They were in the Banquet Room of the royal palace, surrounded by almost two hundred people, the heir to the throne sitting only six seats to her right. And she was bubbling up with lust.
During the rest of the banquet she made a studious effort to speak to the gentleman on her right, a prince from the UK. Through it all, though, her mind, her senses, her everything were consumed by Talos, deep in conversation with the woman to his left, a duchess from Spain.
Somehow their chairs had edged closer so his thigh brushed against hers, and when their dessert of loukoumades—a delicious Greek doughnut, drizzled with honey, cinnamon and walnuts—was cleared away, and they were awaiting the final course of fresh fruit, a shock ran through her when his hand came to rest on her thigh.
She wished she’d tried to talk Natalia into a different material for the dress; something lighter. The heavy fabric suited the theatricality of the dress beautifully, but while she could feel the weight of Talos’s hand there was none of the heat her body craved.
It wasn’t enough.
She wanted to feel him.
Sucking in a sharp breath to tame the thundering of her heart, she casually straightened, then moved her hand under the table to rest on his. As she threaded her fingers through his he gave the gentlest of squeezes, and that one simple action sent tiny darts of sensation rippling through her abdomen.
Strong coffee and glasses of port were poured, whilst the British Prince chattered on about one of the charities he was patron of. Amalie tried hard to keep her attention fixed on him, smiling in all the right places, laughing when appropriate, all the while wishing every guest there would magically disappear and leave her alone with Talos.
She hadn’t drunk much wine—a couple of glasses at most—but felt as if she’d finished a whole bottle, because at that moment she felt giddily out of control.
Talos still had hold of her thigh, his thumb making circular motions on the material so torturously barricading him from her skin.
She had no idea where her nerve came from—maybe her fingers had a life of their own, because they moved away from his hand to tentatively brush his thigh. He stiffened at her touch, his own hand tightening its hold on her.
The British Prince chattered on, clearly oblivious to the undercurrents playing out beside him.
Slowly her fingers crept over Talos’s thigh until her whole hand rested on it. The fabric of his trousers felt silken to her fingers, contrasting with the taut muscularity they covered. She could feel him.
He sat as stiff as a statue, making no attempt to move when, with a flush of heat she realised her little finger was right at the crevice of his thigh, the line of the V that connected it to his groin...
A feeling of recklessness overtook her and she swiped the little finger up a little further—deeper into his heat, closer to the source of his masculinity.
The statue came to life.
Talos swept his hand away from her thigh to reach for his port, which he swilled down before putting the glass back on the table. Not that she saw him do any of those things, rather she felt them, her attention still, to anyone interested enough to be watching, fixed on the British Prince.
Then Talos’s hand was back under the table and clasping hers, which was slowly stroking his thigh, her little finger brushing the V of his groin. Twisting it so he could hold it tightly, he entwined his fingers in hers.
‘Are you okay?’ the British Prince asked, pausing in his talk on water sanitation in developing countries. ‘You look flushed.’
She felt her neck and cheeks flame. ‘I think I need some air, that’s all,’ she said to the Prince, hoping she didn’t sound as flustered as she felt inside.
A warm arm slipped behind her back and round her waist and Talos was there, pressing against her, ostensibly having abandoned his conversation with the Duchess to join in with theirs.
‘Don’t worry, little songbird,’ he said, his deep voice sending reverberating thrills racing through her. ‘The banquet will soon be over.’
Talos felt as if he needed air too...
If her hand had moved any higher and actually touched the hardness that was causing him such aching pain he would have come undone on the spot.
Never in his life had he been so aroused, not even yesterday in the cottage where, despite their lack of clothing, it had been a different arousal.
He sensed no fear in Amalie now.
No, this was a special kind of sweet torture and in front of all Helios’s guests he was unable to do a damn thing about it.
So long as he kept her hand away from his crotch he would master it. The most sensible option would be to stop touching her altogether, but sensible didn’t count for anything—not when it was Amalie Cartwright he was touching.