Sway With Me (Inspiring the Greek Billionaire) (15 page)

He nodded and padded over to the iPod stereo. My Lord, that man had a fine ass. The sound of the music lowered and changed to a slow Aerosmith tune. He peered over his shoulder and grinned. “Are you checking out my butt?”

“No.” Her cheeks heated. Yeah, even if he hadn’t outright caught her staring at his behind, he’d know from her blush.

He set the wood down next to the speaker and strode to her, his hand outstretched. She swallowed, unable to make herself say the words she’d come to tell him. A rush of liquid heat ran through her veins as his fingers laced with hers, and he tugged her to his naked chest. He smelled different, the scent of wood mixed with his usual clean fragrance.

“I had a dream last night,” he said matter-of-factly, with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “You and I lived in Greece in a small cottage by the sea. We were married—”

“Ryan,” she interrupted, intending to stop him from telling her the rest and from making it harder to reveal what she needed to.

He lifted two fingers against her lips. “Shh. I’m not done. I was an artist and you were my Muse. You told me you were pregnant and I was the happiest man alive. I pulled you down to the grass to make love to you.”

His thumb glided over her lips sensuously just as they’d caressed the wood, and she bit her tongue to keep from taking it into her mouth. Their gazes locked as their bodies swayed to the music. His hand slid to cup her chin, as his mouth came closer and closer.

She sucked in a shaky breath. “I’m going on a date with Dillon tonight.”

He tensed. Dropped his hands. Stepped away.

The hurt in his eyes nearly tore her to shreds. Why was she doing this?

Before she could change her mind and tell him she wouldn’t go, she choked back a sob and turned on her heels, leaving him and her broken heart behind.

Chapter 15

If you be well pleased with this

And hold your fortune for your bliss,

Turn you where your lady is

And claim her with a loving kiss.

William Shakespeare,
Merchant of Venice,
act 3, scene 2

Braden poured Ryan a glass of
ouzo
. “You haven’t slept with her yet? Don’t you remember our pact? That’s the easiest and most enjoyable way to get a woman out of your system. Have I taught you nothing?” He looked at him with both a touch of disgust and envy as he pushed the glass in front of Ryan.

The perfect choice of drink. Traditionally, Greeks didn’t drink
ouzo
“dry hammer,” on an empty stomach, because its high sugar content slows the alcoholic effects until the imbiber drinks more than he should and it’s crept up on him all at once. Kind of like Portia had done with him. Her sweetness had blindsided him into believing he could trust her, and then today she’d dropped a bomb on him by accepting another date with Dillon. He couldn’t help but sneer when he thought of that guy.

Screw the traditional way of drinking
ouzo
. He tipped his head back and downed the entire shot of cloudy liquid. Sliding the glass back to Braden for a refill, he laughed thinking of Portia and how she’d denied their shared dream. Just like his drink, the sweet had disappeared, revealing the frozen remnants underneath. Yet that wasn’t really true. Because he’d sampled the passionate woman lurking beneath her facade and it was anything but cold. She burned hot, so hot she sizzled. He’d bet if he ran an ice cube from her lips . . . over her pebbled nipple . . . the soft curve of her belly . . . her—hell, he was getting hard thinking about it—the water would turn to vapor from the heat of her.

“She turned me down,” he finally revealed, not giving a crap what Braden thought of him. “No big deal.”

Braden took his glass and replaced it with water, thrusting a plate of food in front of him. Spoil sport. Wouldn’t even let his best friend get drunk. And after everything he’d done for him.

If it weren’t for Ryan, Braden wouldn’t have his own restaurant, or at least not one as popular. When he’d come up with the idea of opening an authentic Greek tavern, he’d had a difficult time getting a lease in a prime area. Ryan hooked him up with Uncle Alexander, who gave him a great deal on a space on Main Street. And when the liquor commission denied his application for a liquor license, Alexander made a few calls and provided his own name for the license.

Braden walked around the bar and took a seat next to him, giving him a serious look. “Since she turned you down, can I ask her out?”

Ryan’s fist shot out connecting with Braden’s jaw. His friend’s head pitched back, absorbing the blow. He didn’t return the punch, just winced and rubbed his jaw, keeping his eyes trained on Ryan.

Ryan shook out his hand. Damn, it hurt like a mother.

“No big deal, huh?” Braden grinned. “Do you punch everyone who hits on her? Because there isn’t a chance in hell men aren’t falling at her feet wherever she goes. It’s something in the Dubrovsky blood. They may be beautiful and talented, but they’re also obstinate and mouthy.”

