Chapter Fifteen
Rafael
I hold her in my arms, my head fallen back against the back of the couch, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling as the aftershocks of that incredible orgasm grip me tight.
Dio. What has she done to me? I feel emptied out, sated, peaceful almost, in a way I’ve never felt before, not even after that night in Singapore. Or even the sex we had earlier today, and I’m not sure why.
Is it because of how she gave herself to me? Obeying my demands without question and then matching me in passion? Or is it because of how she was honest with me before, about the gifts her brother would give her and what a pressure that became for her?
I’m not sure, and perhaps it should worry me that I can’t put a finger on why, yet, right now, with her in my arms, all wrapped up in the green silk gown I knew would look amazing on her, it doesn’t seem that important.
I don’t want to think about it now anyway.
What I want is to sit here like this, with her in my arms, and not think about a single damn thing, except how lovely she looked unwrapping all the presents I gave her, and how the pleasure she took in them was mine.
It was also satisfying to know that they were different from the ones her brother got her, and that she loved that. Not that I needed her appreciation—I meant what I said when I told her I’d send them all back if she didn’t like them—but I did like the pleasure she took in them.
It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about non-sexual pleasure, but sitting on the couch watching her open all those boxes and bags, I was thinking of hers, and how strange it was to find that it was important to me.
I can’t recall the last time anything but my revenge was important to me, but somehow Olympia Zakynthos’s happiness has become so.
It’s a strange thing to admit and not one I’m ready to confess, not yet, so I stay silent as she shifts on me, lifting her head from where it lies on my shoulder and glancing up at me. Her hair is tumbled and her lipstick smeared and she looks gloriously ravished.
‘Dangerous, dragonfly,’ I murmur. ‘Watching you suck me was the most erotic sight I’ve ever seen.’
Oh,’ she says, blushing. ‘That’s good.’
Her obvious embarrassment is charming, especially after what we’ve just done, but I shift, deciding we need to move to the floor and rid ourselves of our clothes.
I proceed to help her take off the gown and it’s like unwrapping my own, most delicious present.
Then I take off the jeans and tee that I’m wearing, before I bring her down onto the soft rug in front of the fireplace.
I rain kisses all over her delectable body, wanting to give back at least some of the pleasure she gave me.
She protests that I don’t need to reciprocate, but I silence her with my mouth, and then my hands, and then I take her beneath me and slide into her once again, moving slow and easy.
I want to draw her pleasure out for as long as I can, and this time, when the orgasm comes, it’s a slow, gentle wave, cresting and cresting before rolling over us, rather than a hurricane smashing everything in its path.
Afterwards we lie in the warm, sated silence, the detritus of boxes and bags scattered everywhere, the Christmas tree glittering above us.
‘Some of those decorations are handmade,’ she says after a long moment, her voice soft and husky. ‘Did you make them?’
‘What gave it away?’ I’m on my back, my arm under my head, staring up at the branches of the tree. ‘The ineptly drawn reindeer or the badly applied glitter?’
She laughs. She’s got her head on my chest, her black hair spilling over my skin, and we’re wrapped up in a soft cashmere blanket. ‘All of the above?’ Her voice is warm with humour. ‘Seriously, though. You made them, did you?’
‘I did.’ I stare up at them and allow myself the memory. ‘I did those ones at school. And then I would save a bit of pocket money to buy new ones for the tree every year. My mother loved them. We would hang them up together every Christmas.’
The memories, surprisingly, aren’t as painful as they have been. Perhaps it’s time. Or perhaps it’s Olympia’s warm body pressed close to mine that makes it feel as if the pain has drained from them.
‘I’m so sorry about your parents,’ Olympia murmurs after a long moment. ‘That must have been really hard.’
In this moment it feels easy to talk with her. ‘It was,’ I say. ‘My mother died of cancer a couple of years after Dad.’
‘Oh,’ she breathes. ‘That’s awful.’
‘Yes,’ I agree, because it was awful. ‘I do have lots of lovely memories of her though.’
‘I don’t remember mine,’ she says. ‘She died when I was very young. And I never knew my father. You’re lucky to have memories.’
I stare up into the branches of the tree, remembering other things.
My simple childish thought that I could take on extra work after school to help pay the family debt.
The way my father shouted at me that it would take a lifetime to repay, not a paltry few euros from a paper round.
The blood in his study, on the carpet and the wall behind his chair.
The way I made no difference to him, none at all.
But all I say is, ‘In some ways.’ I don’t want to bring the subject of my father up and all the bitterness that brings with it.
‘Ulysses always gave me a Christmas ornament,’ she says, giving me the grace of a change of subject. ‘And I’m a little sad I won’t get to see what he bought me this Christmas.’
I glance down at her, conscious once again of what I’ve taken her from. ‘I’ll buy you one,’ I tell her.
