The Royal House Of Karedes Collection Books 1-12. Кейт ХьюитЧитать онлайн книгу.
slept with half the young princes in Europe. The German supermodel who’d accused him of making her pregnant. Wiser than in the past, he’d demanded a paternity test—and had not heard from her again.
But Maria was nothing like that. She was—she was Maria, sweet and smart and brave, and he’d put her through hell.
“I’ll recommend someone good, someone excellent to take my place making the necklace,” she said in a low voice. “You can let him use my design—I owe your mother that—but—”
Alex stopped the flow of words with a soft kiss.
“You owe no one anything, glyka mou. And why would I let someone take your place?” Smiling, he thumbed a strand of dark hair from her brow. “There is no one who could replace you, sweetheart. Like your design, you are one of a kind.”
“But I just told you, I can’t—”
“Maria.” He framed her face with his hands. “I’m setting you free of our agreement. You’ll stay here, create a necklace the entire world will admire—but not because we’ve made love.” He took a deep breath. “I want you, kardia mou. I want you so much it hurts. But I would never take something you would not willingly give.” His mouth twisted. “I did that to you once, and I will never forgive myself for—”
She put her fingers lightly over his mouth.
“I gave myself to you that night, Alex. I wanted you.” She swallowed, ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. “I want you now.”
Could a woman’s soft words make the universe tilt? “Sweetheart. Do you know what you’re saying?”
She gave a watery little laugh. “I know exactly what I’m saying. That’s why I can’t stay here. I want you, despite what you think of me, and isn’t that terrible? To admit something that—that strips me of what little pride I have left—”
He kissed her. “Hush,” he whispered.
“It’s the truth. If I had any pride, I wouldn’t have come to Aristo with you. I wouldn’t have said I’d sleep with you. Because—because it wasn’t only the commission, Alex, it was being with you …”
He kissed her again. He meant the kiss to be gentle and that was how it began but somehow her lips parted under his. The tip of her tongue slipped into his mouth. And when she wound her arms around his neck and dragged his face down to hers, he reached blindly for one final bit of sanity.
“Maria,” he said against her mouth, “sweetheart, be sure. Be very sure—”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Alex groaned, swept her into his arms and carried her through the moonlight to the bed.
This bed was not like his.
It was smaller. Simpler. It had been made from a centuries-old olive tree and was covered in white cotton loomed in a nearby village. It had an intrinsic, natural beauty all its own.
It was, Alex thought as he lay Maria across it, beautiful in the same way as she, with a quiet strength and an elegance that came from within.
“Alexandros,” she sighed, and raised her arms to him.
He went into her embrace and kissed her.
Two months ago, a lifetime ago, they had made love fiercely. He had all but torn off her clothes in his frenzy to bury himself inside her.
That had been sex.
Now… now, it was something more.
He kissed her again and again, until her lips were as soft as rose petals and clung hungrily to his. He framed her face, threaded his fingers into her hair, kissed her throat, nipped at the tender flesh at the juncture of neck and shoulder and when she moaned with pleasure, he could have sworn he felt his heart lift in his chest.
Slowly, he sat her up. Drew her sweatshirt over her head and discovered, to his delight, that she wore nothing beneath it or the jeans that he tossed aside.
Naked, she was a moon-kissed offering to the gods.
Beautiful. Perfect. Exquisitely feminine.
Slowly, so slowly, his eyes on hers, he stroked the contours of her body. Her breasts. Her belly. Her thighs. She sighed and moaned and made the kinds of little sounds that told him, as much as the sensual lift of her hips, that what he was doing pleased her.
Still, he had to ask.
“Do you like this?” he whispered, sucking a beaded nipple deep into the heat of his mouth. “This?” he said, kissing his way from breast to belly. “This?” he said softly, dropping a kiss on the soft curls at the juncture of her thighs.
“Alexandros,” she said, “oh God, Alexandras …”
Gently, he parted her thighs. Put his hands under her bottom. Lifted her to him, put his mouth to the delicate cleft of her flesh, found her with his mouth, his tongue, and her scream of joy shattered the night.
It was almost too much for him.
He was so close to the edge. All these weeks of wanting her. And, though it seemed crazy, all the years of wanting her, as well.
“Alexandros,” she whispered, and he kissed her mouth, her throat and knew that he, like Paris when he stole Helen centuries before, had not been able to obey the rules of the civilized world. This was what he had wanted, this woman, this lover, and he had done whatever it took to have her.
He would have given everything for this, the honeyed taste of her mouth. This, the sweetness of her nipples. This, the indentation of her navel. This, the curve of her hips.
This, he thought, just this, holding her, tasting her, watching her face as he caressed her. As he again parted the delicate petals that protected her clitoris.
He kissed her there again. Licked her until she came again. This time, when she cried out, she reached for him.
“Please, Alexandros,” she said, “please. Come into me.”
Quickly, he tore off his clothes. Came back to her, swore, reached for his discarded jacket, dug into the inside pocket and prayed he’d find a condom. He did, and he tore the little packet open, rolled the condom on. He’d forgotten to use one the first time he’d made love to her; he’d been too hungry, too out of control.
He was almost out of control now. That was what happened to him, when he was with her.
He moved up her body, took her in his arms, kissed her, let her taste the proof of their passion in his kiss. Her hands were on him now, cool against his skin. She stroked her palms along his shoulders, his chest, down his belly and when one hand moved lower and almost closed around his hard length, his breath hissed between his teeth.
“Maria,” he said in a warning whisper. “Maria, glyka mou …”
She caressed him anyway, her hand moving, moving up and down over his swollen sex, and he groaned, caught her hand and stilled it and knew he could wait no longer.
“Look at me, agapi mou. Watch me as I make you mine.”
Her lashes lifted. Her eyes met his. He clasped both her hands. Laced their fingers together. Held their hands to the sides and thrust into her.
She came instantly, her body arching to his, her cries of abandon rising into the night and still he eased forward. Deeper. Deeper until there was no way to know where he began and she ended, until their flesh, their souls, were one.
“Maria,” he said, “Maria, kardia mou, agapi mou …”
She wept and kissed his mouth, and as the muscles of her womb contracted rhythmically around him, Alexandros threw back his head and emptied himself into the sweet warmth of the woman who now belonged to him.
To me, he thought fiercely. Only to me.