“Portia’s not mouthy.” He frowned. “You’re talking about Viola.”

“Don’t change the subject.” Braden pointed a finger at him. “I noticed you didn’t deny the rest.”

The room dipped as the alcohol hit his bloodstream. “I didn’t punch Dillon. I wanted to, but I gave Portia an orgasm instead.”

Braden nodded as if it made perfect sense. “I approve. But I thought you hadn’t slept with her. And who the hell is Dillon?”

“Dillon,” he said, sneering, “is Jon’s nephew. Viola set them up on a double date, but I tagged along.” His brain grew fuzzy. What had Braden asked him? “While Portia and I share a bed every night because I didn’t order the mattress I said I ordered, and Portia hasn’t bothered to complain about it other than to lecture me on buying things through the Internet and urging me to file a complaint, we haven’t actually had sex. We came close last night when we shared a dream . . .” Braden’s eyebrow rose. “. . . and I woke up with her on top of me and her tongue in my mouth, but I shook her awake, which not only ended the kissing, but gave her another reason to shut me out.”

Braden remained silent for a moment, probably waiting to make sure Ryan took a breath. “She had an orgasm from the kissing?”

Should’ve known that’s what his friend would focus on. His throat parched, he took a gulp of water. “No, on the dance floor.”

“Of course,” Braden said as if it were a common occurrence. And for him, it might be. He shoved the plate of food closer to Ryan. “You’re drunk. Eat.”

Ryan picked up his fork and dove into some rice. “What can I do? I’ve done everything I can think of to get her out of my mind, but she’s invading my dreams, man. We spend all day around each other at the house. Even when we’re in different rooms, I can smell her. She smells like vanilla. Not that artificial crap, but the kind you use in your desserts . . . the real bean.” He took a bite and chewed. “We’re required to spend our time together. We sleep together. I’ve seen her naked—”

With a wave of his hand, Braden motioned over his lead waitress, Jenny, who brought him a Greek salad. “You saw her naked? When was that?”

“Last night. In the dream. Keep up, man.”

Braden stabbed a piece of tomato with his fork. “I’ll do my best.” He ate a couple of bites of salad before speaking. “What is it you want from her? I thought you planned on getting her to sell the house by any means necessary. Are you saying your game plan has changed?”

What
did
he want? Did it make him a selfish son-of-a-bitch if he wanted it all? He wanted Portia, wanted to see what would develop between them, and to sell the house? Their chemistry had been off-the-charts since they met in that elevator, and since then, they’d become friends. Combine the two and there wasn’t a chance in hell they wouldn’t be compatible in bed. But she wouldn’t sell the house, and he needed that money. He wanted the money to prove to his family he wasn’t a worthless rich kid, but a trustworthy adult. He wanted his family’s forgiveness. He wanted Portia to intuitively understand that wherever his money had gone, it was for a good reason. He wanted her trust.

He wanted everything that woman had to give.

“I’ve amended my game plan, but I’m not going to bend on the house. It’s sucked all the money we’ve gotten from the estate so far plus my savings. It’s not worth the aggravation. She can’t buy me out, so she’ll have to sell. I wish I could change her mind rather than disappoint her, but it can’t be helped.”

“And what does she want?”

What did Portia want? She wanted a house, a permanent home. Security. But did she want him?

The food Braden had practically force-fed him must have helped absorb some of the alcohol’s effects. The room no longer spun. Damn, he was sobering up. Some friend Braden was.

Ryan mopped up the sauce from the
pastitsio
with some pita. “Other than the house, she wants to teach dance to kids. And until today, I was convinced she wanted me.”

Braden sat back in his chair and laughed. “Oh, she still wants you.”

Ryan dropped his bread. “You know this how?”

“You said it yourself, she went from climaxing and kissing to agreeing to a date with another guy within the blink of an eye. That’s a little too quick even for the most fickle of women. No, I’d bet my left nut she’s using this guy to drive you away. You’ll think she’s off the market and give up on her; she doesn’t have to face the temptation anymore. This date? It’s nothing but a cock block. Now, the question is, are you going to let her get away with it?”

Portia switched off the ignition and sat in the driveway, staring up at the house.

Well, that plan had royally failed. Dillon was a nice guy, much nicer than she’d given him credit for. Without Ryan around, she’d noticed his good looks, humor, and especially his perceptiveness. A half-hour into dinner, he’d called her out on the real reason for her about-face regarding their date.

They’d spent the rest of the night discussing Ryan. Apparently, Dillon had recently gotten out of a long-term relationship, which was one of the reasons he was considering the move to Michigan. It explained why he’d thought it acceptable to take a bite of her food on a first date—he’d only ever dated one woman.

