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Atticus lay on the couch, his mind for the first time in years utterly blank, his body full of a delicious lassitude that he hadn’t felt in far too long. Years for that too, perhaps? He couldn’t remember.
For a moment he didn’t move, letting himself drift in blissful silence and enjoying the moment, until slowly awareness began to trickle through him.
Of who the beautifully soft and hot woman lying beneath him was, and why she was here, and that he’d fully lost control of himself, taking her like a beast...
Just like that all the blissful warmth disappeared to be replaced by solid ice.
He’d lost control of himself. He never lost control of himself. Never, ever.
You remembered a condom at least.
Atticus abruptly shoved himself up and away from her, getting off the couch. His brain was still spinning so he didn’t say a word as he went down the hall and into the bathroom to deal with said condom. Then he paused a moment at the basin and splashed some water on his face, trying to get his head clear.
What had he done? What the hell had he done?
He’d only wanted to end the conversation, do something about the crackling, fizzing electricity that arced in the air between them. Get rid of the anger inside him that he couldn’t seem to leash.
The kiss had been a huge mistake, though at the time it had seemed the only option, and he’d told himself just before his lips met hers that he’d take the kiss, silence her, then push her away. And yet...
The moment he’d felt the softness of her mouth and tasted the sweetness of it, every thought had gone out of his head. There had been only hunger, a raw aching need that had slipped straight through his fingers and out of his control.
It had been so long since he’d felt the soft heat of a woman, so long since he’d touched silky skin and tasted salt and sweetness. She’d been hot, her passion flaring as he’d kissed her, and when he hadn’t been able to stop himself from sliding his hands beneath her T-shirt and taking a hold of her satiny giving flesh, pulling her hard against him...
Theos.
She’d shivered, her hands on him, as hungry for him as he was for her, and he’d...lost all sense. His anger had transmuted into sexual desire so quickly and he’d gone up in flames just as she had.
The taste of her was still in his mouth, the slick feel of her sex around his, making him hard again already...
It’s Elena. The girl you rescued. The girl your father adopted.
Atticus gripped the sides of the basin, his knuckles white, staring down at it unseeing.
She was the last woman he should have taken, the very last. His father was dying and she was here to bring him home, and he hadn’t seen her for sixteen years. And he should have put her on that damn boat the minute she’d got off it, not let her stay, not argue with her, not let the undeniable chemistry between them burn so hot and so bright. And definitely not lose his head and take her on the couch in his living room.
She’d been unpractised too, he’d been able to tell, and that was something else he’d conveniently pushed to the back of his mind.
Now you’re just going to leave her alone on the couch?
He cursed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a lover—which had obviously been part of the problem—but even when he had, it had only ever been for a night, two at most. He didn’t do relationships. A wife and a family would never be in his future. Eleos was and would always be his main concern, which was exactly how he liked it.
Elena was special. She was sacrosanct, and yet...
And yet you took her like a beast.
The porcelain of the basin dug into his fingers. He knew what happened when he lost control of himself, when he allowed his emotions to get the better of him. He made mistakes. How could he have forgotten that?
Taking Elena had been a mistake. A terrible mistake.
And you want to do it again.
No. He couldn’t risk it, no matter how much his body might want to. He’d thought his control was perfect, but she’d just blown that little comforting lie to smithereens. Taking her again would only compound the error and further compromise his command over himself. Besides, she was Elena. His Elenitsa. Or at least, she once had been.
Slowly, Atticus forced his fingers to release their grip on the basin. There was no point castigating himself. What was done was done. He’d be a gentleman, though. He wouldn’t pretend it never happened or kick her out, but he’d definitely make it clear that it would not be happening again.
Turning from the basin at last, he strode back into the living area. Elena had pulled the T-shirt back on and was now standing once again at the shelves, studying them as if nothing untoward had occurred.
He could almost believe it too if it weren’t for the white scraps that littered the floor near the couch, the remains of the underwear he’d torn off her, and the fact that her hair was in a wild golden tangle down her back.
