And then his hand was at her waist, fingers stroking down to her hip and then trailing over her outer thigh. Every place he touched felt hot and tingly. The kiss was consuming, and yet Georgia was constantly aware of the caressing fingers on her hip bone and thigh, and then the press of his palm against her mound.
He worked the heel of his palm against her, applying just enough pressure to the sensitive nub to draw a muffled groan from her.
It felt good to be touched, and he knew how to touch her. He was making her melt on the inside, and she wanted more...more skin, more sensation, more pleasure.
She arched as his hand moved to her waistband, playing with the elastic band before easing it open. She felt the whoosh of cool air on her stomach and then the warmth of his hand on her skin.
Georgia closed her eyes as he slid his hand down across her belly, fingers light on her tummy, caressing to her hip bone, stroking there and setting fire to all the nerves everywhere.
She hadn’t known her hip bone was sensitive, but clearly he knew something about women’s bodies that she didn’t. He was stroking down her hip and then beneath the curve of her buttock, cupping the cheek, sending shivers of pleasure everywhere. His touch was maddening, the caress stimulating not soothing. She ached between her thighs, her core clenching, and she pressed her breasts to his chest, rubbing the peaked tips across his, craving friction.
She wasn’t wearing anything under her pajama pants and all she could think about was how much she liked the feel of his skin on hers, and the pressure of his hand, and the way his fingertips sent rivulets of pleasure racing through her. And while it was good, she wasn’t satisfied. She wanted more...his hand between her thighs, his fingers on the sensitive nub.
But Nikos wasn’t in a hurry. He seemed to enjoy the slow exploration, discovering who she was, and how she responded. She tried to be patient, tried to savor the feel of his warm palm sliding across her hip and thigh, drawing circles of fire wherever he touched, but she was melting on the inside and aching for relief.
His hand now was there, between her legs, tracing the seam of her, and then parting the soft folds. She began to shake, and she leaned against him for support, her legs no longer steady. Her thoughts were becoming incoherent as her body took over, focused on friction, sensation, satisfaction.
He stroked her, and she could feel how slick his fingers were just from touching her. “You are so wet,” he growled, biting at her neck and then kissing where he’d just bit.
She was, too. She could feel the slippery tip of his finger stroke where she was so sensitive, and she groaned against his mouth. He did it again, this time drinking the cry of pleasure from her.
He caressed her until she dug her nails into his chest, and then he slid a finger inside her, carefully, gently, finding that spot that made sensation even more intense. He worked his hand, in and out, stroking her there, and she trembled against him. He seemed to know what she wanted before she even wanted it, drawing her in, making her ache and arch, yearning for that release that was just beyond her.
“Nikos,” she sighed huskily, clinging to him.
He buried his finger deep, and she rocked on it, but the release wouldn’t come. Hot, frustrated tears burned the backs of her eyes. She ached and wanted and needed.
“Nikos,” she repeated, pleading for what she knew he could give her.
“Agapiméni,” he murmured.
She didn’t know what he said, she didn’t care just then what the word meant, either. She only knew she needed him. She kissed him desperately, hands clasping his face, lips and mouth drawing the very air from his lungs. She kissed him as if he were her last breath on earth, and maybe he was, because suddenly his thumb was there, at her nub, stroking her.
Georgia was already wound so tight, nerves stretched to breaking, that just those couple of flicks of his thumb across her clit made her shatter, climaxing violently. The orgasm ricocheted through her, and she clung helplessly to him, her body shuddering with pleasure.
For a long minute after, she just leaned against him, listening to his heart, feeling the firm, even thud beneath her ear, struggling to catch her breath.
She didn’t know why everything between them was so explosive, but the chemistry was beyond anything she’d ever felt, and just when she thought it couldn’t be hotter, or more electric, he proved her wrong.
She slowly peeled away to look at him. Her pulse still raced and her body felt deliciously weak as she gazed up at Nikos, unable to think of a single thing to say.
He stared back at her, his eyes dark and focused and mysterious in the soft lighting of her bedroom. “Say it,” he ground out tautly, adjusting the waist on her pajama pants and tugging her pajama top down.
She frowned a little, trying to figure out what he wanted from her. His expression was hard. White lines formed at his mouth. He looked almost...heartsick.
