‘No.’ She opened her mouth, no doubt to add further clarity to this, but Santos wasn’t interested. He pressed a finger to her lips, intending only to silence her, but the moment his flesh connected with her mouth something tightened deep in his abdomen, hardening in his groin, insisting on being acknowledged.
Her eyes were saucer-wide, her lips parting on what he presumed to be an involuntary sigh. Her breath was warm as it wrapped around his finger, making it a temptation that was almost impossible to ignore. He wanted to sink his fingertip into her mouth, to see her full, pink lips wrap around it while those huge eyes of hers bored into his.
Christos, what was happening? She was hardly his type and, more than that, she’d arrived in his home purely with the intention of berating and insulting him. Perhaps that was it—the challenge in her words made him want to answer in a completely different way, to pull her body to his and drop his mouth, claiming hers, dominating her and answering her questions and accusations all at once...
‘No?’ He moved his finger, but didn’t drop it away completely. Instead, he drew it sideways, along her cheek, before padding his thumb over her lower lip, cupping the side of her face in his palm and holding her beneath him, forcing her eyes to meet his after all.
>
She swallowed hard; he felt the movement of her jaw. ‘I don’t have children. But I do know Cameron.’
The words were husky and thick, desire making them more stilted than her previous verbal lashings.
His lips twisted in silent acknowledgement of that; he was no longer interested in discussing his surprise love child with this woman. He moved his body forward almost imperceptibly, closing the small distance between them just sufficiently to feel the softness of her surprisingly generous breasts against his chest.
‘I—’
‘Yes, Amelia?’ What the hell was he doing? Playing with fire, that was what. She was his son’s teacher and she’d come to him with perfectly legitimate concerns. While Santos Anastakos might have earned himself the moniker of billionaire playboy in the tabloids and on gossip blogs, he always knew where to draw the line. He’d never once become involved with a member of his staff, nor had he become involved in affairs—he didn’t do messy, complicated, emotional. This woman didn’t exactly work for him but nor was this straightforward. She’d come to him with concerns about his son and he was turning that into a sensual game of cat and mouse, enjoying the way she was sparring with him even when he resented the hell out of her accusations. This wasn’t a date; it wasn’t just a random encounter in a hotel bar. She was his child’s schoolteacher, so why was he suddenly overcome with an urge to make love to her, right here and now?
Hell, he had Maria waiting for him in the other room, and there was very little doubt in Santos’s mind as to how she wanted their evening together to end. If he wanted sex, then it was there at his disposal, but this wasn’t about the slaking of a physical need. There was something about this particular woman that was drawing him in, making him want her with an urgency he hadn’t felt in a very long time, if ever.
Amelia furrowed her brow as though she were confused, lost, and he knew he should step backward to give her some space and—politely—say to her, thank you for coming but don’t tell me how to raise my own damned kid. Except he didn’t want her to go. Suddenly the idea of Maria’s practised flirtation sat like a noose around his neck and all he could think about was this woman’s fire and spirit, her borderline hostility that was in and of itself so unusual for Santos to encounter these days—or ever.
If she’d had such an obvious reaction to the brushing of their knees, how would she feel if he kissed her? He dropped his head a little, as if weighing up the consequences of that. She smelled like honey and raspberry blossom, reminding him of the hedge along the side of this country estate, all sun-warmed and sweet.
Her eyes widened and perhaps she anticipated his intention. She lifted a hand to the front of his shirt, her fingers splayed wide over his chest, her eyes locked to his. He braced, wondering if she was about to push him away. She didn’t. Her fingers buried themselves in the fabric, holding him right where he was, another breathy exhalation bursting against his jaw, then another, and another, her breathing as frantic as if she’d run a marathon. His body was hyper-charged and attuned to every single shift of hers—he felt her breath, smelled her sweet fragrance, and the tightening of her nipples into buds against his chest made him swallow a guttural groan all of his own.
This was getting out of hand.
He’d never been one for delayed gratification. What was he waiting for? A damned starter’s pistol? That had been fired the second he’d opened the door and seen her standing there.
‘I’m not interested in discussing my son with you, Amelia.’
Again he felt her swallowing motion. ‘Why not?’
He could barely think straight. His mind was filled with the idea of kissing her, of running his tongue over the outline of her lips before plunging it deep into her warm, wet mouth. Of tangling his fingers into the back of her hair, angling her head towards his so he had unfettered access to her mouth, throat, décolletage...
Why not? It was a fair question. One he didn’t want to answer.
Because all I can think of right now is you.
How ridiculous!
Her breath was warm, each little pant of air fanning against his throat. She smelled sweet.
‘I care about Cameron.’ Her voice was shaking as badly as her body. ‘I came here because I think that he’s a little boy who’s had the parameters of his world shattered beyond recognition, and if you take him away from school, from his friends and me, from England, you’ll make it almost impossible for him to recover.’
Her speech was fine but it barely penetrated the fog of his brain. Her eyes were pinned to his, and a silent but volatile arc of electricity buzzed from her to him.
‘We cannot stay here.’ He said the words for his own benefit as much as hers.
‘Not for ever.’ Her hand on his chest shifted, as though she didn’t realise she was still touching him. She dropped it to her side but stayed where she was, their bodies hemmed together by some powerful and invisible force. ‘Just until he’s over this terrible grief.’
His gut rolled at that, his belly filling with pain. Terrible grief. Yes, his son was grieving and, damn it, Santos was the last person on earth who knew how to help him. Hell, Santos had no idea how to be a father, let alone the kind of father who could assist his son in navigating this kind of emotional trauma.
‘I will do what I think best for my son.’ It was another pledge he made more for his own benefit than for hers. In the back of his mind, he wondered why he didn’t move away, why he didn’t step backward, but even as he knew he ought to his body was pressing forward, his head dropping lower, as though her lips were magnetic, drawing him closer.
‘Then you’ll stay in England?’ They were strong words but she swallowed quickly, as though her mouth was dry, her breath thick. Her lips were the palest pink, with the perfect Cupid’s bow shape. He wanted to crush his own to them, to feel their softness beneath his mouth.