Chapter Eleven
Theo indulged the luxury of drifting in the space between consciousness and dreams, breathing in Freya’s tantalising scent—rosebuds and woman.
The now familiar heat pounded in his groin.
Adjusting his junk, he rolled over, aware of the hazy light against his closed lids—and the knowledge he was safe here.
And secure. A feeling that never got old, even now.
He smiled, still half asleep, the need swelling as he pictured Freya in the hour before dawn, on her knees, her full lips closing around his thrusting erection, her gaze, bright with determination and exhilaration, locked on his as he guided her to take him deeper.
He’d been as good as his word and kept them busy for two solid days. While a snowstorm raged outside, and he and Freya fed the hunger that would not die.
The last forty-eight hours had been a revelation in more ways than one.
Who would have expected a virgin to be so eager, so enthusiastic, so willing to explore?
He’d always considered himself a generous, inventive lover, but he’d never met a woman so perfectly attuned to his needs, or as insatiable as him.
Why had she remained a virgin for so long, when she was such a sexual being?
He’d had her every way he could think of, learning what made her moan, and sob, and shudder.
Discovering how and where she loved to be touched and kissed and caressed.
She was a fire in his blood that had only got hotter over the past forty-eight hours.
Because every time he reached for her, she reached back.
It was like watching a flower bloom, the potent mix of innocence and hunger so intoxicating he was captivated, enthralled.
He’d tried to convince himself keeping her in his bed was necessary, so she didn’t do anything dumb, like use the code he’d given her.
But the truth was somehow he’d become addicted to the sight of her eyes darkening with arousal, the scent of her—rich and sweet—as she softened in his arms, the feel of her tight flesh massaging him to climax as she shattered.
His hand travelled over the sheets, reaching for her again, so he could coax her from dreams.
But the sheets were cool.
What the…?
His eyes flew open, the sleep clearing from his brain, as he registered the brittle sunlight coming through the picture window and the empty space beside him.
‘Freya?’ he called, or rather croaked, his throat still rusty from sleep.
Nothing. Panic worked its way into his sex buzz. Throwing off the sheet, he found his discarded boxers on the bedroom floor and tugged them on over the persistent erection.
Where the hell was she?
As he dragged on his sweatpants, the panic clawed at his throat—increasing the weird feeling of being adrift, untethered, just because she wasn’t where he expected her to be. He checked the bathroom first, shouting her name again. Frustration edged out the desire and his morning erection wilted.
What if she’d ventured outside? Now the storm was over.
What had he been thinking, giving her the door code? He’d known it was a mistake when he’d blurted it out, but the hope on her face had struck a chord. And made him want something he’d never wanted before—to earn a woman’s trust.
Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.
He scanned the landscape through the bedroom’s doomed window—the frozen lake, the impenetrable forest beyond, shrouded in white. Searching for a sign. Any sign. How long had she been gone? Had she run away from him? Had the last few days all been a ruse, to lull him into letting his guard down?
He swore loudly. But no one could hear him.
He charged through the house, to the garage. The all-terrain that had brought them here was still there. He counted the snowmobiles, trying to remember how many had been there when they had arrived three nights ago. Was it four or five? He couldn’t tell if any were missing.
Why hadn’t he disabled the damn things?
Because for some unknown reason he’d chosen to trust her, too. He cursed himself again as he ran to her bedroom. And checked her luggage.
The outdoor layers—including the snowsuit and boots—were missing.
He shouted into the silence. But swearing didn’t help loosen the boa constrictor around his throat, which he recognised from when he was a young boy, in those dark days right after their old man had disappeared.
He hadn’t cared that the miserable bastard was gone, but he’d been terrified every morning when he’d woken up in sweat-soaked sheets, and Xander had made him stay put while he ventured out to find food.
Shame washed over him as he remembered sitting in the squalid apartment, shivering despite the blistering summer heat, his bony knees pressed to his chest, trying to make himself invisible and ignore the gnawing pain in his stomach, while each second took an hour to pass…
And he battled the fear Xander would never return—and he’d be left alone.
