The Greek's Unwilling Bride by Sandra Marton Page B

rest.”
    She heard the soft urgency in his voice, the faint tone of command. His eyes glittered; there was a dark passion in his face, a taut pull of skin over bone that made her heart beat faster.
    But his touch was gentle as he undressed her. And he did it slowly, so slowly that she thought she might die with the pleasure of it, first her blouse, then her skirt, her slip and her bra, until she stood before him wearing nothing but her high-heeled sandals, sheer stockings, a garter belt and panties that were a lacy wisp of white silk.
    She heard his breath hitch in his throat. He stepped back and looked at her. She felt a flush rise over her skin and she started to cross her arms over her breasts, but he stopped her.
    â€œDon’t hide yourself from me,” he said thickly. “Laurel, mátya mou, how exquisite you are.”
    She wanted to ask him what it meant, the name he’d called her; she wanted to tell him that no matter what he thought, this night was a first for her, that she’d never given herself to anyone this way, never wanted anyone this way.
    There were a hundred things to say, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything but his name.
    â€œYes,” he said, and he lifted her in his arms again, kissed her deeply and carried her to the bed.
    He undid the garters, rolled down her stockings and dropped them to the floor. He lifted each of her feet and kissed the high, elegant arches; he sucked her toes into his mouth. Then he knelt beside her and undid the tiny hooks on the garter belt. His hands shook as he did, which was strange because while he’d never counted them, he’d surely undone a thousand such closures before. He had done all these things before, taken a woman to his bed, undressed her...and yet, when Laurel finally lay naked before him, he felt his heart kick against his ribs.
    He whispered her name and then he put one arm beneath her shoulders and lifted her to him, kissed her mouth as she curled her hands into the folds of his jacket. There was a tightness growing deep within him, one that threatened to shatter what little remained of his control. He knew it was time to stop touching her. He needed to rip off his clothing and bury himself inside her or risk humiliating himself like an untried boy, but he couldn’t.
    Nothing could keep him from learning the taste and feel of her skin.
    He kissed her breasts, drawing the beaded nipples deep into his mouth, and when she cried out his name and arced toward him, her excitement fueled his own. He ran his hand along her hip, his fingers barely stroking across the feathery curls that formed a sweet, inverted triangle between her thighs, and the tightness in his belly grew.
    â€œLaurel,” he said. “Look at me.”
    Her lashes fluttered open. Her eyes were huge, the blue irises all but consumed by the black pupils. She was breathing hard; her face, her rounded breasts, were stained with the crimson flush of passion.
    He had done this to her, he thought fiercely, he had brought her this pleasure. He said her name again, his gaze holding hers as he moved his hand lower and when, at last, he touched her, she let out a cry so soft and wild that he thought he could feel it against his palm.
    He rolled away from her and stripped off his clothing. His hands shook; it was as if he was entering into an unknown world where what awaited him could bring joy beyond imagining or the darkness of despair. He didn’t know which right know, and he didn’t give a damn.
    All that mattered was this moment, and this woman.
    Laurel. Beautiful Laurel.
    Naked, he knelt on the bed beside her. She was watching him, her face pale but for the glow on her cheeks, and the urgency deep within him seemed to diminish. Just for a moment, he thought it might almost be enough to take her in his arms, kiss her, hold her close and listen to the beat of her heart against his the whole night through.
    But then she whispered his name and