She’s smiling, though. ‘Don’t you dare. Not after you practically buried me in gifts.’ Her smile fades a little. ‘But you have to let me give too.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ulysses never made any demands of me. Never had any expectations, either. Initially, that was what I needed, but…after a while, it started to make me feel as if I was still broken.’
The Christmas-tree lights cast colours over her lovely face and all I can think is that there is nothing broken about her. ‘In what way?’ I ask, curious.
‘Oh, well, I told you he cosseted and coddled me. I didn’t have to give him birthday presents or make time for him. He didn’t expect me to get good marks at school either or have ambitions for a career.’
I remember my father and his own expectations of me, which were high. ‘Some people might find that reassuring,’ I say.
‘I know,’ she admits. ‘And like I said, I liked that at first. But after a while, I started asking myself why he didn’t want anything from me or even have hopes for me. It was as if he thought I’d never get over what happened to me and I’d be destined to live as a recluse in his house for ever.’
I study her face, her lovely golden eyes, and I can see how that would frustrate her. She has a passionate, fiery spirit, desperate for some kind of outlet, and yet her brother stifled it. He suffocated her with kindness, no matter that it was well meaning.
‘And do you want me to place demands on you?’ I ask. ‘Have expectations of you?’
‘As if you haven’t had demands and expectations already,’ she says, a glint of humour in her eyes. ‘I like it, though. So yes, I want them.’
I shift, easing her off my chest and rolling onto my side, propping my head up on one hand so I can look down into her face. ‘Why?’ I ask, curious as to why she likes it.
‘Because it’s as if you just assume that I’m as strong as you, as if that’s not in any doubt, and so… I am.’ She runs light fingers down my side, making my skin tighten. ‘Your demands show you care, too. In fact, I think you care very deeply.’
I’m uncomfortable with that observation, yet instead of changing the subject, I find myself asking, ‘So, being demanding equals care?’
‘Well, doesn’t it? I mean, you didn’t kidnap me for nothing. You kidnapped me to hurt my brother, to gain revenge for your parents. Because they died and you loved them.’
My heart tightens, no matter how I ignore it, and I get the sudden feeling that she can see right through me. That her golden eyes can read my every thought. It’s uncomfortable to be so vulnerable and extremely unfamiliar and I don’t like it one bit.
It’s true though, isn’t it? You loved them and, in the end, that love mattered not at all.
‘Rafael?’ She’s frowning at me, as if something in my face has given me away. ‘What’s wrong?’
I want to change the subject, yet the way she’s touching me, her fingers tracing patterns on my skin, seems to draw the words from me even though I don’t want to say them. ‘I loved them, it’s true,’ I say. ‘And I had an idyllic childhood in many ways, but…’
Her dark brows draw together. ‘But what?’
Anger flickers to life inside me, a steady, burning flame. ‘My father killed himself.’ The words are blunt, harsh. ‘So what did it matter that I loved him? He certainly didn’t care.’
Concern flickers in her eyes, but I don’t want to see it. I already feel as if she’s turned me inside out, and that doesn’t help. I glance away, reaching out to trace a lazy circle around her hip.
‘I’m sure he loved you,’ she says quietly. ‘There are lots of reasons why people take their own lives.’
‘He was a coward.’ My voice is bitter and some part of me feels like a traitor for even saying it. ‘If he loved me and my mother, he’d never have done it.’
The concern in her eyes deepens and there is a terrible kind of pity there, too. ‘It’s not your fault, Rafael,’ she says softly. ‘Who knows why he did what he did, but it wasn’t anything to do with you.’
‘I know it’s not about me,’ I snarl, vulnerability and bitterness making me vicious. ‘But I had to deal with the consequences all the same.’
This time, it’s her who moves. She sits up and reaches for me, taking my face between her palms, the look in her eyes cutting me to the bone.
‘I know,’ she says forcefully, her iron will showing in her voice.
‘Believe me, I know what it’s like having to bear consequences.
We should never have had to deal with them, but we did, and it’s not right and it’s not fair.
But…it’s okay to love him, Rafael. It’s okay to love him even though he hurt you. ’
‘I don’t need your permission,’ I can’t help growling. ‘Anyway, I stopped loving him years ago.’
But she stares at me unflinching. ‘It doesn’t mean forgiveness. It’s just acknowledging what’s already there.’
I want to demand what the point of that is, but the sympathy and concern in her voice stop me. Anger is a poor reward for her and she deserves better than that.
So I grip her wrists gently and pull her hands from my face, before pulling her down onto the rug next to me. ‘Dragonfly,’ I murmur as I kiss her beautiful mouth. ‘I don’t want to talk about this any more.’
And I move over her, making sure we don’t speak of it again for the rest of the night.