She shook her head, needing to put an end to this. It had taken all her strength in his office; if she wasn’t careful, she’d lose herself completely to this sense of madness. ‘It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘But you did.’
She nodded, searching for an excuse.
‘Because that night in my office, if you hadn’t moved away from me, I would have kissed you.’
She was drowning all over again, trying to draw in air and failing. She had no idea how to respond to that.
‘And I don’t think we would have stopped at a kiss, Miss Ashford.’ Her name was a slow, sensual seduction on his lips. It shimmied through her, threatening to mould her into something new and unrecognisable. Her skin was covered in goose bumps, her blood rushing in anticipation and hope—she needed him to touch her. She needed him to kiss her, just as he’d said he’d wanted to. God help her, she was losing herself to him, to the ocean, the endless sea, of possibilities.
She angled her face to his, her lips parted in an unspoken invitation, her eyes wide. ‘What would have happened, Santos?’ She liked using his name. It was a leveller of sorts, making her feel like his equal instead of a woefully inexperienced child.
Something flared in his gaze, a heat that pooled lava in the pit of her abdomen. His hands curled around her coffee cup, lifting it to her lips so she could take a sip, then placing it on the table behind them without moving away from her at all. ‘I would have made love to you.’
So simple, so erotic.
Her eyes swept shut on the imagery it conveyed, on the very idea of that! Where she should have been glad she’d broken the strange tension that had imprisoned them both, she felt only remorse now. What would it have been like to experience that?
‘I would have stripped your clothes from your body until you were naked and trembling.’ His fingers brushed her thighs, just beneath the hem of her dress. ‘And I would have kissed you everywhere, tasting you, driving you to the brink of insanity before making you mine in every way.’ He dropped his head and his lips brushed hers so briefly she thought she’d imagined it; but, no, there was an explosive feeling against her flesh that showed it had been real. A pulse ran the length of her spine.
He moved his mouth towards her ear, speaking low and soft. ‘The first time would have been fast. I needed you too much to take it slowly. But afterwards, I would have carried you upstairs to my room, laid you naked in my bed and spent the night devouring you, not letting you sleep, not letting you breathe except to scream my name.’
‘Santos.’ The word was a hopeless surrender, thready and soft. She wa
sn’t sure if she was imploring him to stop speaking that way or to speak less and do more but she whispered his name beseechingly.
She needed to regain her sanity, to keep hold of what she knew to be the facts. ‘And then what?’ The words were still soft, her voice box bowled over by sensual needs, but there was strength in the words too, courage and willingness.
‘And then what?’ he repeated, the hands on her thighs moving the fabric a little, so his fingertips brushed the flesh at the top of her legs. She trembled in response, a thousand waves rocking through her.
Thought became a distant possibility, an island far out at sea. But she had to cling to it—every instinct she possessed was telling her she’d drown if she didn’t. This was Santos Anastakos—a playboy! Way out of her league in every way and used to women falling at his feet. Did she really want to become just another notch on his bedpost? ‘And then you’d have made me coffee the next morning, sent me away?’ She couldn’t quite summon a smile. ‘And forgotten my name?’
His head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. Looking at him properly, she could see the rough hewing in and out of his chest as he dragged in breaths—he was as affected by this as she was, as completely at risk of drowning, despite his considerable experience.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You think I didn’t look you up on the internet?’ She was trembling all over. Her body had never been at war with her mind before and now they were poles apart. She was having a visceral reaction to the idea of stepping backward, but mentally she was already distancing herself from him and the tension that pulled at her belly when they were near each other.
His eyes became guarded, his features an impenetrable mask. ‘And what did the Internet have to say about me?’
Heat flushed her entire body. ‘That you make love to a lot of women.’ She dropped her gaze. ‘That you have a habit of breaking hearts.’
‘Breaking hearts?’ He repeated the words with an emotional resonance that wasn’t exactly amusement; if anything, it was more like shock. ‘Amelia, believe me, I don’t break anyone’s heart. No one’s heart—’ he said the word with disdain ‘—is involved. The women I’m with know exactly what I want from them before anything happens.’ His eyes scrutinised her face. ‘Do you think I would have broken your heart?’
‘No, of course not,’ she denied immediately. ‘But I’m nothing like you think. I’m nothing like Maria.’
‘I know that,’ he conceded swiftly, a frown furrowing his brow.
‘I’m not someone who just sleeps with men.’ She wished the words didn’t sound so prudish! So disapproving! She wasn’t. If anything, she was jealous of all the normal sexual exploration teens engaged in, the comfortable getting to know one’s body—and other people’s bodies—all the while learning what incites pleasure and enjoyment. She wished she’d had that experience, but nothing about her life had been normal. Her academic abillity had been endlessly isolating, then her parents cutting her from their life had further isolated her—she was, and had been for a long time, all alone.
‘And you’ve had your heart broken before,’ he guessed bitterly.
She had, but not in a romantic sense. No, it had been her parents, again and again; it had been the realisation as a teenager that their love for her was intrinsically tied to her academic achievements, her rare brilliance the only quality of hers they cared for, and particularly how it benefited them. She would never forget how they’d reacted on the day she’d told them she was leaving the International Agency of Space Exploration to become a teacher.
She pushed those thoughts aside. Even in that moment the things her parents had said to her, their threats and anger, had the power to hurt. It had been a valuable lesson, one Amelia would always remember: even people who claimed to love you could turn on a dime. No one was safe—love was fickle.
Santos was looking at her as though waiting for an answer. She considered his question and finally shook her head. He was asking about romantic pain, and with that she was a stranger.