed her forehead. “And now I just like working hard. Work gives me a reason to wake up every day. It gives satisfaction at the end of the day.” He glanced at the bedside clock. “I’m actually hungry. Are you?”
“Hasn’t your chef gone to bed?”
“No one sleeps if I want something,” he said so matter-of-factly that she smiled.
And then he smiled, too, as if amused by his own arrogance. “All I want is a snack,” he added, “and half the fun of a snack is going through the refrigerator and pantry to see what you can find.”
The kitchen was surprisingly large with an enormous center island dominating the middle of the room. The backsplash, refrigerators, stove, ovens, even the four portholes above the prep area, all gleamed silver, while the cabinets were a rich espresso and the counters a creamy ivory marble shot with veins of pale caramel.
It was a beautiful space, and welcoming. Kassiani ran her hand over one of the lovely marble work surfaces. “This is a gorgeous kitchen. I wouldn’t mind cooking in here. The kitchen on our family yacht isn’t half as nice. For one, there are no windows or portholes, and for another, it’s a rather hideous vanilla-and-stainless mix, and not pretty stainless like this, but restaurant grade and very commercial looking. This is like something you’d see in a stunning house.”
“My chef is picky. He wouldn’t come on board if he didn’t have the right appliances and utensils and work space.”
“You must like your chef quite a bit, then. My father fired staff right and left. He had no qualms replacing them.”
“Most of my staff have been with me for a while now. There are a few new faces on this sailing, but the majority have been on my payroll for years. I’m happier surrounded by familiar staff, people I know I can count on.”
Kassiani was surprised. She’d gotten the impression that Damen wasn’t attached to anyone, or anything. “Do you spend that much time on your yacht to keep everyone fully employed, then?”
“Half of the crew only work here on the yacht, while the other half work for me in another capacity. My chef here is also my chef in Athens. I just steal him from the house and bring him on board. Some of the housekeeping staff are also from Athens. Three of the hands work on my Adras estate, while others are from my Sounio villa.”
“So are those your main homes?” she asked as he opened the refrigerator and began pulling out cheese after cheese, as well as a plastic container filled with washed fruit. “Athens, Sounio and Adras?”
He moved to a cabinet and found plates and silverware. “I have an apartment in London, but I haven’t been in years. Too busy working to travel.” Damen deftly arranged place settings in front of them before going to the tall narrow pantry and retrieving a set of pottery jars she suspected were filled with olives.
The jars of olives joined the cheese and fruit. Damen lifted the lid on one jar a
nd, using a tiny wooden fork, reached in to pluck out a tiny, dark green olive. He held the olive to her mouth in an offering, and she took it, licking her lower lip to capture the droplet of olive oil. “Delicious,” she said.
“Some people call these Cretan olives, but we also grow them on Adras.”
He reached into another jar, and stabbed a small light green olive. “These are nafplion. One of my favorites. The texture is firm and a little crunchy, and the flavor is even better. Slightly nutty, slightly smoky. These are a true table olive and perfect with a sprinkle of lemon juice and bit of dill.”
She plucked the offered olive from the wooden fork and popped it into her mouth. He was right. It was a little bit crunchy and deliciously salty and somewhat nutty. “That is amazing,” she said.
“There is nothing better than olives and bread. Now we just need bread.” He turned around, his gaze narrowing as it swept the kitchen. Everything was so tidy. There was no food out anywhere on the counters. “Chef used to have a bread box where he kept the loaves, and the leftovers, but I don’t see it.”
“I’ll have a look,” she offered.
And as she moved past him to search the pantry, he caught her by the neck, his hand wrapping around her nape, and drew her to him.
Kassiani felt a jolt of electricity as his head dropped and his lips covered hers. She felt another sharp surge of sensation as his mouth moved across hers. He was hungry and he parted her lips, claiming her mouth, making her weak in the knees.
She always responded to him, and desire washed through her, hot and needy, her body softening against him, her arms reaching up to wrap his neck and bring him even closer. Damen held her firmly and she relished the feel of his hard, warm, muscular body pressed to hers as well as the seductive promise of his shaft urgent against her belly.
Nothing in her life had prepared her for this heat and desire. This physical need matched her emotional need, creating a vast yearning for more. Being in Damen’s arms made her feel powerful and vulnerable at the same time, and she wanted to be completely herself, and completely real. Was this love? Or was this lust? She didn’t know. She wished she knew. She wished she’d had more experience because what she felt with Damen was incredible and consuming and she couldn’t imagine ever feeling this way with anyone else. It was as if he had been made for her. His body was extraordinary, and the way he used his body was extraordinary. She loved his scent, his skin and the very shape of him.