Page 32

Athanasios

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Brooklyn has surprised me.

As much as it pisses me off when the Kostanidou treat her like a fragile doll, I think that somehow I assimilated that thought, afraid of how she would take the news I needed to give her.

I forgot how strong she is, and it's not just about her recovery from the coma. She saw the man she lived with, the father of her children, get killed in front of her. She had two men break into her house in the middle of the night and point a gun at her. She found out that everything she lived with her partner was a lie, and still, none of that broke her.

Then I remember what she told me about her father. Brooklyn had to be fearless from an early age, for herself and for Madison. Now, she needs to conquer her fears for her twins.

The woman with a fragile appearance, delicate limbs, and hair so blonde it seems touched by the sun, is a fortress.

All these things make me admire her even more, but it’s her last decision that makes me finally understand what I have in my hands.

She’s put the present ahead of the past, throwing herself into what we have, into what is beginning between us—not because she's not afraid, but because she's brave as hell.

The driver parks in front of my building, and I get out of the car to help her step out.

“You're dismissed for the evening,” I say, and Brooklyn looks at me, a clear question in her perfect face.

I walk with her to the private elevator that leads directly to my penthouse, and as soon as we get inside, after selecting my floor on the panel, I lean against the wall opposite her to watch her in her tiny black dress, clinging to her body, letting me guess every curve hidden beneath the fabric. “You look beautiful.”

A small smile appears on her heart-shaped mouth. “I’m not going to compliment you back; it’s not fair,” she says and bites her lower lip as if she's unsure of what to say next.

I walk over to her and, with my thumb, free her lip from the grip of her teeth. “Speak.”

“You dismissed the bodyguards.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“Why keep them waiting all night?”

I see her throat move as she swallows, and I slide my hand to that area, my open palm encompassing her entire neck, pressing just enough for her to have a glimpse of what I like.

“I told you that when I had you, it would be the whole night. Haven’t you learned yet that I’m a man of my word, Brooklyn?”

Her eyes sparkle, and her pink tongue darts out to wet her moist lips. “Your words affect me the same way your body does,” she says.

“I haven’t even started yet.”

The sound of the elevator stopping doesn’t make us pull apart. Our gazes are locked together.

My fingers trail along the back of her thigh, feeling the silk-like texture of her skin, and she trembles.

Brooklyn’s body is feverish, ready, and so eager that a wave of pure lust sweeps through me.

Her blue eyes, normally clear, are stormy, like a sea in the middle of a tempest.

Her scent is ingrained in me, etched into my olfactory memory, to the point that even when we’re apart, I can sense the soft fragrance, a mix of feminine allure and flowers, which I think comes from her shampoo.

My fingers graze the back of her thigh, and I lose my mind when I feel her spread them without me even asking.

I lift one of her legs, bringing it to my waist, but it’s not enough, so I hoist her completely off the ground. “Wrap your thighs around me.”

She obeys and goes further, her hands reaching for the collar of my shirt, unbuttoning it. Then I feel her lips against my skin.

“I was dying to know what you taste like,” she says.

“By the time this night ends, you’ll know. That’s a promise, Brooklyn.”

Her eyes follow the movement of my lips. “And will you taste me too?” she asks.

Once we’re out of the elevator, I type in the code to unlock the door. I close it with my foot and press her body, still in my arms, against it. “There won’t be a single inch of your skin that my tongue won’t touch,” I promise.

She gasps, but there’s no time for the next breath before my mouth takes control of hers.

Brooklyn moans loudly when she feels my hard length against the apex of her thighs, barely covered by lingerie made of fabric so thin that, even through my suit pants, I can feel the perfect outline of her wet core.

I want to tear our clothes off and take her right here, in one swift move, without foreplay. To thrust deep and hear her scream as the wet flesh of her sex stretches to give me passage.

My hand moves between us and rubs her center, still protected by her panties.

She bites me. “Athanasios . . .”

I capture her lower lip between my teeth, sucking the tender flesh, and then plunge my tongue deep into her sexy mouth that has been haunting my fantasies for days.

It’s a rough kiss, nowhere near an introduction—more like a reunion, as if we’ve been doing this forever.

She presses her body against mine, climbing up, offering herself, and my hands roughly squeeze the flesh of her ass.

I need her, to be inside her, and the discovery of this need surprises me.

We groan into each other’s mouths as our bodies grind together in mutual torment, delaying the pleasure.

Her trembling hands finish unbuttoning my shirt, and teeth and tongue come to my chest, biting and sucking.

“Fuck, Brooklyn.”

My fingers slide into her panties, finally feeling the needy wetness of her arousal. Her clit throbs against my thumb, and she whimpers incoherent words as I mercilessly attack that point of pleasure.

Brooklyn bites my jaw and neck, licks, returning the caresses in whatever way she can. Her breathing is heavy and hot against my skin.

I grab her lips with mine again, and her hands slide down to my abdomen.

“I love how hard you are,” she says between moans. “How your rigid flesh contrasts with mine.”

I sink one finger into her wet core and then another, fucking her slowly. I want to take her to the bedroom and strip her bare, but I also want to fuck her right here, standing, still clothed, because my hunger is uncontrollable.

I touch the hardened clit, the knot vibrating against my thumb, and her moans increase, culminating in her begging to be satisfied.

She feels no shame now because all she desires is for me to give her the pleasure I promised. The pleasure we’ve both been craving.

Each time my fingers invade her body, she whimpers, promising to give me everything if I just don’t stop. Her lack of control drives me insane. Witnessing her transition from a wholesome woman to a wild cat makes every nerve in my body vibrate.

I carry her in my arms to the dining table, made of solid wood, and set her down on it. I don’t let her close her thighs, planting her feet on the tabletop.

With a swift movement, I turn the small piece of silk that concealed her sex into a rag. The sound of the fabric tearing acts as a warning that my self-control has gone to hell.

I make her lie on the table and step back to admire the sight.

Brooklyn is stunning in her shameless surrender. Her dress is hiked up to her waist. Her feet are still clad in thin-strapped heels, her mouth parted in pleasure.

“Lower your dress straps for me,” I command. “Show me what’s mine.”

She hesitates, and even that is sexy as hell—the fact that she makes me wait, delaying what we both know she wants.

When she finally obeys, I grab both her thighs and place them over my shoulders, diving my face into the pussy I’m desperate to devour.

One of my hands rises, kneading the soft flesh of her breast, pinching the nipple, while my tongue gives her no rest, licking her wet folds, sucking her clit, diving deep into her tight walls.

The orgasm explodes in her without warning, and she comes so sweetly that her pleasure drips down my chin.

I don’t stop, because I’m ravenous. I keep sucking until I feel her legs go limp.