She nodded, and he rocked against her, easing farther and farther into her tight passage, trying to be gentle, watching pain and pleasure war within her as she adjusted to his smooth thrusts, each deeper than the last. He was soon buried to the hilt, and they were both breathing heavily.
She whispered, “You have the most beautiful eyes.”
Pleasure coursed through him at the unexpected compliment, and he kissed her long and slow. Pulling back, he smiled, rocking gently against her. “Impossible. They are nothing compared to yours.”
He was desperate to move. Desperate to take the release for which his body had been begging all night. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her jaw, and said, “Does it hurt, Siren?”
She shook her head, and when she spoke, he heard something wonderful in her tone. “No . . . it feels . . . Simon, I can feel you . . . everywhere.” She relaxed and pressed up to meet his movements. He hissed his pleasure. She ran her hands down his back to the curve of his bu**ocks and clasped him tightly to her. “Do that again. Harder.”
He groaned. She was going to kill him.
He began to move, deeper, faster, with more power, and she cried her pleasure in his ear, threatening his sanity. In moments, she was whispering his name, her hands tangled in his hair, moving in time to his deep, smooth thrusts. He had never been so ready to take his pleasure, but he would not let go without her. He wanted her with him when he threw himself over the edge.
They rocked together, sensation building, until they were both gasping for breath.
“Simon . . . it’s . . . I can’t stop it.”
“Neither can I,” he pulled out until he was almost gone from her, then returned, sinking into her heat. How had he ever thought he could resist her? “Look at me, love. I want to watch.”
She did, and her tumble into pleasure was his undoing. He followed her over the precipice with a force he had never before experienced; she was the center of his world—he wanted to stay in her arms, in this moment, in this night forever.
He collapsed into her arms and lay there for a long moment, breath coming in harsh bursts, before he realized that his weight must be crushing her. Turning, he pulled her to sprawl across him, all soft, glowing skin and silken hair. He could feel her br**sts rising and falling against his chest, and he gritted his teeth against the instant awareness that coursed through him.
He wanted her again. Now.
He ignored the desire, instead running his fingers across her smooth, bare shoulders, reveling in the little tremor that pushed her closer to him, loving the feel of her naked against him.
As he held her, soft and warm in his arms, he did not want to think of the future. He wanted to savor her.
He wanted to savor the now.
It had been a mistake.
Even as she reveled in the feel of him beneath her, all firm muscles and warm skin, she knew that she had just made everything worse.
He had given her everything she had ever imagined—she had never felt so close, so connected, so desired.
She had never dreamed she would love him with such intensity.
Tomorrow she would leave him. And he would marry another.
And Juliana would live knowing that the man she loved would never be hers.
She shivered at the thought, pressing closer to him, as though she could fuse herself to him, as though she could stay the movement of time.
He stroked one warm hand down her spine, leaving a trail of fire, and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Are you cold?”
No.
It was easier to say yes than to tell the truth.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
He slid out from beneath her, pulling her up off the bed with him so he could turn down the sheets. He kissed her, full and lush, the caress blazing through her before he turned away to stoke the fire.
Feeling too vulnerable, she fetched her robe, pulling it on and knotting the sash before she turned back to watch his movements as he crouched before the fire, the muscles of his back rippling with the motion, his massive thighs gleaming in the orange glow—a god of fire.
When he stood, he looked to the bed. His brow furrowed when he discovered that she was gone, and he immediately sought her out, finding her in the shadows. He raised a hand, beckoning her to him, and she could not resist.
When she came to him, he lifted her into his arms, settling them both in a chair by the fire. He slipped one hand into the opening of her robe running it along her thigh as he pressed a kiss to the column of her neck. “I prefer you naked,” he said, and she wondered at this new, teasing Simon.
She ran her hand up his forearm to his wide, muscled shoulder. “I feel the same,” she confessed. “I thought you could not grow more handsome, but watching you in the firelight . . . you are Hephaestus, all muscle and flame.”
His eyes darkened at the comparison, and he pulled her to him, kissing her soundly before he tucked her to his chest, and said, “That makes you Aphrodite—an apt comparison.”
But Aphrodite and Hephaestus were married. The thought whispered through her mind. We have only one night.
No. She would not think on it.
“You are promoting me from siren to goddess, then?”
He chuckled, and she loved the feeling of the sound rumbling beneath her. He captured one of her hands, threading his fingers through hers and bringing it to his lips. “It would seem so, clever girl.”
“You see? I am more than just a walking scandal,” she teased, and immediately regretted the words. She had just affected the most serious scandal of her life. And he knew it. Perhaps he even thought she had done it on purpose—to cause scandal.
She hated the thought.