Page 40 of Modern Romance September 2025 1-4

CHAPTER NINE

Ulysses

I didn’t think she’d do it. I didn’t think she’d come to me, not after our conversation and my shock at her confession that she doesn’t like sex. She’s almost virginal in her lack of understanding, but that’s not her fault.

The moment she said it wasn’t her husband who was the problem, I knew: he was the problem.

This woman has fire inside her. I knew it the moment I walked into that meeting and saw her sitting there, watching me.

I saw it in her eyes; I watched it burn high as we argued tonight in Tanaka’s office, and then in the car on the way here.

I tasted it in her kiss. Lack of passion is not my Katla’s problem.

The problem was her husband. Logically, if she’s only been with one man and thinks she doesn’t like sex, yet professes a desire for me, then yes, the problem is definitely him .

I now wish I took the time to punch his head in when I had the chance, but sadly my sister, AKA my conscience, wouldn’t like it. I’m still angry that he made this woman feel as though she was at fault, though I don’t know why she was distressed when I told her that she wasn’t to blame.

And she was distressed; I saw how it darkened her pretty eyes.

That did something to me—it made me want to know why she was upset, what it was that hurt her and how I can fix it.

It’s strange. I’ve only ever cared about the feelings of one person but, apparently, I now care about the feelings of another: Katla.

I’m not sure why or how she’s different from any other woman I’ve wanted in my life, but she is.

There is a painful sincerity to her that makes me want to protect her—the world is a harsh place for honest people—and it also speaks to a level of trust she has in me.

I know she just told me that she didn’t trust me, but the fact is she does, at least a little, or else she wouldn’t be sitting here.

Now she’s trusting me again by coming to me and, though there’s trepidation in her eyes, there’s also determination. I told her she’s brave, and she is.

‘I said nothing sexual would happen between us unless you ask,’ I remind her, because she’s already made it clear that she’s not a game player, so I won’t play with her. ‘So…are you asking right now, Katla mine?’

A flush has crept into her cheeks, and uncertainty flickers across her face. Maybe the reality of the situation is hitting her and, maybe now it’s here, she’ll change her mind.

Hunger shifts inside me. I don’t want her to—Christ, I don’t want her to—but I say nothing, letting her think about it. She’s already had bad experiences with her husband, and I want to show her what real pleasure is, but only if she’s ready for it.

She draws out the moment, damn her.

‘Yes,’ she says at last. ‘I am.’

I crush the relief I feel, but I don’t hide my pleasure. I want her to know that she pleases me.

With a few quiet words, I get rid of the stewardess so we can have privacy, then I look at Katla standing in front of me, her eyes dark with a complicated mixture of fear and desire. She’s beautiful. And she is mine.

‘Come here,’ I order, holding out my hand to her.

She takes it, her fingertips a little cold, but I’ll soon get her warm, so I ignore it as I draw her into my arms and onto my lap.

She moves stiffly and sits awkwardly, as if she’s not sure what to do with herself, so I arrange her so she’s sitting in the crook of my arm, her legs across me and over the other arm of the seat, her head against my shoulder.

She’s a warm, soft armful, and that flower and salt scent plays havoc with my senses.

She belongs here in my lap—that’s the first thing that hits me.

And it’s where she always should have been, not with that coward of a husband who didn’t know what he had in her.

Who only saw the icy exterior of her and not the fire inside.

My body tightens, my cock getting interested, but I ignore it. This is not about me, this is about her. Olympia would be ecstatic if she knew that I’m considering acting unselfishly but, luckily for me, she’ll never know.

‘Did your husband ever talk to you about what you wanted?’ I ask quietly, hooking an errant curl that’s slipped out of her braid back behind her ear.

She shivers, looking up at me from beneath silvery lashes, her North Sea eyes dark and deep. ‘No. He thought I was frigid.’

Always so ready to rise, my anger burns hot at what that fool told her, but I ignore it. It’s not the time or place for my anger. ‘Well,’ I murmur. ‘Shall we prove him wrong?’

She gives a stiff nod, but her muscles are tense, and I want her to relax. ‘I think you need a drink first, hmm?’ I suggest.

She starts to rise out of my lap, but I shake my head.

