Page 38 of Modern Romance September 2025 1-4

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ulysses

I’m not a man who regrets his decisions or second-guesses them, but I know the moment I look into Katla’s darkening eyes that I should not have kissed her. That it was a mistake, and mainly because I hadn’t planned to do so.

She put her hand on my thigh and I felt the heat of it like an arrow of pure desire going straight to my cock. I didn’t expect her to touch me, not so soon after the encounter with her ex-husband, and I didn’t expect the momentary flicker of disappointment in her eyes when I told her no.

I didn’t expect my own reaction either, which had risen so fast and so intensely that I didn’t stop to question whether kissing her was right. I only wanted her to know that I hadn’t changed my mind about my intentions towards her. That I still wanted her in my bed.

And also, perhaps, because I wanted to taste her.

It was a mistake, though, because it took much more willpower to draw back from her than it should have, especially when she made a soft moan in the back of her throat.

Especially when I caught the flavour of her response, sweet as honey on my tongue.

She was a little hesitant, a little uncertain at first, but then she opened her mouth, letting me in, kissing me back and… fuck .

I’ve had a lot of women, indulging myself shamelessly over the years, because I’m not a man afraid of his appetites.

So one kiss shouldn’t get me hard, yet it did.

It’s simply the intensity of our physical chemistry, of course, nothing more, but I didn’t think it would be so strong or require so much willpower to let her go.

If she was any other woman, I wouldn’t. I’d haul her into my lap, hike up her skirt be inside her in seconds flat, my driver be damned.

But I couldn’t ignore that she’d just been threatened by her bastard ex-husband, and Olympia would definitely find it reprehensible if I had sex with Katla not five minutes later.

I always keep in mind what Olympia would think, because her opinion matters. She’s my conscience and without her…

Well. I know my own nature: I’m not a good man.

However, a good man wouldn’t have been able to rescue Olympia from the people who hurt her, let alone the boy I’d been before our mother died.

That boy, that soft-hearted rule-follower, didn’t have the will or determination required to extract my sister from her abusive situation, so I put that boy down and became someone else.

I will carry to my grave the knowledge that I wasn’t able to protect her when it counted, but I’ll protect her now and do what I can to mitigate the damage.

Katla’s pupils have dilated. Her eyes are so dark, and her mouth is full and red. Her cheekbones are stained with colour and so is the pale column of her neck. My ice queen is melting. The fire at the heart of her is burning bright, and it wouldn’t take much to make her molten, to make her erupt.

She wants me—of course she does—but, as I told her, we have time.

‘My hour,’ I tell her as she blinks, half-dazed by the kiss, which is satisfying in the extreme. ‘I will have it on the plane. I have things to organise now.’ She draws back slightly and I hear her ragged intake of breath. Then she looks away.

I’ve frustrated her, that’s obvious, and while part of me is also frustrated another part suggests that a little frustration can make for a great aphrodisiac. It won’t hurt to make her wait and it won’t hurt me either.

I’m often impatient, and waiting for what I want is never my favourite thing, but I can afford to do it now.

It will make everything sweeter in the end.

So, I don’t argue, returning to my phone to handle the necessary arrangements that bringing Katla with me involve.

I also text Olympia, begging forgiveness for my absence on Christmas Eve, letting her know I’ll be arriving on Christmas Day and that I will be bringing ‘a friend’.

I never bring women home with me to Athens. Olympia doesn’t need me flaunting my affairs in front of her, so she’ll be surprised to see Katla. But she’ll understand when I tell her the reason for Katla’s presence and, in fact, she’d no doubt agree that Katla needs to be protected.

However, while I don’t much care for Christmas myself, it is important to Olympia.

When in foster care, she never had Christmases or birthdays; never had any celebrations at all.

So when I finally managed to get her back I made sure that every holiday or birthday was a big deal, and that we celebrated any achievement, big or small.

It’s now the middle of the night in Athens, so Olympia doesn’t respond, but she’ll see my text when she wakes and by then I won’t be far away. After I finish my texts, I run through the usual long list of business tasks to complete before leaving LA and busy myself with completing several of them.

Katla doesn’t speak the whole way to the airport, and I decide not to break the silence either. There is a certain challenge inherent in letting her control that. It makes me want to see how far I can push her before she breaks.

At the airport, we finalise customs necessities. One of my staff got Katla’s address and went to her apartment to fetch her passport, so that’s not an issue. The Vulcan jet takes off quickly and soon we’re in the air.

I complete another couple of tasks then get the stewardess to pour me a Scotch, which I take over to where Katla is sitting and I sit down in the seat opposite her.

She’s sitting primly, looking out of the plane window with her knees together, and her hands clasped in her lap, and doesn’t glance at me as I sit. ‘Not yet,’ she says, peering at the lights of LA disappearing in the darkness.

She’s talking about her hour, of course, and it’s interesting that’s uppermost in her mind. It amuses me. ‘Why not?’ I ask. ‘We have ten hours to kill. You could get rid of at least one day of those six months you owe me.’

She continues to peer out of the window. ‘I told you, I will be the one deciding where and when I give my time, not you.’

