Greek Affairs: In the Boss's Arms: Ruthless Greek Boss, Secretary Mistress / Kept by Her Greek Boss / Greek Boss, Dream Proposal. Kathryn RossЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘Lucy, there’s a whole nation of women out there bigger than you who wear woefully fitting underwear. Can’t you just admit that you’re drawn to it? To the feel of it against your skin? How it fits and makes you look—’
She tore his hand away and stepped back further. ‘No.’ But she knew his words had made an impact. Did she instinctively like it? Was she a sensualist, despite everything—just like her mother? Well, she’d proven spectacularly that in all other respects their shared genes certainly seemed to be showing themselves.
‘No. Look … I have my reasons for not wanting this. I just … want you to respect that.’
Ari fought the most intense battle of his life as he looked at her downbent head and the tightly drawn belt on the robe. His body burned and ached. He felt hard from tip to toe and couldn’t believe she was denying them this.
But he found some strength from somewhere. He stepped close again and saw the way Lucy’s body tensed even more. In that instant something inside him melted. He wanted this woman with a passion he’d never known before, but he didn’t want to force her. He felt an uncomfortable level of concern grip him as he tipped her chin up to see her face. She avoided his eyes. He felt her grit her jaw against his hand and his stomach clenched. He rubbed his thumb back and forth over silky smooth skin. The bones felt unbelievably delicate. Her jaw finally relaxed, and something akin to triumph moved through him.
Suddenly the urge to take Lucy to bed was superseded by his wanting to reassure her. He had the insane impulse to pull her close and tell her everything was going to be OK. Something deeply ingrained within him kept him from making the move, but it made his voice husky.
‘I’m going to leave, but I want you to think about this, Lucy. What’s between us is more than a banal attraction that happens every day of the week. This is …’ His own words surprised him, and so did the emotion he could feel behind them, but he told himself it was just because he wanted her so badly. ‘This is something much stronger. I don’t know what demons you’re fighting, and I can’t fight them for you. Only you can do that. I’m going to leave the interconnecting door to my room open. I’d like you to use it, Lucy … I want to explore what this is with you …’
His mouth twisted. ‘I’ve no doubt it’ll burn itself out, but it’s not going to go away until we do explore it. It’s just going to get stronger. It’s up to you. If you’re strong enough to resist this then by God I hope you have enough strength for the both of us.’
Lucy’s breath had stalled, and because it was hard not to she found herself staring directly into his eyes. What she saw there made her heart twist. It wasn’t the heated intensity she’d expected—well, it was—but it didn’t make her feel threatened. It made her feel quivery and achy, as if she wanted to throw caution to the wind and say yes.
For a long moment they stood like that, his words hanging heavy in the air, and all Lucy’s nerves seemed to centre on the hand which felt so warm and oddly reassuring on her jaw. But then Aristotle was taking that hand away and stepping back. He turned and walked to the door. In a second he was gone, and the room felt huge and cavernously empty. Bereft. In mere seconds she heard him opening the interconnecting door on his side and flinched slightly at the sound.
She went and sat heavily on the bed, feeling sick in her belly, his words swirling in her head. Was he right? Would this only get stronger? The ripples of sensation still pouring through her body mocked her. Who was she kidding? She’d fooled herself that it had receded this week, but he was right—especially if her reaction just now was anything to go by.
She’d also, she had to acknowledge, fooled herself into thinking she was frigid. Right now she felt like the least frigid person on the planet. She had to recognise that in losing her virginity she’d subconsciously gone out and deliberately chosen someone she didn’t feel attracted to—as if to try and convince herself that she wasn’t like her mother, that she wouldn’t spend her life craving sex.
She frowned at that. It sounded wrong as she thought it now. She’d always believed her mother to have craved sex … but in actual fact it had been the men, their power and attention. She’d sought validation from that. When Lucy really thought about it, her mother had always been quite cool and clinical about sex. She’d never become so passionate about a man that she’d lost sight of practicalities.
The way Lucy felt about Aristotle right now had nothing to do with being cool and clinical. He could be the hotel doorman and he’d still have this effect on her. While Lucy knew for a fact that her mother would never in a million years have spared a mere doorman a second glance.
Seeing herself and Ari reflected in the mirror, the look on her face—it hadn’t been the same as her mother’s that day.
She’d never seen her mother look like that. So … desirous, so caught up in the moment.
The revelation stunned her now. Because of her mother’s profession, and how overtly sexual it had been, she’d always assumed that Maxine’s myriad liaisons had been all about sex. But they hadn’t. They’d been about money and power and her mother’s self-esteem. Not sex. That had merely been a tool she’d used. Lucy had known this, but it had taken the awakening of her own desire to really see it for the first time.
One of Lucy’s biggest fears had to do with losing her independence by depending on men as her mother had done. But wasn’t this a totally different situation? She was working; she already had a job. She wasn’t hoping to get anything out of Aristotle—certainly not money or gifts. And he seemed to be as surprised by this flaring of attraction as she was. She had no doubt that if he had a choice he’d prefer this to be happening with someone in his own social group.
So didn’t it stand to reason that once this thing had burnt out, as he’d said, things would get back to normal? Although Lucy had to concede she didn’t know what it would mean to get back to normal in the office after something like this … her mind skittered weakly away from that.
She was pacing now, the thought of sleep impossible to consider. She bit at her nail, a tight feeling growing in her belly. For the first time in her life the fears she’d carried for so long about turning into her mother and all that meant seemed flimsy—they didn’t hold water any more. She was different. The warm feeling of reassurance she’d imagined she’d felt just now surged back even stronger. And it scared her slightly, as she’d never in a million years have said that Ari was a reassuring type of man.
She stopped pacing. What if she could do this? Instead of running away, why not face this and vanquish the demons that had been plaguing her? Already she felt different; she had to admit she’d enjoyed the less restrictive wardrobe, and even though her reflex was still to cover up it was diminishing. She’d caught some of the men looking at her earlier in the ballroom, and instead of wanting to hide away she’d found herself straightening up, feeling a very fledgling sense of confidence trickling through her.
Had Aristotle helped her come to this? It didn’t feel like the diminishing needy power that she’d seen her mother crave. It felt like an innately feminine power, pure and strong.
She thought about it again, tested the words: what if she did this? Just went over there to that door, opened it and walked through.
Before she knew her legs had even carried her Lucy stood at the door, breathing short shallow breaths, her heart thumping. She’d once read a book: Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway. Was she brave enough? To step across the line?
As if in answer to her own question, an intense yearning spread through her. She wanted this—wanted this man and what he promised more than she wanted to look at all the reasons for not doing it. He was right. The thought of repressing this desire was … inconceivable.
With a shaking hand she touched the doorknob, took a breath and turned it. She shut her eyes as the door opened silently. A lurid mental image of Aristotle lounging back against black silk sheets, hands behind his head with a mocking smile, nearly made her slam it shut. But she resisted the impulse and opened her eyes.
It