Cristiane Serruya - Trust: Betrayed

He groaned and paused above her, “Again.”

She did it and, incapable of holding back, he lowered himself over her and pushed in, biting out, “I love this.”

She smiled mischievously at him and clenched her inner muscles around his arousal.

“Ah-ah. Stop,” he warned as a painfully pleasurable shudder racked his body. “I want this to last.” I want this to last forever.

“I love that horny voice of yours.” Biting gently at his jaw, she interlocked her wrists above her head. “With what new torment do you plan to torture me?”

“Are you testing me, lass?” Another time, he might have played one of his erotic games with her, but having kept Sophia awake well past midnight, he was feeling as satisfied as a big cat who ate an entire bowl of cream. “Are you getting attached to scarfs and dishcloths?”

“I’m getting attached to you,” she retorted and purred. “Take me. Have me as you wish.”

“Mmm. A long and slow fuck this time.” He circled her nipple with a finger. “Very. Slow.”

“Yes, torture me,” she breathed, arching beneath him.

Kissing her lips and feeling desire burn through his veins, he moved his body in a steady, deep rhythm that drew a shuddering gasp of pleasure from Sophia. Even as she moaned and her legs locked possessively around him, he didn’t give in to his own need until he was sure she was as turned on as he was. Until she was as ready as him to fall into an endless abyss of delight.

“Ah, Alistair Connor.” Sophia’s low and sensual cry of pleasure sent them tumbling together into a lush and languid sensation, heart and soul united.

Rippling with aftershocks of ecstasy, Alistair silently promised her that he’d carve out his own heart before he hurt her as he had done the others. He mumbled her name and nestled against her breast, and Sophia felt a swell of tenderness for that big man, who could be so gentle one moment and so fierce another.

Sophia toyed with his hair as he murmured against her breast, “I’m getting used to this. Waking up with you every morning.”

I am, too. You could move in with me. Then she remembered the blonde woman in the restaurant. Don’t rush it, remember, life’s a marathon, not a sprint, Sophia.

She sighed.

“What?” Alistair said sleepily.

Nothing. Just a ravishing woman making me jealous. Sophia put a hand under her head, staring up at the blue and green canopy, all too aware of the comforting weight of Alistair’s head on her breast, of his hand possessively clasping her hip and a leg over hers, as if he were afraid she’d sneak away while he napped.

“Nothing. Sleep,” she ordered softly as her fingers returned to his hair, the caresses lulling him back to sleep.

8.01 a.m.

Sophia bent down and kissed Alistair on the mouth, “Wake up, you slugabed.”

He stretched his big body and opened his green eyes, “Mmm. Now I’m the slugabed?”

“Just returning the compliment,” she teased. “I phoned Garrick and he’s already dropped off your clothes. I’ve hung them in the dressing room for you.”

“Garrick?” He blinked, scowled and gripped her hand as she tried to walk away from the bed, “Where do you think you are going?”

“To shower. I’m sweatyyyy-”

In a quick movement, he snaked her by the waist and dragged her onto the bed, “How dare you leave me alone in bed!”

“Hey! I’m sweaty all over!” she scolded.

“I forgot! Not cold, not hot.” He laughed as he rolled over her. “But it seems you do sweat. What are you doing out of bed?”

“I was working out. I didn’t have any time yesterday and tomorrow I only work out for half an hour before I have to leave for Cambridge.”

He kissed her mouth leisurely and whispered on her lips, “I could have given you a better work out. In fact, I think I will,” he ran his hands over her sides, grabbed her thighs, opening them and set himself between them.

“No, no, no. It’s eight o’clock. I have to shower and go to therapy.”

“You’re not leaving me like this,” he flexed his hips, showing her his aroused state.

“My, Alistair. Do you take viagra?”

“Viagra?” he chuckled. “Oh, no. Now you’re going to pay.” He pulled her top over her head, knotting it at her elbows, binding her arms above her head and cupped her breasts, his thumbs caressing her nipples. “A quickie... Mmm?” he asked as he showered her breasts with kisses.

She moaned, “I have to shower.”

He removed the top from her arms and jumped off the bed, holding out his hand to her, “Come. Let’s shower.”

“Alistair Connor,” she frowned at him and crossed her arms under her breasts, “you’re impossible.”

He laughed out loud, too happy to care about the hour, and picked her up in the arms, humming in masculine satisfaction as she let him do what he would.