‘Are you mad because I kissed you, Katla mine?’ I drawl.

‘Or are you mad because I stopped?’ I’m taunting her, which isn’t fair, but I want to know why she won’t tell me the truth.

She avoided answering when I told her she actually wanted to go with me—or rather, she didn’t deny it—so now I want her to admit to her desires.

Especially after that kiss, which she did rather conclusively enjoy.

‘It’s not wrong to want me,’ I murmur when she doesn’t say anything. ‘It’s just sex.’

She doesn’t answer immediately, still looking at the blackness beyond the window. ‘I told you, I don’t like games.’

Yes, she did tell me that before, but as I told her in return I’m not playing any games. ‘Why do you think I’m playing with you?’

Finally, she glances at me, her gaze icy.

‘Well, aren’t you? You said you wanted me, then got close to me on the pretext of “testing our chemistry”.

Then, when I touched you, you said no, only to then put my hand on your fly and kiss me.

So you tell me—if that’s not playing a game, then what is it? ’

She’s so blunt and straightforward, not letting me get away with anything. I have to admit, while I don’t like being called out, it’s certainly refreshing. It keeps me on my toes, which isn’t a bad thing.

However, the way she puts all that makes it sound…

not good. Then again, as I’ve already admitted, I’m not a good man.

A good man would have taken her first no for an answer and left her alone.

A good man wouldn’t have threatened the company she worked for, and a good man certainly wouldn’t have kissed her the way I did in the car.

A good man wouldn’t have done all those things you did years ago.

I shift in my seat, suddenly restless at the thought. No, a good man wouldn’t have obtained an illegal weapon and a couple of heavies and gone to take Olympia back by force from the people who’d hurt her.

Then again, during those years, I couldn’t afford to be a good man. I had one goal and one goal only: to get my sister back. So I did what needed to be done in order to achieve that. I have no regrets.

‘There’s no game,’ I say, compelled for some reason to explain myself to her. ‘I was actually trying to be sensitive to your feelings in the car. And, believe me, that’s not something I ever do.’

She regards me for a long moment, her pale forehead creased, her gaze searching. ‘Okay,’ she says at length, accepting this. ‘If that’s the case, then thank you. But, just so you know, I hate lies.’

She really does, too; I can see the conviction burning in her eyes. ‘How intriguing of you,’ I murmur. ‘But what about the lies you tell yourself? You tell yourself you don’t want me when the opposite is true, for example.’

Her mouth hardens. She doesn’t like me pointing that out to her, not at all. ‘Perhaps,’ she says with some reluctance.

I tilt my head, studying her. ‘Why?’ I ask curiously. ‘What’s so very wrong with wanting me?’

She sits back in her seat, but her posture is still stiff. ‘Your arrogance, for a start, and your insistence on pursuing me, even when I said no.’

‘Yes,’ I allow. ‘But, as I told you before, if you truly hadn’t wanted me I would have left you alone. Except you did want me, my ice queen. And I’d like to know why that makes you so angry.’

‘Because you used it against me,’ she says with the same bracing frankness she’s employed in all our discussions. ‘To get what you want.’

‘I didn’t use it against you,’ I correct mildly. ‘I merely wanted you to acknowledge it. And, also, it hasn’t got me what I wanted, has it? There you are, sitting in your seat and still fully clothed.’

Her eyes narrow as she takes this in. ‘You only want an acknowledgement—that’s all?’

‘Well, no,’ I admit. ‘That’s not all I want. But an acknowledgement would be a big help.’

‘You wouldn’t use it against me in some fashion?’

I’m a little impatient with this conversation, but I thrust that aside. For some reason honesty and transparency is important to her, and if it’s important to her then it’s in my interests for it be important to me too. ‘I won’t,’ I promise. ‘Scout’s honour. Cross my heart and hope to die.’

Her gaze doesn’t waver for even a second. ‘Do you hear yourself? Do you hear how it sounds as if you’re playing right now?’

A small needle of self-awareness slides beneath my skin. Now that she’s mentioned it, yes, perhaps I do sound a little…casual. Mainly because I’m impatient and part of me is wondering if she’s playing games with me .

But, looking at her lovely face and seeing the expression in her blue eyes, remembering the tenor of our conversations, it’s clear she’s not a game player at all. There’s an open honesty to her that demands honesty in return.

It’s simplistic, in a way, but I’ve become used to games and manipulation because that’s business. And I confess I’ve brought those same manipulative games to my dealings with people too. Usually, that kind of awareness doesn’t bother me, because I don’t care much for other people’s feelings, but…

There is something brave about Katla, sitting opposite me, so prim and serious. And…genuine. She has a reputation in the business world for being sincere, forthright and loyal, and I can see the evidence of that staring back at me now.

It makes me want to be the same.

‘Very well.’ I put down my Scotch and lean forward, elbows on my knees, my hands clasped.

‘You know the truth of how I feel. I’ve always been honest about that.

But I promise that there will be no more games, nor will I use your desire against you.

In fact, I’ll go further—nothing sexual will happen between us unless you ask me for it explicitly. ’