her soft pants and husky little breaths turned him on even now. He needed relief and he wanted to return to the master bedroom, and take her again, and he was certain she wouldn’t refuse him. No, his little kitten would welcome him, and she’d be ready for him, and he ached, imagining how good it would feel to sink into her creamy satin heat.
But he wasn’t going to just go to her every time he wanted release. She would assume his visits meant that he wanted her—not sex with her. She would imagine, as women did, that there was more to their relationship than a contractual marriage. She would then try to share things with him—thoughts and feelings—and expect him to reciprocate, and that wasn’t going to happen. Ever. Better to disappoint her a little now than to risk greater drama later.
Kassiani had just finished dressing when a light knock sounded on the bedroom door. She opened it to discover one of the ship’s stewards in the hall. “We have just anchored and Mr. Alexopoulos is waiting for you on the deck. He suggests you bring a sweater.” The steward glanced down at her feet. “He also suggested comfortable shoes but I think you’ll be fine in those sandals. I’ll wait for you here to show you the way.”
“I’m ready now,” she answered. “Let me just grab a sweater.”
Kassiani was excited and also curious. She’d thought the yacht had slowed, and maybe stopped, but she hadn’t realized they’d actually dropped anchor. “Where are we?” she asked as she followed the staff member down several flights of stairs to the level where they’d board a smaller boat.
“Paros,” he answered simply.
“I’ve never heard of it,” she answered truthfully.
* * *
As they stepped into the sunlight, Kassiani spotted her husband by the railing, and her stomach dropped amid a sudden flurry of nerves. He was tall and lean and quite devastatingly attractive this morning in a black knit shirt and khaki shorts that hit just above his knee. The shirt wasn’t overly tight and yet even then it clung to his muscular shoulders and outlined the hard planes of his chest, while wrapping firm biceps, biceps that drew her attention.
He was far too handsome for her. She felt even dumpier as she joined him, only then noticing the sleek, white speedboat tethered to the side of the yacht. He extended a hand to her, to assist her into the boat. “We’re having breakfast on shore.”
“Good. I’m desperate for coffee,” she answered, painfully self-conscious as she put her hand in his. In bed with him she’d felt confident, but yesterday had made her insecure again, and yet when his fingers closed around hers, she felt an electric shock and her shyness turned to heat, with disconcerting warmth flooding her limbs.
She wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad thing that the racing boat made it virtually impossible to talk as they zipped across the water toward a whitewashed town flanking a gorgeous little bay. The shimmering buildings rose up on the hill and lined the small bay. “Tell me where we’re going,” she said as the boat slowed, approaching the wharf.
“We’re going to spend the morning on Paros, one of my favorite Greek islands. Most tourists don’t know about it, and yet it’s only several hours by ferry from Athens. First we’ll have breakfast in Naousa, the fishing village in front of us, and then we’ll go explore for a bit before having a glass of ouzo and returning to the yacht.”
She listened to this without comment, butterflies flitting madly in her middle as her gaze settled on his strong, muscular legs, his skin a warm burnished bronze. She’d thought he looked powerful and handsome in his wedding tuxedo, but this casual dress made her think wicked, carnal thoughts, thoughts where he had her naked on the bed, and he was doing the most wonderful things to her.
He took her hand again as they docked, his fingers interlacing with hers, and kept it as they entered town, traveling through narrow whitewashed alleyways with shutter-framed windows. Flowers spilled from huge glazed terra-cotta pots, and purple bougainvillea bloomed over doorways.
She didn’t know where they were going, but he did, and they traveled through town, up a narrow cobblestone road to a building partway up the hill. It was a café, she discovered as they crossed the threshold, and a waiter came forward to greet them, escorting them to a table on the terrace with a view of the port.
“That was a hike,” she said with a small laugh as they were seated. “Now I know why I needed appropriate shoes.”
“Are your feet sore?”
“No. I’m good.”
“It’s a bit of a climb, but the view, and the food, is worth it.”
Coffee and slender glasses of bright orange juice arrived, and then the waiter rattled off the menu options to them in Greek. Kassiani understood most of what the waiter said, and so when Damen turned to her to translate, she said she’d have the option of omelets.
After ordering, she glanced around, soaking in the scenery. The terrace wall was stone, and more pots of flowers and small trees dotted the patio. A half-dozen small wooden tables and chairs were scattered across the terrace, the chairs a lovely blue, and a perfect reflection of the turquoise water below.
Inside the café she could hear voices, but for the most part, it seemed as if they were the only customers.
“Why is no one else here?”
“I called ahead and reserved the terrace.”
She laughed. “Why?”
He shrugged. “The tables are too close. I didn’t want to risk others listening to us.”
“Are you afraid we’re going to fight?”
He gave her a puzzled look. “Why would we fight?”
She took a sip of her juice. “I suspected from your distance yesterday that you were upset with me.”
He looked at her a long moment, and then glanced away. “Not upset, but I’m accustomed to space. I thought we could both use some space.”
She returned her glass to the table. “This is off topic, but this is some of the best orange juice I’ve ever had.”
“It’s probably from Laconia or Argos.”
“Well, it’s delicious.” She dabbed her mouth with her linen napkin and set it back on the table beside her plate before rising. “And with regards to space and independence, I’m very independent, but to be honest, I was concerned yesterday that I’d done something wrong on our wedding night, and that my inexperience left you disappointed.”
“It didn’t. You didn’t.”
That wasn’t a good enough answer in her book. He’d been rude yesterday. He’d hurt her. And she didn’t expect him to slather over her, but this was their honeymoon and a chance for them to get to know each other. “Because when I didn’t see you yesterday, or hear from you in any way, it was logical to assume that I’d failed in my wifely duties.”
He shrugged carelessly. “I don’t know how else to reassure you that you did not disappoint me. I enjoyed our wedding night, and I hope you did, too.”
Any pleasure she might have felt in his words was diminished by his cold, measured delivery. There was no warmth in him, and none of the passion of their wedding night.
Damen lifted a finger, signaling the waiter, indicating she wanted more juice since her glass was now half-empty.
She found it interesting that he couldn’t give her any emotional warmth, but he’d make sure she had plenty to eat and drink. Did he imagine this was how good husbands behaved?
Apparently he did, because as soon as the waiter retreated, Damen said bluntly, “I’ve been a bachelor for thirty-six years. I’m accustomed to my routine and doing things my way.”
“Of course.”
“Which means, we’re not always going to see each other every day, and we won’t be sleeping with each