A Touch of Sin (36 page)

"Don't worry," he murmured, sliding from the bed.

"Because you can walk on glass and I can't?" But the acid was gone from her voice this time.

"Because I can reach across that mess and pick you up," he prosaically replied.

"Oh." It was a very small sound.

"I don't have an agenda," he murmured, arms open, palms up, like a prisoner surrendering.

She looked at him for a moment, his strength and power in repose, his temper extinguished, the heat in his eyes bereft of animosity, just warmly tempting. "I haven't thanked you properly for rescuing me."

"You haven't thanked me at all." But he spoke very softly, the intimation that she could thank him if she cared to, hushed.

"You're too far away."

"Better?" he said a second later, having picked her up, and swung her over the shards. Holding her in his arms, he now viewed her with a sweetly quizzical look that had nothing to do with a war in Greece or male possession. That reminded her instead of a wickedly unbridled, indulgent young man she'd entertained in her bedroom at Burleigh House. "Damn, you're loveable," she whispered.

He grinned. "Does that mean I should bathe in a hurry?"

"Oh, yes."

When she asked, he said, "No, don't help me. That won't help at all," and he proceeded to wash swiftly in the now cool water.

She stood and waited, shifting impatiently from foot to foot like a child waiting for a prize until he finally said, grinning, "Come here." But he didn't let her in the tub. "This water has a hundred miles of dirt in it while you're squeaky clean." Reaching out with the hand not shampooing his hair, he pulled her up against the rim of the copper tub, slipped his hand between her legs, and slid two fingers inside her.

She caught her breath at the tremulous flurry of pleasure seeping upward from the point of contact. The intensity of the drugs in her body had diminished from the raging, torrid peak, but the residue still exerted considerable libidinous ferment. And she found herself strangely restless, overwrought, a simple touch keenly felt, feverish beyond her memories of fevered need.

"More," she said, leaning into his hand.

And he obliged, dexterous in not losing the rhythm even when he briefly submerged to rinse the soap from his hair. "That will do now," he murmured, coming out of the water, rising to his knees. "This level of cleanliness will have to suffice." And leaning over, he gently spread her legs, placed his tongue on the pulsing tissue of her clitoris, and licked with such delicacy, she fervently whispered, "Oh, my God…"

The heated pleasure pulsed in a widening effervescence, spreading outward from the expert ministrations of his tongue and fingers, intensifying with provocative subtlety, the glow moving by minute degrees to tinder point, the feeling so deliriously fine, she cried, "No, no, no," as her climax washed over her, not wanting it to end.

Her eyes opened after a languorous time.

"Welcome back." Pasha smiled up at her, and rising to his feet a moment later, he stepped from the tub.

"I'd forgotten—" she softly breathed, not moving, the heat still fluttering through her senses.

He cast her a small incredulous look as he reached for a towel. She was no novice to orgasms.

"—how good you are."

The cynical taint vanished from his gaze. "Well, thank you, ma'am," he murmured, amusement rife in his tone. "Allow me to refresh your memory tonight."

"You bring me such joy, Pasha." She was touched by feelings that transcended all the poetic, poignant, most zealous sentiments of love and affection. She gazed at him, his smile so generous, lighthearted, roguish, and blissfully hers at the moment.

"I'd ride to the ends of the earth for what you bring me," he said, tossing the towel aside, closing the distance between them.

"I'm very grateful you came for me. Words can't adequately convey how deep-felt my feelings."

"I know." He pulled her into his arms, experiencing the same profound gratitude. He would have killed a hundred men to have her back, although he was careful to make no mention of his bloodthirsty thoughts.

"But I don't want to waste time talking."

His brows rose. That was his line.

Her arms twined around his waist, she gazed up at him. "Just hold me and love me," she gently said.

"With pleasure," he smoothly replied, but the smallest niggling unease crept into his mind. Had he met a woman like himself, interested in transient pleasure, in living only for the moment? She was certainly unconventional, sailing to Greece to find him, and so irrepressibly seductive he found himself contemplating the idea of a harem without complete repugnance.

"I don't want to think about anything tonight," Trixi whispered, having been too recently traumatized to begin sorting out the disarray of her emotions. "I want only to feel."

The too-familiar words struck him oddly, as if he were listening and speaking simultaneously.

"Kiss me," she whispered, rising on tiptoe.

Disturbed by her frankness, he almost said no. But ultimately not
that
disturbed, his libido reminded him. A monk he was not.

He kissed her.

And then she kissed him.

Everywhere as it turned out.

Very quickly he decided he preferred the bed. "You taste lemony," she murmured, moments later, trailing kisses down his stomach.

"It's the soap." No longer concerned with unresolved issues, his mind was as focused on feeling as hers.

"Does everything taste lemony?" she seductively purred, touching the crest of his erection quivering just short of his navel.