“Say what?” she whispered.
“How I disgust you, and how I forced you—”
“But you didn’t, and you don’t disgust me.” She reached out to touch his chest, but he put a hand up, blocking her.
He made a hoarse sound and walked out, the door slamming loudly behind him.
* * *
Nikos avoided her the next day, and the day after.
Georgia told herself that she shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d pulled away. It was the pattern now. But that didn’t make the rejection any easier.
And the closer she and Nikos became, the more the distance hurt.
What had happened in her bedroom was intense—physically, emotionally—and part of her felt raw and rejected, but another part of her told her that Nikos was struggling even more.
She didn’t know why intimacy was so difficult for him, but there was obviously an issue. He lived alone in the middle of the ocean, refusing to even visit the Greek mainland for medical appointments, insisting everyone come to him.
So, yes, she felt rejected, abandoned, but he was also wrestling with demons, and after two days of silence and distance, Georgia had had enough.
She found him on the top of the mountain, running sprints. He didn’t see her there, not at first, and she watched him for almost five minutes, seeing him tear across the tarmac at full speed, running as if the devil himself was at his back.
Her heart ached. He was so tortured. His suffering baffled her.
What had happened? And why?
Obviously he blamed himself.
But this kind of self-abasement wasn’t healthy. The way he handled stress worried her. Was this how he’d raise the baby? Would he handle problems as a father with the same punitive attitude?
She walked onto the tarmac, crossing the broad warm asphalt until she stood right where he was running.
Nikos dragged himself to an abrupt stop. He pulled out his earbuds, let them fall onto his shoulders. She could hear loud, pulsating rock music. It was the percussion-heavy, guitar-blazing, head-banging kind.
He was sweating profusely. His olive cheeks had a dark, dusky glow.
He looked past her, and then returned his focus to her. “How did you get here?”
“I walked.”
“It’s a long, steep climb.”
“I took my time.” She folded her arms over her chest, chilled by the wind. It was a blustery day. She’d been fine while walking, but standing still, she was cold.
Nikos just looked at her, distant, detached. There was no light or warmth in his eyes. She was reminded of the day she’d arrived. He was that Nikos Panos. Icy. Authoritative. Slightly hostile.
Her upper lip curled. It was smile or she’d cry. When she realized he wasn’t going to speak, she did. “I’m worried about you, Nikos.”
“There is no need to worry about me. I am not your
concern.”
“The nightmares were worse last night.”
His head jerked up, and he gave her a sharp look. “Am I part of the nightmares?”
“You were last night, yes.”
“What did I do?”
Her chest tightened. It hurt to breathe. “Nothing.” She saw he didn’t understand. “You did nothing, and that was the problem. The baby cried and cried, and you wouldn’t hold him or pick him up and I couldn’t get there and I couldn’t help him—”
“So this wasn’t about your family or you. This was about me and my son?”
Her heart did a painful double beat. “I’m worried about you, and how it will be when I leave. You can’t just run away from things, Nikos. You have to face them—”
“I don’t need the lecture, gynaika.”
She’d found out from the cook what that word, gynaika, meant. It was woman. I don’t need the lecture, woman.
She exhaled in a little puff of sound. He was positively medieval, and when he glowered at her—as he was now—scary as hell, but she couldn’t back down. She had to do this, if not for his sake, then for the child they’d created.
“I am concerned. And you need to know that I’m troubled by what I see. You have moments where you are present and attentive, but then there are times like now, where you’re so detached it’s frightening. Nikos, this isn’t the life I imagined for the baby.” She saw his expression darken, the set of his mouth becoming grim. “It is one thing for you to retreat and detach if you have a wife and family, but you don’t. You will be a single father, and you are so isolated here. The baby will be so isolated here. It’s worrying.”
“Worrying?” he repeated.
She heard the edge in his voice. Her pulse quickened in response. She had to be careful; she was walking on dangerous ground. “You must admit that is not going to be a conventional upbringing, living here on Kamari with just the two of you.”
“I have staff.”
“That is fine, then, if you are comfortable with them becoming extended family...grandparents, uncles, aunts—”
“They are staff.”
She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “Don’t you want your son to have more? Don’t you want him to be loved and have family?”