I’m so busy taking it all in that I don’t notice Nick toeing off his shoes. “Wine?” he asks.
I say yes just because I want an excuse to see the kitchen.
Trailing after him, I eye the rooms as we pass them by. Each has its own character and flair, some painted a light gray while one is a brighter yellow. Canary Yellow, maybe. The thought makes me grin. I so hope that once rehabbing Agape is over and done with, I’ll feel the same amount of pride Nick does as he walks through the halls of his home.
The kitchen, not to be outdone by the rest of the house, is a stunner.
I feel a little blessed to be standing in here and I don’t even like to cook.
“Nick,” I murmur in awe, “this is just . . . gorgeous.”
“Trust me, the rehab came with some headaches. Galvanized pipes were the least of my problems. Lead paint,” he grumbles, sounding put out even though I know he probably lived for every challenge this house threw at him, “lead paint everywhere.” He moves confidently over to a door nestled between the hallway and a stainless-steel refrigerator. “Red or white?”
“Where does that door lead?” I ask, ignoring his question because, hello, this house is like a treasure chest of secrets. I’m utterly enthralled with it already, although maybe that’s because I can sense Nick’s love for it. By default, my curiosity is at an all-time high.
“This one?” He braces a hand against the wooden doorknob. “It goes down to the wine cellar.”
My eyes practically bulge. “You have a wine cellar?”
Flashing me a grin, he shimmies the knob. “On the scale of I’d-like-to-hug-you, what does a wine cellar get me?”
Stomach doing that weird flippy thing at our little joke, I boost myself up on one of the stools lining the island. “At least a nine-point-five.”
“Not a solid ten?”
I shake my head. “I have the right to reserve perfect scores until I decide to dish them out. Also, you do realize we shouldn’t be drinking, right? I mean, unless you’re okay with thinning blood and a blotchy tattoo.”
His fingers freeze, panic dashing across his handsome features. “Ah, gamóto. I didn’t even think about that.”
He is way too cute when he gets all worried. It makes me want to give him a perfect 10.0 and wrap my arms around him. “I’ll take some water, if you have it on hand?”
Thankfully, he catches onto my joke immediately. “That was bad, koukla. Real bad. I’ve got all the water you could want. Except for sparkling—no self-respecting man drinks that.”
I tap my chin, faking a put-out look. “Well, damn. Sparkling is my go-to.”
He reads me in an instant. Disregarding the wine cellar, he crosses over to me and leans in close to drop a heady kiss onto my mouth. His fingers rip off my beanie hat and toss it on the granite island, and then they’re in my hair, tugging on the strands in the same way he’s tugged at my heart for years now.
God, yes.
His mouth moves roughly over mine, and it’s so deliciously wicked that I push at his coat lapels until the heavy material is dropping to the floor at our feet. He wastes no time in returning the favor. My wool coat hits the marble flooring, and then he’s planting his big hands on my knees, urging them apart. I spread them on command, reaching forward to hook my fingers through the belt loops of his jeans.
Nick needs no more encouragement than that.
He steps into the V of my legs, his mouth still molded to mine, our tongues dueling. “On the counter,” he growls when he breaks away. “Now.”
I like bossy Nick. A lot.
With a hand to his chest, I push him back with a flirty grin. His face is all rigid lines but his eyes . . . God, they set me on fire. More black than gray, they watch me steadily, never veering away. Wanting to provoke him—to see that tightly leashed veneer of his crack—I twist around, planting my hands on the wooden stool. I arch my back, sticking my butt out, rubbing up against the hard-on not even his jeans can hide.
He cuts loose a guttural groan, and I soak up the sound.
Step One to making Nick Stamos lose his ever-loving mind? Complete.
I pop the button of my jeans. Squeeze my eyes shut tightly. Here goes nothing. The only sound that echoes in the kitchen is the tab of my zipper inching down over each metal tooth. My fingers hook over the waistband, and I almost laugh at the way they tremble. Like this is my first time having sex—six years after everyone thought I ruined good, ol’ Nick during his wedding night.
Broad fingers fold over mine. “Let me,” comes Nick’s rough timbre.
So, I do.
I hear his knees hit marble behind me. I feel the heat of his hands graze my skin as he slowly, so slowly, inches the denim down over my hips. My sight is replaced by the sensation of touch, the way he kisses my exposed flesh like a man kneeling before an altar. It rocks me to my core, and I feel myself grow wet, there between my legs.