"Let me know." His voice was rough-soft, a smile beneath the words.

She forced his arousal upright and licked the engorged head like a lollipop, wetting it completely with her tongue, watching it swell larger, her body responding to the tempting sight. The ache between her legs intensified, the throbbing accelerated as she drew the crest into her mouth and softly sucked.

There was never a time in his life that he'd wanted a woman with such pressing urgency, and only seconds later, lifting her head away, he abruptly said, "That's enough."

Pulling her down beside him, he immediately rolled over her, forced her legs apart, and drove into her. "There," he murmured, half under his breath, plunging in with a savage thrust, yielding to the most selfish of impulses. He felt an overwhelming need to possess her in the most elemental way—dominant male to submissive female. No games, no seduction, no motive beyond the inexcusable one of ownership. "I'm sorry," he whispered, penetrating deeper, as if the words absolved his brute, primal urges.

"I want you more," she breathed, understanding, clinging to him. "Let me feel you…"

She offered him all he wished, because she wished it, too, perhaps more. He was like water to her parched soul, joy to her deprivation, the lodestone of her desire.

They made love that night like two people who had almost lost each other, whose lives had been in mortal peril.

Who had survived.

Toward morning, when carnal passion had been slaked and languor had overcome desire, they lay in each other's arms content. "Stay with me," Pasha said, lightly stroking her back, "so I can always feel you."

"How can I refuse?" she whispered, half asleep in his arms.

"Good." He shut his eyes, tightening his grip.

Paradise was within reach.

The ride to Nauplia the next morning was dew fresh, sparkling, a new day, a new beginning, and as they rode side by side, they discussed staying together—"permanently," Pasha said. An evasion of sorts for a man who had not to date considered any permanence in his life, the word just short of the fearful word, marriage.

But Trixi was content with any nuance of the word permanent, feeling blissfully happy. She smiled across at him.

He smiled back, all the memories of the previous night joyfully filling his mind, happiness oddly tangible, alive as he gazed at her. It also helped that Hussein Djeritl was dead.

They stopped for lunch at a friend's house outside Tripolitza, a poet who fought for the Greek cause because he had a wife and young children who needed to be free, he said. As they were leaving, he gave them a poem he'd written, for a wedding present, he jovially declared.

Riding away from the small house, Pasha looked at Trixi and smiled. "Well, what do you think?"

"About the price of currants or something more personal?"

"Something more personal."

"Are you capable of saying the word?" she teased, in tune with his thoughts.

"Certainly. Are you?"

A small silence fell, only the sound of hoofbeats echoing on the summer air. "I can say the word marriage," she slowly replied, "but the concept brings up demons I'm not sure I can deal with."

"We don't
have
to get married," he casually remarked, but rather than relieved, he felt disgruntled. Perhaps he'd always had women say yes, perhaps he'd gotten what he wanted too long. Or maybe he was finding he couldn't live without Trixi Grosvenor.

"We certainly don't have to get married today," she pleasantly remarked, cowardly, evading all her demons.

"What if I want to marry you today?" The grievance over Hussein reasserted itself in his mind as did the unanswered question of a pregnancy. She seemed immune to both; did she prefer her freedom?

"You're joking."

"Answer the question."

"It's too sudden."

"Do you love me or don't you? That's simple enough." A small truculence colored his words.

"I do love you." She had for a very long time.

"Marry me, then."

"My Lord, we're riding another three hours to Nauplia. You've had too much sun. Why so insistent?"

Leaning over, he grabbed her reins and drew them both to a halt near a small grove of olive trees. Dismounting, he tied the horses, walked around her mount, and put his hands up to her. "Get down."

"I thought we settled all the tyrannical behavior last night."

"Please dismount, Lady Grosvenor," he said, punctiliously courteous. "I have a matter of some importance to discuss with you."

"You
have
had too much sun," she playfully said, sliding into his arms, her heart suddenly beating wildly.

He set her on her feet and taking her hand, drew her under the shade of an olive tree. "There's a possibility I may have lost my mind," he said with a faint smile, knowing he was jettisoning Hussein together with all the corollary emotional baggage. "Certainly, I've lost my seat at the Libertine Bachelor's Club, for which I'll have to forfeit a hefty sum for their next revel—if you say yes," he softly finished.

"Seriously?"

"I've never been more serious," he gravely said, all levity gone from his face. "This is a long way to come to find love."

"You didn't see it in Kent?"

"No, nor did you." He glanced around as if searching for some esoteric sign. "Am I right?" he softly inquired, his dark gaze frank, direct.

She nodded.

"I hope you don't need all the gracious phrases," he went on, tipping his head marginally by way of apology. "I'm not capable of that. But I want you to marry me."

"Why?" She should be sensible and just say yes, but this was too sudden and he was more emphatic than romantic.