‘No, stay there,’ I tell her, and she settles.

Then I reach for my tumbler of Scotch sitting on the table.

I take a sip, but don’t swallow. Instead, I put one hand beneath Katla’s chin, tilt her head back against my shoulder and dip my head, placing my mouth over hers.

She stiffens at first, then a second later relaxes, her lips softening.

I let her taste the Scotch from my mouth and she makes a small, soft sound.

I give her more, letting the heat of the alcohol and the kiss blend into something slow, sensual and hot.

If the kiss in the car was a promise, this one shows her that I kept that promise.

Shows her that I want her, that I’ll make it good for her, that I’ll seduce her so completely she won’t remember her own name.

And I’ll take it slowly, teach her that she does indeed like sex but she just hasn’t yet had it with the right person.

Her mouth opens beneath mine, letting me in, and I deepen the kiss, the flavour of her mixed with the Scotch so damn delicious. It’s all I can do not to completely ravage her, but I keep myself in check.

She makes another sound, beginning to kiss me back, and I can taste her hunger.

My anger twists into a sullen fury that this woman thought she didn’t like sex, all because her husband made her feel as if it was her fault.

Didn’t he see the passion in her? Didn’t he see her hunger?

But chemistry’s a funny thing, and clearly for Katla it’s the defining thing.

She had none with her husband, but with me…

I place my hand on her throat, gripping her lightly, my palm pressed to her warm skin, feeling her pulse which is fast and frantic. I want her to know that she’s here with me, no one else, and that she’s mine.

She shudders as I caress the side of her neck with my thumb, tracing the delicate cord up and down in a slow stroke, then all the tension rushes out of her, her body melting against mine like warm candle wax.

‘More,’ she whispers against my lips.

The blaze of satisfaction burns through my veins like a drug. Of course she wants more; she’s ravenous for this. She’s ravenous for me, and she doesn’t even know it, though…perhaps she’s starting to get an idea now.

Pulling my mouth from hers, I reach for my Scotch and take another sip. This time she tilts her head back for me, ready to take my kiss, and when I bend my head and cover her mouth she drinks the Scotch straight from my mouth.

My God, she tastes incredible. I can’t get enough.

I take the kiss deeper, hotter, stroking the silky skin of her neck, and she moves restlessly in my lap, the curve of her rear pressing against my fly.

I’m hard and aching and I want to do nothing more than sink myself inside her, but again I push the thought away.

With another woman, I’d already be there, but not with Katla.

Not now. I want to give her something that her husband never did: relentless physical pleasure.

I move my hand from her throat, trailing my fingers down over the silly Christmas sweater she’s wearing, following the curve of her breasts and then down further.

She has on a close-fitting business skirt, very plain and no-nonsense.

I put my hand on her hip, sliding it down her thigh to the skirt’s hem, before easing my fingers beneath it.

I feel her tremble, and she draws in a ragged breath, so I lift my head and look down at her, checking in on her.

Her face is deeply flushed, her eyes dark-blue, her mouth red.

She’s staring at me as if I’m her last hope of salvation and it makes my chest clench tight.

This hold she has on me is mysterious, and I don’t understand it.

The thing in my chest and the way I’m caring about her feelings…

Those sensations are foreign to me. Well, perhaps not entirely foreign.

I care about my sister, but she’s all I have room for.

I don’t have the space to care about anyone else, and I don’t want to.

Yet Katla…

The way she’s looking at me right now, the honesty of our conversation just before, makes me feel as if she’s letting me see her soul and she’s not even aware of what she’s doing. And I want to be careful with that soul. I want to keep it safe, keep it protected…

I hear her gasp as I slide my hand up her thigh.

Her skin is warm and smooth, and as my fingers edge higher she trembles and her breathing gets ragged.

Her gaze clings to mine and I see the molten heart of her begin to blaze as I stroke her.

‘Spread your thighs for me, ice queen,’ I tell her softly. ‘Let me give you what you need.’

Slowly, hesitantly, she obeys, and she’s such a beautiful sight, lying in my lap, her white-blonde hair coming out of its braid, the colour stark against the deep pink flush on her face. Her mouth is open and she looks at me…

My God the way she looks at me…

‘More?’ I ask as I slide my hand higher, feeling her heat.