He raced back to the bedroom and tugged on a couple of layers of clothing, before heading back to the garage to don a snowsuit and boots.
As he keyed in the code and the door slid open, the blast of freezing air hit his face. He winced. And cursed viciously in Greek.
He was going to find Freya and handcuff her to him if he had to. No way was he letting her out of his sight again.
She wanted her independence after years of being under her father’s thumb, and he understood that, but that didn’t mean she got to trigger his worst nightmares without consequences.
Serious consequences.
Freya fed the last log into the stove at the back of the sauna hut—then grinned as she watched the fire crackle and burn. A plume of steam rose into the frigid air.
She propped her hands on her hips, not an easy feat given the eight layers of clothing she wore. The sense of achievement was immense.
She had found the sauna’s instruction manual—written in Finnish and English—in an annex off the kitchen.
It had taken her over an hour to transport enough logs from the underground garage to the hut built on the edge of the forest, start the fire and then feed it until the automated controls registered enough heat.
There was also a steam room, which operated electronically, but the sauna was a traditional Finnish design.
And had seemed more romantic for what she had planned.
It was Christmas morning. And this was going to be her present to Theo. A heartfelt thank you for initiating her in the art of lovemaking… And helping her to discover her inner hedonist. The sensual woman she had always been meant to be but had thought existed only in her imagination.
Sensation rippled over her skin at the thought of her lover and the way she’d left him, fast asleep, lying spreadeagled on his stomach, taking up most of the king-size bed.
The sight of his bare buttocks gilded by the brittle winter dawn had made the heavy weight in her sex throb and glow.
And it had taken major willpower to resist the urge to kiss her way down the slope of his spine, and press her lips to those perfect muscled orbs, to coax him out of sleep and see his magnificent cock thicken with need. For her.
She squeezed her thighs together, recalling the salty taste of him as he’d taught her how to give him a blow-job.
Who knew giving head could be as hot and delicious as receiving it?
She chuckled. Princess Freya: from virgin to nymphomaniac in two glorious days, with the help of Theo Caras and his insatiable cock.
‘Freya?’
Her head rose at the deep shout, which whipped away on the wind. Stepping out from behind the sauna, she spotted the source, stalking towards her.
She waved, her heartbeat ramping up, as the weight in her sex rose to press against her ribs. ‘I have a surprise for you!’
She pushed out a breath, determined to ignore the emotion making her lungs tighten.
It didn’t mean anything. It was just anticipation of another endorphin overload. And the thought of showing him what she’d done for him. And practising her striptease skills through all eight layers of clothing—while they enjoyed his present together.
From what he’d said about Christmas—and the scowl on his face at seeing the tree—it was obvious Theo didn’t understand what made this time of year special.
Everyone deserved to have at least one special Christmas memory. And he’d given her plenty already, so she planned to return the favour.
When she’d woken this morning, she’d felt freer than she’d ever felt in her life.
This Christmas was a place out of time—it couldn’t, wouldn’t last. According to Theo, once the sixth of January passed, she could head to Zurich without fear of reprisals from her father.
While it still hurt to know her father had stopped loving her a long time ago, that she had become a means to attract an investor, her illicit affair with Theo would ensure he could never barter her virginity again.
Something she was sure he’d done to convince both Faron, and Theo’s brother Xander Caras, she would make an obedient, convenient royal wife.
Well, screw that.
She wasn’t a dutiful princess, or a royal pawn in her father’s dynastic games now. She’d broken free and found the part of herself that had been hiding in the shadows of his disapproval for years.
She didn’t need his love, not any more. Theo had shown her—with his reckless, relentless pursuit of pleasure at all costs—that sometimes it was better to live in the moment and damn the consequences.
Which meant not romanticising their time together here or mistaking their relationship for anything other than great sexual chemistry.
Even so the joy was all-encompassing as he trudged towards her through the snow. ‘Merry Christmas, Theo,’ she shouted. ‘I’ve got a present for you.’
Her sense of achievement faltered, though, when his head lifted, and his pure blue eyes locked on hers. Because instead of the playfulness—and potent awareness—she had become accustomed to, all she saw was irritation.