Contrary to his behavior last night, Dillon actually liked Ryan and encouraged her to give him a chance. She kind of got the feeling he’d noticed Ryan bringing her to climax on the dance floor, but was too gentlemanly to say so.

They ended their date as friends, and she hoped he’d make the move because she didn’t have many of those in Michigan.

She glanced at her cell phone and placed her hand over her stomach, quelling the butterflies. Five minutes before curfew. She’d better get inside. Shivering as she approached the front door of the house, her exhalations formed small clouds. Soon she’d be cozy in their bed.

Oh, Lord. When had she stopped thinking of it as her bed and accepted it as theirs?

Although they slept on opposite sides, Ryan’s body always emitted a warmth that wrapped her up like a butterfly in a cocoon. She felt safe with him sleeping beside her, a sense of security she’d never experienced before. That’s why she hadn’t pushed him on why his bed hadn’t arrived yet. She had always believed she wouldn’t feel secure until she owned a permanent home, but Ryan’s presence alone gave it to her.

What if owning a house wasn’t enough anymore?

She stepped inside the dark foyer, shut the door, and flipped on the lights.

“You almost missed curfew.”

Spinning around, she saw Ryan sitting on the third step of the staircase. He was dressed for bed in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt which accentuated his chiseled biceps, and his hair was messed up as if he’d tumbled out of bed only moments ago. Her heart pounded so loudly, she was certain he’d hear it. She set her purse on the floor. “I wouldn’t do that. I know what’s at stake.”

“Do you?” he asked flatly.

How could he ask her that? It was the one thing keeping them apart.

“Of course.” She crossed to the stairs and grabbed the banister. “The house. The money.”

His eyes darkened. Her core pulsed and her nipples beaded, visceral reminders of what had occurred the last time his eyes had darkened like that.

“You’re nervous. I can tell because you’re dancing and you’re blushing.”

Sure enough, she was using the banister as a
barre
and pointing her foot. Well, what did he expect when he looked at her like that? She sighed and released her grip. “I’m really tired, Ryan. Can you move so I can get by?”

“No.” He dared her with his eyes. “Did you kiss him?”

She couldn’t think when he stared at her as though he was a starving man and she was a feast laid out especially for him. “Kiss?” It finally dawned on her. He was referring to Dillon. “It’s none of your business. Now let me go.” Hands on her hips, she waited. And waited. And waited.

He didn’t move. “Did. You. Kiss. Him?”

She should lie. Dillon would probably back her up if she asked him to, and Ryan would never have to know. He’d think her blush was due to nerves rather than a lie. Staring at his commanding presence, she discovered she was powerless to speak anything but the truth. Her best chance was to answer and get the heck away.

“No.” With her hands clenched, she decided to take a shot at maneuvering around him and stepped up the first two steps.

He exhaled and wrapped his hand around her calf. “Why not?” he asked huskily.

Damn that velvet voice of his, and damn the man for asking that question. “Ryan . . .”

His hand slowly glided up her leg. She didn’t stop him. Not when he caressed the back of her knee and her head fell back. Not when his hand smoothed over the back of her thigh and her eyes closed. Not when he slid his hand under the hem of her dress and she gasped. And definitely not when his fingers caressed the skin at the top of her thigh and she moaned.

“Why not?” he whispered.

The word ripped from her lungs. “You.”

He tightened his grip and pulled her down to sit on his knee. “What about me, Portia?” His free hand plunged into her hair, urging her closer, so that his warm breath fanned her face. “Open your eyes and look at me.”

She couldn’t resist, taking a ragged breath as she followed his demand. “I couldn’t kiss Dillon because the only man I want to kiss is you.”

“Thank God,” he mumbled. The sides of his mouth tugged up in a victorious smile. “From now on, your lips belong to me.” His fingers traveled over the top of her thigh, only inches from her core. “You belong to me.”

“And do you belong to me?” she managed to ask between pants.

His lips slanted over hers as he breathed, “Yes,” into her mouth.

She surrendered, her hands winding around his neck, her fingers delving into his damp hair. He tasted of black licorice—sweet, rich, and smooth—and she wanted to consume it all. Hot desire in its purest form rushed wildly through her veins.

All her doubts disappeared, giving way to acceptance. From their burning attraction the moment they’d met, to the circumstances which forced them to live in the mansion, to their shared dreams, fate had weaved its web connecting their two souls together. Why fight it?

She swiveled her body, straddling him and placing his erection against the juncture between her legs. He moaned and pressed her closer.