Greece, Mykonos. Niarchos Angepopoulos’s house.

Thursday, January 26^th, 1989.

 3.53 p.m.

A dry knock on the door brought Ethan’s head up from the book he was reading.

“Come in,” he said in Greek.

Suddenly, the big room became small as Niarchos Angepopoulos entered his grandson’s bedroom. Niarchos was not a big man; by no means fat, tall or handsome. But he exuded such charisma that he seemed taller, broader and more handsome than he was. His aura of power - and his money - made women fling themselves at his feet.

He had a beautiful mane of graying black hair, a slightly beaked nose and sharp, intelligent dark eyes. Always impeccably dressed in tailored clothes and with extremely polished manners, he had worked his way up to the top of Greek society and business world through hard work and also lies and deceit.

Ethan was grateful his grandfather adored him, because Niarchos Angepopoulos was unstoppable when he wanted something. His only weaknesses in life were his late wife, to whom he had been faithful for the thirty-three years of their happy marriage, and his only grandson.

“Good afternoon, Grandpa,” Ethan stood up and kissed him on the cheeks, an admiring look in his eyes.

“Always studying,” Niarchos shook his head as he looked around his grandson’s shaded room and walked to the curtains flinging them wide open. “You need more sunlight in your life, Ethan. It will keep your eyes healthier for longer.”

Ethan was a very handsome young man. He’d had perfect skin during his teenage years and he was starting to fill out nicely, building muscle. He was already tall. His silky brown hair had turned to a dark blond under the Greek sun and his amazing azure eyes, so uncommon in the Angepopoulos’s family, were bright.

Nonetheless, Niarchos worried about him.

Since Ethan had arrived from London, more than two years ago, with a haunted look in his expressive and gullible eyes, he had made no friends and had had no girlfriends, either. He expressed no wish to socialize with his school friends at the beach or at parties. He was extremely shy. The only place he felt comfortable was in the security of his bedchamber or in the gazebo near the private beach, accompanied by his books. Even when Niarchos traveled around the globe, be it on business or on vacation, Ethan refused to leave the house in Mykonos.

Niarchos had to use lots of gentle persuasion to take Ethan out of the darkness of his room. Ethan refused to talk about his feelings, even to the therapist his grandfather made him see, and his depression continued. Niarchos had also started seeing a therapist to see if he could help Ethan. In his last attempt, Niarchos took him to a psychiatrist, who prescribed anti-depressives and that seemed to help a bit.

Since the only things that make Ethan feel a little better were his studies, his books and his computer, Niarchos enrolled him in the best school, paid private tutors to teach him languages and bought all the books and new technology he wanted. Ethan had a very sharp mind and, although he was socially withdrawn, he was a sponge when it came to knowledge.

Still, that wasn’t enough to make the haunted look and the depressed state go away.

Niarchos had decided he would change that. Even if he had to betray his own grandson’s trust. He reasoned with himself that it was small price to pay to teach Ethan the ways of life.

“I want to talk to you, son. Come outside,” Niarchos ordered lightly and crossed the threshold to the veranda, sitting on the comfortable chair.

Ethan eyed Niarchos as he crossed his legs. He blinked nervously. Stop this, Ethan. You know Grandpa doesn’t like you blinking like this.

Niarchos smiled gently at Ethan and motioned for the chair beside him. “My son, I need your help.”

Ethan’s lips opened in a smile, “Of course, Grandpa. Whatever you need.”

Niarchos sat more comfortably and launched into his prepared speech.

Friday, January 27^th, 1989.

10.21 a.m.

Niarchos motioned to Ethan, who was standing stiffly beside him, and spoke in his accented French, “And this is my grandson, Ethan Ashford. Ethan, this is my dear friend, Isis, and her daughter, Eve.”

“You never told me you had such a handsome grandson.” The older brunette pursed her lips in a charming pout at Niarchos. She put her manicured hand on Ethan’s cheek, before bending and pressing her face to his. “Where have you been hiding, gorgeous?”

Ethan smiled, embarrassed, but said in his perfect and fluent French, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“They are going to live with us for a few months,” Niarchos explained.

Ethan’s gaze lingered on Isis. She was a mature woman of fifty. Tall, curvy, a bit on the plump side, she had luscious brown hair that touched her shoulders and a very interesting and charming face. Then his gaze moved to Eve and paused there.