The Greek's Unwilling Bride by Sandra Marton

touched her. It was all so new... and yet, it wasn’t. They had just met, but Damian was not a stranger. Was this why some people believed they’d lived before? She felt as if she’d known him in another life, or maybe since the start of time.
    Her head fell back against his shoulder as his hand swept over her, skimming the planes of her face, stroking the length of her throat, then cupping her breast. His thumb brushed across her nipple and she cried out against his mouth.
    He said her name in a husky whisper, and then something more, words in Greek that she couldn’t understand. But she understood this, the way his fingertips trailed fire over her skin, and this, the taste of his mouth, and yes, she understood when he clasped her hand and brought it to him so that she could feel the power and rigidity of his need.
    â€œYes,” she said breathlessly, and he made a sound low in his throat, pushed up her skirt, slid his hand up her leg and cupped the molten heat he found between her thighs.
    The shock of his touch, the raw sexuality of it, shot like lightning through Laurel’s blood. A soft cry broke from her throat and she grabbed for his wrist. What she felt—what he was making her feel—was almost more than she could bear.
    â€œDamian,” she sobbed, “Damian, please.”
    â€œTell me what you want,” he said in a fierce whisper. “Say it.”
    You, she thought, I want you.
    She did. Oh, she did. She wanted him in a way she’d never wanted any man, not just with her body but with something more, something she couldn’t define...
    The half-formed realization terrified her, and she twisted her face away from Damian’s seeking mouth.
    â€œListen to me,” she said urgently. Her fingers dug into his wrist. “I don’t think—”
    â€œDon’t think,” he said, “not tonight,” and before she could respond, he thrust his hands into her hair, lifted her face to his and kissed her.
    * * *
    It was not the civilized thing to do.
    Damian knew it, even as he took Laurel’s mouth again.
    The same wild need was beating in her blood as in his. He felt it in her every sigh, her caresses, her hungry response to his kisses. But she’d started to draw back, frightened, he suspected, of the passionate storm raging between them.
    Hell, he couldn’t blame her.
    Something was happening here, something he didn’t pretend to understand. The only thing he was sure of was that whatever this was, it was too powerful, too elemental, to deny. He’d sooner have given up breathing than give up this moment.
    Minutes ago, when he’d touched her, when he’d felt the heat of her and she’d given that soft, keening cry of surrender, he’d damn near ripped off her panties, unzipped his fly and buried himself deep inside her.
    That he hadn’t done it had had little to do with propriety, or even with reason, though it would have been nice to tell himself so. The truth was simpler, and much more basic. What had stopped him was the burning need to undress her slowly, to savor her naked beauty with his eyes and hands and mouth.
    He wanted to watch her face as he slowly caressed her, to see her pupils grow enormous with pleasure, to touch her and stroke her until she was wild for his possession. He wanted her in bed, his bed, naked in his arms, her skin hot against his, climbing toward a climax that would be more powerful than anything either of them had ever known, and though the intensity of his need was setting off warning bells, he didn’t give a damn. Not now. His body was hot and hard; he wanted Laurel more than he’d ever wanted anything, or anyone, in this world.
    She’d told him, in the restaurant, that he wasn’t a gentleman but hell, he’d never been a gentleman, not from the moment of his birth. Now, as he cupped her face in his hands and whispered her name, as her eyes opened and met his, he