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She laughed, the grating sound searing her throat raw. ‘Trust me, I wish I could say differently. That it was the best kiss of my life. Then I wouldn’t have hated you—and myself—so much.’
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then dashed back up to her eyes. ‘He didn’t hurt you, did he?’
Not at first.
‘He was tepid. Boring.’
He wasn’t you.
She didn’t add that because, Dio mio, she’d exposed far too much of herself already.
‘Well, one thing you’re not when you’re with me is bored, ne?’
His tone reeked of masculine arrogance. She hated the fact that it was well-earned. That he made every cell in her body shriek with excitement, breathless anticipation, and the feeling of living on the edge that adrenaline junkies craved.
It was almost addictive...in a way that made her fear for her emotions. Because it turned out neither time nor distance had shifted the gravity of how he made her feel. How eagerly she anticipated their interactions. How he drove her so effortlessly to the limits of emotion, then kept her poised there, in that heady space between despair and elation.
Odessa wished she could hate him for it, but the naked truth was that Ares Zanelis made her feel like nothing and nobody else had in her entire life.
‘Can we be done with this? You have your answers. The kiss was boring. Romani wasn’t my first. My first time, when it happened, was uneventful. I’m here now, with you. As you want. You should be happy.’
He wasn’t happy.
Ares despised the unsettled sensations coursing through him two weeks after that far too exposing morning-after conversation. He’d let inconsequential demons get the better of him, and the enlightening recounting of her eighteenth birthday had taunted him with what he’d been denied.
Denied then, but fully enjoyed now, he tried reminding himself.
Why couldn’t he be satisfied that the useless usurper Paolo Romani—the man Elio Santella had taunted him with—hadn’t succeeded either. That, if anything, he—Ares—was the victor now? Why was he still disgruntled?
Because it felt hollow?
He’d put a ring on her. He’d strapped her down for the next five years, at least. So...why?
Because, as always with this woman, he craved more.
They’d settled into a routine in the fortnight since their wedding. He could run his empire from anywhere in the world, except on the rare occasion a face-to-face meeting was necessary. Leaving Odessa and his father on Ismene suited him just fine when he had to go away. And, yes, it helped that his new wife had taken an obvious liking to his island.
Also optimal was her eager welcome for him when they went to bed. He was nowhere near sating his hunger for her—which, again, was a good thing, since there was an end goal to all that sex.
What didn’t satisfy him at all was that he’d been gone only forty-eight hours and his very skin jumped with need, like an addict denied a vital narcotic.
He rose from the seat on his plane, his restless gaze returning to his watch once more—as if he hadn’t been checking every few minutes since he’d left London. He stopped pacing when an attendant approached.
‘Can I get you anything, Kyrios Zanelis?’
‘No, but you can find out how long before we land?’
‘Of course, sir.’ She returned in a minute. ‘We’ll land in fifty minutes.’
Fifty minutes. Then he could wrap her in his arms once more. Ensure the process of getting her pregnant was progressing smoothly.
Is that all?
Yes!
Nothing else mattered but that goal.
Except fifty-five minutes later his arms were empty and a clutch of dread lurked far too close to his heart.
