gut tightened.
He’d been waiting for this moment for three months. He’d been patient. A damned saint.
Throughout their courtship he hadn’t dared stay in close proximity with his bride-to-be. He’d allowed himself only two fleeting visits, each flight on the Kyriakos Gulfstream jet taking twenty-five hours and necessitating a halfway stop in Los Angeles to refuel. The almost fifty hours he’d spent in the air had taken more time than he’d spent with his fiancée, but it had been worth it. To see her. To touch her.
Briefly.
Circumspectly.
And then he’d jetted off before he’d lost it. Before he pulled her into his arms, onto the wide bed in one of the luxurious wooden cabins he’d occupied at High Ridge Station and ravished her to the full extent of his need. His passion would have stunned her. It had shocked him.
Zeus, but she was temptation itself with her silky pale hair and wide-set silver eyes and her slight body with narrow wrists and ankles that made her look so delicate.
But now they were man and wife. All that separated them was a door. He swivelled and stared at the solid wooden door and swallowed.
He had to take it slowly, had to control the vast sea of desire that seethed inside him. The last thing he wanted was to terrify the wits out of his bride on her wedding night. Because Pandora was an innocent.
A virgin.
His virgin bride.
And now it was his wedding night.
Zac intended to savour every moment. Never in his thirty-one years had he made love to a virgin. His outdated sense of honour had always demanded that he choose women who knew the score as his lovers.
But his wife was a different matter.
He was horrified to discover he was nervous. His hands shook around the glass he held—and telling himself the nerves came from desire, not fear, didn’t help. Zac stared into the amber liquid. He didn’t drink as a rule. Had never been drunk in his life—nor even a little inebriated. He despised people who used their addictions as a crutch.
But tonight was different ….
Tipping back his head, he downed the scotch and set the glass down. Plucking up his courage—Dutch courage, he thought mordantly—he made for the bedroom door.
Standing in the centre of Zac’s rich burgundy-and-gold bedroom—her bedroom, too, now—and conscious of the immense bed behind her, Pandora watched as the heavy brass door handle twisted. Something squeezed tight deep inside her. The door opened and Zac stepped through.
He came to an abrupt standstill.
He’d showered, she saw at once, and changed his clothes. The close-fitting black pants and oversize white shirt were sexy as hell. She flushed as she realised he was watching her with as much interest as she assessed him. Instantly heat flickered in her belly and her breath caught in the back of her throat.
“You’re still dressed.” He sounded disappointed. “I thought I’d give you the chance to shower, to—”
“I need you to undo the buttons down the back,” she rushed to speak. “I didn’t think about arranging for anyone to be here to help me undo them.” And no one had offered. Obviously the dressmaker who’d helped her get ready this morning had thought her bridegroom would relish the task. Just the thought made her flush. Quickly she continued, “I washed my face, but I need to get this gown off.” She’d washed as well as she could, removed her makeup, brushed her teeth. Nothing more to do until the dress was gone.
“Of course! How stupid of me … I didn’t think.” He came nearer.
Excitement clamoured inside her. She tried not to shiver. But when he stood in front of her, the little tremors of anticipation started to race across her skin.
“Turn around,” he whispered, dropping to his knees.
She needed no second bidding. The ancient silk rustled as she turned. She could hear Zac’s steady breathing behind her, feel her heart start to pound as she waited ….
A whisper of air caressed her ankles as he lifted the hem.
There was a small pull and she knew the lowest button was free. Little tug after little tug told her of Zac’s successes as he worked his way up from the hem.
“Zeus, did the original seamstress have to use so many buttons? There must be at least two hundred—and they’re tiny!”
“There are seventy-five buttons. The dressmaker doing the alterations counted them each time she took the dress off after a fitting. It takes forever to undo—even with a buttonhook.”
“I dearly hope not.” There was laughter in Zac’s voice … and something else … something dark and sensual that caused her pulse to thrum through her head. “And I don’t see a buttonhook.”
She struggled to regain her composure. “If this were a fairy tale, you’d have waited one hundred years for this moment.”
“I think I’ve been waiting my whole life,” he muttered. Then he said, “If this were a fairy tale I wouldn’t need a buttonhook. I’d have my magical trusted sword and I’d be able to slit a line down here—” His voice broke off and he traced a line from the small of her back, down over the curve of her bottom, and Pandora shuddered.
“Then I’d slide that dress off ….” His voice trailed away, and she could hear that his breathing had speeded up.
“But you haven’t got a magical sword, so you’re going to have to do it—”
“The old-fashioned way. Slowly, taking my time, enjoying the experience,” he murmured, and Pandora gasped as his hand slid up the inside of her calf, to her knee, where it stopped. “A couple more buttons and I’ll be able to touch your thigh.”
His fingers gave her bare skin a last caress, then slid away. Pandora sighed with disappointment.
“Don’t worry, yineka mou, there will be lots of touching and stroking. We have the whole night ahead of us … and I’m going to take it very slowly. I promise.”
“Then I think I might just die of pleasure tonight,” she whispered, breathless from arousal.
“Aah, wife of mine, do not say such things. I am trying very hard to keep my cool. Don’t melt it or it will all be over before we begin.”
“I thought we’d already begun.”
Zac groaned. “Wife, be silent! I need to undo these buttons as quickly as I can and you are distracting me.” His breath caught and his hands stilled. “What the hell is this?”
“The garter. I wasn’t sure if you followed the custom of throwing it … so I wore one anyway.” Still kneeling behind her, his fingers moved again, soft against her thigh, running under the garter belt. “It’s blue … for the rhyme. You know, Something borrowed, something blue. I thought the dress could pass as something borrowed.” She was babbling now, but she didn’t care. His touch was driving her crazy … and if she didn’t babble, she might just grab that hand … bring it around to her pebble-hard nipples for him to douse the aching.
But his fingers were retreating, and she could feel the garter sliding down her leg. He lifted her foot, hooked the garter off, then he spun her around, and rose to his full height.
She stopped breathing.
His face was taut, his eyes blazing, and he held the garter aloft like a trophy.
“Mine,” he said hoarsely. “Every perfect bit of you is mine.”
She didn’t even have time to gasp before his lips landed on hers, hard and ravenous.
Stretching onto tiptoe, Pandora wrapped her arms around his neck, the impact of his chest against her rousing a wildness she’d never known,