Hold Me Today Page 16

  Because I remember being in her position. The worry that it all would come crumbling down around me, should I even blink a little too long. The fear that my good luck was running on a timer, and if I didn’t soak it up quickly enough, it’d all be gone before morning came around. The nightmares, the stress, the unrelenting anxiety of striking out on my own and having no one to fall back on.

  But at least I had my parents and Effie to keep me steady and trucking forward.

  Who does Mina have? Her parents who I haven’t seen in years? Her siblings? From what I understand, Katya is living somewhere down south, attending graduate school, and her brother, Dimitri, lives in New York City. Besides Effie, Mina has no one.

  Except for me.

  Because you’re forcing your way in.

  Damn straight I am.

  “Mina!” I call out again. “We’re gonna talk. In no way was I implying that you’d pay me with sex. Who do you think I am? Some asshole out of a romance novel?”

  I palm the wall and prepare to make the short, tight turn up to the next flight of stairs, only to have a dainty fist collide angrily with my shoulder. With fast reflexes, I catch Mina’s wrist to keep her from pummeling me. “Jesus, are you crazy, gynaíka?”

  Her honey eyes turn to slits. “I don’t like that word.”

  I swear to God this woman is . . . Gamóto. Every time. Every time I think we’re making headway, getting along, we revert right back to our perpetual role of frenemies. That’s what the kids are calling it nowadays, right? Frenemies? Hell if I know.

  Refusing to cut her loose in case she turns those flying fists on me again, I stand my ground. “You don’t like the word for woman? Seriously?”

  She tugs at her wrist to no avail. “It’s condescending.”

  “How?” I pull her down to the stair rung I’m on, and yeah, maybe I do it because it gives me the advantage. I’m taller, broader, and, if I have to harbor a guess, I’m also the only one who’s thinking rationally in this dark, dank stairwell. “Women call guys ‘man’ all the time. Everyone under the sun says ‘dude,’ and that’s not even historically accurate because not all guys are cowboys.”

  “It’s also a pimple on a cow’s butt.”

  “What?”

  “Dude,” she mutters, her eyes never moving from the wall beside my head, “it’s also another word for a pimple on a—”

  “I heard you the first time.” I scrub my free hand over my jaw, all the better to keep the sucker from hitting the floor in shock. “How do you even know this?”

  “Jeopardy.”

  Of course she knows it from Jeopardy.

  When she pulls at her wrist again, I unleash my hold with a flex of my fingers. Her back collides with the wall behind her, and I can’t even imagine how many splinters are baring their splintery teeth, ready to sink into her soft skin. Don’t touch her, and for the love of God, don’t set her off again. My hands ball into fists at my sides. “Back to the conversation, how exactly was I being condescending?”

  Her arms fold over her small chest. “It’s all in the tone. Gynaíka, fold the laundry. Gynaíka, is dinner done yet?” Her tone turns snide. “If I count the number of times my father has turned to my mom and said that word, I’ll run out of the world’s lamb population.”

  Trust it to Mina Pappas to make me want to laugh when she’s chomping at the bit for a fight. I give in, just in the off chance I can make her smile. “That’s a hell of a lot of lamb.”

  The fire in her honey eyes banks to a slow roast. “I’d save every one if I could. No more lamb on the spit for Easter or finding a head bobbing in a steaming pot in the kitchen.”

  “That happened to you too?” I ask, messing with her. Every Greek kid has been traumatized by smelling something amazing drifting from the stove, only to open the pot’s lid and come face to face with . . . well, yeah. Like I said, traumatizing. “Also, probably not the wisest move to keep Greeks everywhere loving you.”

  Her nostrils flare at that, and she averts her gaze once again. “The Greeks aren’t always the end-all-be-all.”

  “Don’t let my grandmother hear you say that.”

  “Good thing I wouldn’t say it in Greek for her to understand.”

  My lips twitch at her savagery. She’s entertaining as all hell when she’s spitting fire like this. “So, no gynaíka then.” I give a curt chin dip. “That’s fine with me. God knows I’m not trying to have you punch me again.”

  “The punch wasn’t for that.”

  “Fully aware of that, Ermione.” I face her fully, balancing one foot on the rung above us. As much as I want to plant my hands on the wall behind her head, splinters be damned, I’ve got no interest in validating her assumption from downstairs. So I keep my hands down by my sides when I say, “Sex is not part of the deal. Not the original deal, not any deal.” I duck my head, eclipsing some of the height difference, so I can look her in the eye. “You know me. I mean, your nickname for me is Saint—”

  “Nick,” she cuts in, her expression unreadable. “I know.”

  She won’t meet my gaze, and for one of the first times in my life, I react on impulse.

  Softly, I catch her chin between my thumb and forefinger, the lightest touch I’ve ever given to another person. “Look at me, koukla.”

  The words emerge raspy, the Greek endearment rolling off my tongue before I can even question its very existence—but it does the trick. Mina looks at me. Full-on. Zeroed in. And it rocks me to my fucking soul.

  Honey rimmed with amber.

  The smallest mole on the slope of her nose. Last night, it was too dark out for me to notice its existence but I do now. I take in my fill, studying every aspect of her face like I do a job site before I begin the restoration process. In my day-to-day life, I handle the finest antiques, the most fragile buildings that I bring back to life for another generation to enjoy.

  I’ve never touched anything—or anyone—more important than I am right now.

  Her chin trembles beneath the roughened pads of my fingers, and I finally give in by planting one hand above her head on the wall. This stairwell is cramped and not well-spaced—hardly any nineteenth-century brownstones are—and I breathe in her scent. Citrus. A hint of something sweet, like rose or lavender. Vulnerability.

  The latter cloaks the air around us.

