The Virgin's Proposition

“It has.” And he meant it. It was quite honestly the loveliest night he’d had in years. “I lucked out when I commandeered you at the Ritz.”

“So did I.” Her eyes were luminous, like deep blue pools.

They stared at each other. The moment lingered. So did they.

Demetrios knew exactly what he should do: give her hand a polite shake, then let go of it and say goodbye. Or maybe give her a kiss. After all, he’d greeted her with a kiss before he even knew who she was.

But now he did know. She was a sweet, kind, warm young woman—who was engaged to someone else. The last sort of woman he should be lusting after.

But even knowing it, he leaned in and touched his lips to hers.

Just a taste. What the hell was wrong with a taste? He wasn’t going to do anything about it.

Just…taste.

And this one couldn’t be like the first time he’d kissed her. That had been for show—all determination and possession and public display.

Or like the second when he’d left her on the street corner with her phone buzzing in her hand. One quick defiant kiss because he couldn’t help himself.

This time he could certainly help himself. But he didn’t, because he wanted it.

He wanted to taste her. Savor her. Remember her.

And so slowly and deliberately he took Anny’s lips with his.

She tasted of wine and apple and a sweetness that could only be Anny herself. He savored it more than he’d savored the tart. Couldn’t seem to stop himself, like a parched man after years in the desert given the clearest most refreshing water in the world.

He would have stopped if she’d resisted, if she’d put her hands against his chest and pushed him away.

But she put her hands against his chest and hung on—clutched his shirt as if she would never let go.

He didn’t know which of them was more surprised. Or which of them stepped back first.

His hormones were having a field day. After so long asleep, they were definitely wide-awake and raring to go.

Demetrios tried to ignore them, but he couldn’t quite ignore the hammer of his heart against the wall of his chest, or keep his voice steady as he said, “Good night, Anny Chamion.”

For a moment she just looked stunned. She barely managed a smile as she swallowed and said, “Good night.”

There was another silence. Then he tipped her chin up with a single finger, and leaned down to give her one last light chaste kiss on the lips—the proper farewell kiss he should have given her moments ago.

“I owe you,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

“You rescued me, remember?”

She shook her head. “You fed me dinner. You went to see Franck.”

And you brought the first evening of joy into my life in the last three years. Of course he didn’t say that. He only repeated, “I owe you, Anny Chamion. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just ask.”

She stared at him mutely.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a business card, then scrawled his private number on it, tucking it into her hand. “Whatever you need. Whenever. You only have to ask. Okay?”

She nodded, her eyes wide and almighty enticing. She had no idea.

“Good night,” he said firmly, deliberately—as much to convince his hormones as to say farewell to her. But he waited for her to go inside and shut the door. Only when she had did he turn and walk toward the stairs.

He had just reached them when the door jerked open behind him.

“Demetrios?” she called his name softly.

He stiffened, then turned. “What?”

He waited as she came toward him until she stood bare inches away, close enough that he could again catch the scent of the apple tart, of a faint hint of citrus shampoo.

Her eyes were wide as she looked up at him. “Anything?”

“What?” He blinked, confused.

“You said you’d do anything?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

She wetted her lips. “Whatever I ask?”

“Yes,” he said firmly.

“Make love with me.”

CHAPTER THREE

SHE COULDN’T BELIEVE she’d said the words. Not out loud.

Thought them, yes. Wished they would come true, absolutely. But ask a man—this man!—to make love with her?

No! She couldn’t have.

But one look at his face told her that, in fact, she had. Oh, dear God. She desperately wanted to recall the request. Her face burned. Her brain—provided she had one, which seemed unlikely given what she’d just done—was likely going up in smoke.

What on earth had possessed her?

Some demon no doubt. Certainly it wasn’t the spirit of generations of Mont Chamion royalty. They were doubtless spinning in their graves.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” She had always thought people who fanned themselves were silly and pretentious. Now she understood the impulse. She started to back away.

But Demetrios caught her hand. “You didn’t mean…?” Those green eyes bored into hers.