‘Yes,’ she whispers hoarsely. ‘Yes, more.’

So I slip my hand between her thighs, stroking over the damp cotton of her knickers. She gasps again as I trace the shape of her through the fabric, teasing her, drawing out her pleasure so she knows exactly how good her body can make her feel.

This is going to take longer that ten damn minutes.

‘Ulysses…’ she whispers, her eyes wide and dark. There’s uncertainty there and a kind of shock and wonder. Has she ever felt this before? Has she ever even had an orgasm before?

Good God, she’s basically an innocent, and here I am demanding things from her, threatening her now, with my hands on her… I thought I knew what she was, but I really had no idea.

You have made a mistake.

Maybe so. But I can’t stop now, not while she’s here in my lap, having chosen to be there and giving herself to me. I’m committed to this. Stopping will only hurt her and I don’t want to do that.

I ease my fingers beneath the edge of her knickers and slide them through her soft curls.

She’s hot, so hot, and so very wet and all for me.

The satisfaction I already feel deepens and abruptly becomes a savage possessiveness.

I want to throw her down on the floor and take her fast and hard, and stopping myself from doing so is so difficult.

But I promised that I’d show her just how passionate she truly is.

She entrusted herself to me, and I can’t break that trust by taking something for myself. I won’t.

She lifts her hips against my hand as I stroke her clit, making her tremble and gasp. ‘Ulysses…’ she murmurs again, her voice full of discovery. ‘Oh God…’

I’m so hard, I hurt, but I don’t do anything more than stroke her before gently, slowly, sliding one finger inside her. She’s so slick and she moans aloud, her eyelashes fluttering closed. I have never seen anything more beautiful than my ice queen melting—melting all over me, because of me.

I kiss her again, sliding another finger inside her, building a rhythm that has her moving restlessly against my hand and kissing me back, frantic and hungry. Part of me wants to take my time, edge her a little, make her even more desperate than she already is, but I don’t want to push her.

‘Ulysses…’ she whispers again, her lips brushing against mine, and I feel her grip my wrist. But she doesn’t stop me; she tries to direct me to where she wants my touch most. I smile against her mouth, because I knew this would happen.

She’s passionate and, now she understands that about herself, she’s demanding about what she wants.

I love it. I want to give her everything.

‘Shall I make you come, ice queen?’ I murmur, teasing her a little. ‘Is that what you want?’

‘Yes,’ she says hoarsely. ‘Please, oh, please.’

‘You’re not really an ice queen, though, are you?’ I tilt my hand slightly so my thumb brushes over that tight bundle of nerves between her thighs, even as my fingers give her the friction she needs. ‘You’re a volcano, my Katla. And now you’re going to explode just for me.’

I give her that last bit of friction, pressing my thumb down hard on her clit, and she arches in my lap, her back bowing, her thighs crushing my hand between them as the orgasm hits her. She cries out, her eyes wide, full of ecstasy and wonder as she gazes up at me.

I’ve watched many women in their moment of climax and they were all lovely. But Katla is transcendent in this moment. Caught in the grip of an intense pleasure she’s probably never felt before, she is utterly glorious.

I’m not a reformed man. I’m a possessive Neanderthal and I allow myself to revel in the knowledge that I’m the one who gave her this moment. I’m the one showing her what true physical pleasure feels like, and it pleases me on a level I can’t remember feeling before.

I’m painfully hard, but all I do is remove my hand, smooth down her skirt, and hold her as she relaxes completely in my lap, her eyes closed.

She’s as sated as a cat who didn’t just get the cream but the whole damn dairy.

I watch her, unable to tear my gaze from her face.

Wisps of hair cling to her flushed forehead like little white-blonde flames.

One is caught across her cheek, so I gently push it back behind her ear.

Her eyes open then, blue bordering on black. She looks at me, and I let her. I want her to see what she did to me. I want her to see my satisfaction and the pleasure that I got from her. I want her to know that she wasn’t the only one who found this a revelation.

After a long moment, I’m the one who breaks that silence. ‘You see, Katla?’ I murmur. ‘I don’t think you like sex at all. I think you fucking love it.’