The Santorini Bride

Was that a hiss of breath between his teeth?

Martha swallowed. Then, “Turn,” she directed him.

Theo turned.

She was staring straight at—

“I think that’s dry enough.” His voice was a harsh rasp. And abruptly she was hauled to her feet, the towel was tossed aside, and the next thing Martha knew, Theo had scooped her into his arms and was carrying her out of the bath and straight to his bed.

She felt another moment’s gratitude that he had so thoroughly eradicated all signs of her parents. She wasn’t sure she could have gone to bed with Theo if it had been their bed. But thank heaven—and Theo—every trace of Aeolus and Helena Antonides was gone.

The room was pure Theo. If pure was a word you could ever use with Theo Savas, she thought, a smile touching her mouth.

But she didn’t have time to ponder that further as he flicked off the lamp and came to drop down on the bed beside her. The room was lit by the moonlight spilling through the open window so she could still see him, silver and shadow, as he lay on his side next to her. She felt his hand come to brush over her hair, then down her arm. Then he leaned toward her and began to kiss her ear, her neck, her shoulder.

And then it began again—the slow escalation of passion, the tender touches, the light strokes, the nibbles and kisses. And again her blood heated, her need grew. She shifted, moaned. Her fingers lifted. She wanted to touch him, but she didn’t know if she dared.

“Touch me,” Theo said, his voice ragged.

And eagerly, Martha did. It was like being given permission to have whatever she wanted in the candy store. She touched him lightly at first, a little uncertain as she began to learn the contours of his body that was so different from her own.

When she began a new mural on a surface she had never worked with before, she had to experiment, had to learn how it accepted the paint, how to apply the colors, how to achieve the effect she desired. It was like that now. She was touching, nibbling, stroking, learning his responses as she learned in her work.

Theo was more responsive than wood, than plaster, than brick, than anything Martha had ever painted. She could make Theo groan. She could make his body tremble with need, could make his muscles tense, could make him bite his lip as he attempted to rein in his passion, to control his desire.

Martha didn’t want him to control it. She wanted him to lose control just as she had in the shower. She wanted to bring him the same pleasure he had brought her.

And so she became bolder. Her hands found him, stroked him, touched him—until he could stand it no longer.

And suddenly he was over her, sliding between her legs and plunging in and—

Martha stiffened in shock.

And so did Theo.

At her body’s sudden resistance, he went rigid and—for an instant—absolutely still. Even in the moonlight his astonished, incredulous expression was one she would never forget for the rest of her life.

And then it was replaced by one of desperation, as he could no more control his expression than he could control the need that swamped him.

She knew he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. Which he probably did, but it was too late. Theo shattered in her just the way she had shattered in the shower.

And then, still trembling, he rolled off the bed and onto his feet, glaring down at her and demanding furiously, “What the hell d’you think you were doing?”

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