Chapter Thirteen-Cecilia
Minutes before he drives into me.
“Atlas!”
My voice shatters in the air—half outrage, half something I can’t name.
Because the moment my breasts are exposed to him, his eyes darken, and he surges forward, mouth latching onto one pierced nipple like he’s starving.
The moan that escapes me isn’t planned.
It betrays everything I pretend not to feel.
His tongue is hot, wet, and relentless.
He sucks hard, teeth grazing just enough to make me cry out.
My knees go weak, and I cling to his shoulders, heat racing through my veins like wildfire.
Then he pulls back, chest heaving, eyes wild with possession.
He starts unbuttoning his shirt, each movement sharp, unbothered, sure.
My breath catches because—God help me—I can’t stop staring.
He’s absolutely gorgeous.
Golden skin stretched over hard muscle, broad chest, tight abs—all of it pure power and brutal elegance.
I’ve seen beautiful men before.
I’ve even slept with one or two.
But no one has ever made my pulse race like this.
Like him.
He tosses the shirt aside.
I’m still reeling from his earlier actions.
“Fuck, Cece, those look uncomfortable,” he growled, dragging my bikini bottoms down with one rough tug.
I try to protest to this blatant display of testosterone overload, I really do—but then I feel his fingers sliding between my thighs, parting me, stroking through the wet heat there like he owns it.
“Say you’ll ask me before you swim,” he murmurs.
His thumb brushes that perfect spot, and I almost break.
Almost.
“No,” I whisper, trembling.
His eyes spark like I’ve struck a match.
Instead of retreating, he pulls his hand away, and I whimper—actually whimper—at the loss.
But when, he unzipped his pants. Well, that’s when everything inside me stilled.
Atlas is the most gorgeous man I have ever seen, and seeing him with his hand on his cock—well I simply stop breathing.
He’s big. Really big.
Thick, veined, hard, already leaking at the tip.
“Fuck, that’s so hot,” I whisper without thinking.
“Do you like what you see, kardhoúla?” he asks, voice like velvet over steel.
“Atlas, please,” I moan.
I’m so turned on I’m dripping, making a mess of the bedspread beneath me.
My hands drift, almost without permission, one over my breast, the other down toward the ache that’s burning brighter with every second.
“Freeze,” he orders. “Hands above your head. Or this stops.”
I bite my lip. “No. Don’t stop. I want to watch you touch yourself.”
His growl is pure sin.
He talks some more. And his words are—well they’re asinine.
He wants to own me. And it should piss me off.
Instead, it turns me molten.
He strokes himself, slow and filthy, and I can’t look away. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his stomach flexing as his hand moves.
His eyes are locked on mine, dark and hungry and worshiping like he’s going to devour me whole.
Then he’s there, dragging me to the edge of the bed and thrusting into me in one glorious, soul-shattering stroke.
I scream—half ecstasy, half shock—and my fingers claw at the sheets.
He fills me.
Stretches me.
Fucks me like I’m his religion and he’s been praying to my body for a thousand years.
My back arches.
My nails drag across his skin.
I moan his name like it’s the only word I’ve ever known.
And he gives me more.
More depth.
More fury.
More devotion—carved into every thrust like he's inscribing his name on my soul.
Each time he moves inside me, he’s rewriting something I thought I understood about myself.
About sex. About power. About surrender.
His praises punch through me.
Low and rough and reverent.
Good girl.
So tight.
So fucking perfect.
Every thrust unravels me completely until I’m not sure where I end and he begins. Until I don’t recognize the sound of my own voice anymore—wrecked and desperate and raw.
And maybe it’s just sex.
Maybe I’m being a fool.
Maybe he’s done this a hundred times with a hundred women whose names he never bothered to remember.
But God help me, I don’t think so.
I don’t know what I did to compel such a reaction from this man—this prince with ice in his eyes and iron in his voice—but I know I am here for it.
For this.
For him.
Even if I shouldn’t be.
Even if I promised myself I wouldn’t.
Because the truth is, I’m teetering on the edge.
One more kiss, one more whispered endearment in that wicked accent of his, and I’m not sure I’ll survive the fall.
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe it’s not about surviving.
Maybe it’s about living.
And no, I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.
Maybe it’ll bring betrayal.
Maybe heartbreak.
Maybe he’ll walk away with nothing more than a smirk and a diplomatic wave goodbye.
But I do know I’ll regret it for the rest of my life if I don’t see this through.
If I don’t take this night, this fire, this brutal collision of lust and longing and something that feels dangerously close to fate—and make it mine.
So I decide.
I decide to carpe the fuck out of this diem.
To claim the lost prince with the haunted eyes and the dangerous hands.
To make a memory so seared into my skin I’ll feel it long after he’s gone.
And if I fall for him—if I really fall for Atlas Stavros—that’ll be one more desperate, shameful, beautiful secret I take to my grave.
But maybe it’ll be worth it.