My jeans and underwear are tugged down to my knees—right before Nick’s palm cups my butt cheek, right over my tattoo.
“You never fail to surprise me,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over the ink there: a wreath, the same one marked on Greece’s Coat of Arms, encircling a phoenix, the national bird, rising from the ashes. It’s no bigger than the palm of my hand, invisible to the eye when I wear underwear or bikini bottoms. It’s for me . . . and now for Nick too. “Why this?” he asks, voice low.
Lids fluttering shut, I ball my hands into fists on the kitchen island. I don’t want to lie to him, not about this, so I don’t. Facing away from him, the admission slips out easily. “For all the times I’ve never felt Greek enough. Not speaking the language doesn’t make me any less Greek—an Ellenitha. Not being able to read the words doesn’t mean I’m not somehow connected to my heritage.” I pause to beat back the tears that threaten to spill. “I am Greek.”
He must hear the turmoil in my tone because he strips off my jeans completely, taking off my snow boots, too, and then rises to his full height. He towers over me, and I can feel his heat against my back when he brushes my hair over one shoulder and leans in. “One day,” he says, “you’ll trust me enough to tell me why this, of all things, turns your voice to fire.”
A gasp rips from my soul as I feel his fingers delve between my legs. Oh, God. “Nick—”
His mouth rasps over my neck, and a shiver rakes down my spine. “One day,” he goes on, just as reverently, “but not today.” He turns his hand sideways, wordlessly ordering me to spread my legs. His free hand grips the lip of the granite island, his knuckles white with restraint. My mouth goes dry. “But I’m gonna tell you this once, Ermione. You are Greek. Your soul, your blood, your name that makes people stop in their tracks and ask for it again. You’re an Ellenitha, koukla, and even if you weren’t, I wouldn’t give a damn.”
And then, as if to prove a point, his finger collides with my clit and I quiver.
“Oh, my God.”
My vision goes blurry around the edges as he rubs in small, little circles. My balled fists on the island go flat, as though I can ground my very being through my fingertips. Nick doesn’t hasten the tempo of those circles. Like his kiss earlier in the car, he goes slow, every move measured and drawn out to make me beg for more.
And I beg, shamelessly.
In the way that I grind my hips down over those magic fingers, seeking more, seeking anything he can give me. He increases the pressure just enough for me to rise up on my toes. Electric. That’s how his touch feels, like I’ve jabbed my finger into an outlet just for shits and giggles.
It twines through my limbs, and I’m keenly aware of my knees trembling.
I dart out one hand, clasping his that’s still gripping the island, and I squeeze. A silent plea.
“Say it.” His stubble scratches my throat as he drops his mouth to the place where my pulse pounds madly. “Tell me what you want, Ermione.”
I’ve never been shy.
Insecure, yes.
But never shy.
Until now. Until a Greek Adonis finally looked my way and hurled my carefully planned out life straight into the flickering flames of want, need, lust.
My lips part. “You.” I swallow, thickly, then glance down. At the way he’s anchored my ass to his groin with an arm wrapped around my hips. Those fingers play me like a finely tuned instrument . . . or a piece of wood he’s molded and created into something beautiful. His fingers glisten with my wetness, and it’s both the most obscene and sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. “Any way I can have you.”
I cry out as he plunges that one finger deep inside me.
“You’re gonna have me, koukla.” Another finger enters me on the second thrust, and I’m so tight—it’s been so damn long that I’ve thought about anything but Agape—that my head falls forward as I suck in a heavy breath. “My tongue on your clit,” he edges out, his fingers curling to hit me just right, “my cock in your pussy.” I feel myself tighten around his fingers, and a rough laugh rumbles deep in his chest. “You like that, huh? The visual or the way I’m fucking you with my fingers?”
“I’m not the only one around here with a smart mouth.”
He curls his fingers again.
“Both,” I whimper, giving him his answer. “Do it again. Please.”
His fingers leave my sex, and I nearly whimper again at the loss. Except that he doesn’t leave me hanging. He grabs the hem of my sweater and gently pulls it up and over my head, then does the same with his T-shirt. Immediately my eyes dart to the white bandage covering his new tattoo. His skin is still pink from the abrasion of the needle, and I’m sure the same can be said for mine.
Pink or not, though, there’s no stopping me from looking at his gorgeous torso. Greek words are etched into skin—the quote I noticed earlier—and then I’m seeing nothing but hard pecs and even harder, finely ridged abdominal muscles.
A whole whopping eight because a man like Nick would never be satisfied with a measly six.