Chapter 4

She took a step forward, closing the tiny distance that remained. Now, their bodies almost touched. She could feel his heat through his clothes. She raised her hand and placed her open palm against his chest, over the fabric of his shirt. His heart was beating fast and strong, a wild drum echoing beneath her hand. He was far from as calm as he appeared.

"Then pull over," she challenged, her voice a hoarse, determined whisper.

He grabbed her by the nape of her neck, his fingers digging into her hair, and pulled her mouth to his with a force that was almost brutal. It wasn't a kiss of seduction, of timid exploration. It was a conquest. A release of all the tension that had built up between them since their first glance at the wedding.

His mouth was hot, urgent, his tongue invading hers unceremoniously, claiming ownership. He tasted of whiskey, of salt, of pure masculine need. Alis groaned against his lips, an instinctive and equally hungry response. Her hands rose and gripped his broad shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, trying to anchor herself in a world that had suddenly turned upside down.

He pushed her against the wall beside the door with a dull thud, his solid body immobilizing her. His hands left her hair and traveled down her sides, tracing the curves of her body through the satin with a voracious possessiveness. Then, his hands found the hem of her dress and he pulled it up, the fabric rising up her thighs, exposing her bare skin to the cold hallway air.

He stopped kissing her, his breath hot and husky against her face. His eyes lowered, tracing her bare thighs, the dark shadow between them. Surprise was evident on his face. His hand slid down, lightly brushing the smooth, warm skin of her groin.

"No panties?" the question came out as a growl of pure admiration.

Alis gasped, her body arching involuntarily against his touch. A victorious, lascivious smile touched her lips, swollen from the kiss.

I wanted to make things easier.

He groaned softly, burying his face in her neck, his teeth nibbling at her sensitive skin.

" You're going to end up killing me.”

"Promise?" she teased, her voice trembling with desire.

He laughed, a hoarse, muffled sound against his skin.

"To hell with marriage.”

With a swift movement, he turned her around, opened the bedroom door with one hand, and pulled her inside with the other. The door slammed shut behind them with a final click, cutting off the outside world. The darkness of the room was broken only by the silvery moonlight streaming through the open balcony, painting ghostly streaks on the floor and the wide bed.

Alis stumbled inside, laughing, her body light yet heavy with desire. He locked the door and then turned to her, his back against the wood. For a long moment, they just stood there, breathless, staring at each other across the dimly lit room. The only sounds were the sea and their rapid breathing.

Reality hit them like a bucket of cold water. They were alone. In a room. The door was locked. There was no more audience, no more etiquette, no more excuses.

He stared at her, her face a mystery of shadows and silvery light. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding beneath his shirt.

"If I come to you now," he said slowly, each word coming out like a solemn warning, "there will be no turning back."

Alis felt a chill down her spine, but it wasn't fear. It was the anticipation of the dive.

"What do you mean?" she whispered, although she knew perfectly well.

He took a step away from the door, toward it, but stopped halfway.

"You mean I won't be able to settle for just one night. You mean I'm going to fuck with your head along with your body." His voice was raw, laden with a painful truth. "And you'll think about me in every damn shower you take, every night you spend alone, in every silence that comes. I'll become ingrained in you, Alis. Like an addiction."

It was a prophecy, not a threat. A confession of the power she already wielded over him, and which he knew he would wield over her. It was terrifying. It was the most erotic thing anyone had ever said to him.

He was giving her one last chance. A chance to retreat, to save herself from the storm he knew was coming.

Alis looked at him, at that intense and complicated man standing in the middle of the room, fighting against his own control, offering her the nakedest truth any body could possibly possess.

She didn't want the exit. She wanted the storm.

Instead of responding with words, she acted. She raised her hands and, with deliberately slow movements, grasped the hem of her green dress and began to lift it. The fabric slid down her thighs, her hips, her waist, until she could pull it over her head and let it fall to the floor in a heap of emerald satin. She stood before it, naked in the moonlight, her pale skin gleaming, her breasts firm, the shadow between her legs a silent invitation.

He held his breath, his eyes scanning his body like a man dying of thirst seeing an oasis.

Then Alis did the boldest thing of all. She raised a hand and touched herself. Her fingertips slid across her own skin, over her belly, until they found the moist triangle of pubic hair. She parted her lips gently, her fingers circling her already swollen and sensitive clitoris. A low moan escaped her throat.

She looked directly at him, her dark eyes full of defiance, surrender, and pure lust.

"I'm already thinking about it," she whispered, her voice laden with a truth that echoed his.