  “I don’t blame you for jumping the gun, but I wasn’t thinking of sex when I offered to take on the hydrotherapy room at full cost.”

  Mina’s tongue flicks out to touch her bottom lip. “You were staring at my mouth.”

  My cock, traitorous bastard that he is, perks up. I shift my hips back, away from temptation. It’d be all too easy to haul her up into my arms and grind my erection into her. But that defeats the purpose of this conversation in the first place.

  Think of yiayia! Count lambs, man! Just think of anything but her lips.

  Unfortunately, lying has never been one of my strong suits.

  I stare down at her and hear the words of damnation echo in the stairwell: “I wanted to kiss you.” When her brows shoot up in surprise, I hastily add, “Not that it matters. What does matter is that I wanted to do the room for you. Not as a favor, not in pity, but because I know how it feels to want something so badly you can taste it, and yet—because of circumstances out of your control—that fate no longer belongs to you.”

  She visibly swallows and maybe I’m absorbing some of her reckless habits because my fingers leave her chin to trace her jawline, then swoop down. The heel of my palm rests against her collarbone as my fingers curl around the nape of her neck. More, the new, reckless part of me begs, and I nurture the demand by pressing my forehead to hers.

  Voice low, I urge, “Say something.”

  Another swallow, and this one I feel under my hand like a secondary pulse. “I appreciate the gesture, Nick.”

  “But?”

  “It feels like a handout.”

  “Mina—”

  “I know it’s not one.” Her hand scr
apes over mine, her short nails dancing over my skin. “But thank you for the offer. And . . . and I’m sorry for lumping you in with a group where you don’t belong. You were trying to help, and I jumped down your throat prematurely.”

  Her words wind my heart like a tightly strung coil. “Every person who’s ever made you feel ‘less than’ is an asshole.”

  She meets my stare, and the slopes of our noses collide in a gentle bump. “The list is mighty.”

  “Ignore them.”

  “Already done.”

  “I’m not”—I skim my hand up, cupping her jaw—“I’m not like them, Mina.”

  “I know,” she whispers.

  Beneath my palm, her pulse flutters like a butterfly trapped in a mason jar. I study her features, tracing the lines of a face I thought I knew as well as my own. Twenty-four years, and yet it feels like I don’t know her at all. Not the almond shape of her eyes or the sparse split of hair in her left eyebrow, near the tail. Not the tiny scar on her right cheek that’s shades lighter than her olive skin or the slight widow’s peak of her hairline.

  Opening my mouth, I let the admission escape that could ruin us both: “I’m dying to know how you taste.”

  Her chest heaves and grazes mine.

  Above her head, I curl my fingers inward. “I don’t give a damn about the deal.” My lips press to her forehead. “I don’t give a damn about who owes who what.” Down I travel, over the crooked bridge of her nose, purposely pausing over the bump. “I don’t give a damn about what Effie might say or that I’m not supposed to want you.” A lingering kiss to her cheek. “And I don’t give a damn that I’m not the kind of guy who does flings and you’re not the kind of girl who does long-term.”

  I move east, teasing, with my lips hovering over hers. I soak in her shuddering breath that wafts over my mouth, and I fucking relish the way her nails bite into my skin, anchoring my hand to her jawline.

  “I need to kiss you,” I murmur, refusing to eliminate the final distance between us. I need her desperate like me, as stripped down to the bone as I feel. Nothing less will do. Purposefully, I press my weight into hers. And her throaty moan is a melody I could play on repeat for the rest of my life. Goddamn perfection. “Tell me no and we’ll stop this right now. No one will ever know that we almost—”

  “Stop talking and kiss me, Nick.”

  She doesn’t need to tell me twice.

  I crash my mouth down over hers and let myself freefall into possibly the worst decision of my life. But, hell, kissing her doesn’t feel like a mistake. No, it feels like we’ve spent years working toward this one moment, dancing around each other, throwing barbs that carry more meaning than either of us have ever admitted.

  It feels like fate.

  My fingers bury themselves in her thick hair, winding those silky strands around my balled fist. And then I pull my hand back, sharp enough that a delicate gasp breaks from her mouth and she clutches my shoulders like I’m the only thing keeping her from tumbling down the flight of stairs.

  I take full advantage.

  I graze my tongue along the seam of her lips, demanding entry.

  And she gives it with the neediest, sexiest whimper I’ve ever heard.

  Oh, fuck.

  The sound goes straight to my dick. It strains against the zipper of my jeans, hard and throbbing. I hear nothing but the whirring sound of blood thundering in my head. My lungs squeeze, and I think of nothing but the delicious hint of coffee on her breath and the way she’s clasped one hand to the base of my neck. Reckless. Impulsive. Mina tugs me closer, as demanding as ever, and swirls her tongue with mine, playing, pushing me to give her more.

  In this moment, she isn’t Effie’s best friend. She isn’t the thorn in my side that she’s been for over twenty years, always digging her way under my skin and spiking my temper at the slightest provocation.

  If you had asked me ten years ago if I’d ever consider kissing Mina Pappas, I would have laughed in your face.

  No, you wouldn’t have.

  As though to prove me wrong, my imagination takes me through a wheelhouse of memories. Memories of us in Greece with Mina in a bikini and me fighting the desperate need in my veins to look and keep on looking. Memories of us here in Boston, me walking Mina home after school, the way heat stirred low in my groin whenever our fingers accidentally brushed together.

  Memories of her prom night, when I’d held her in my arms and her lids fluttered shut, and I thought, for one moment of temporary insanity, if only.

  If only she wasn’t my sister’s best friend.

  If only I hadn’t started seeing Brynn.

  If fucking only.

  Mina wrenches her mouth from mine, gasping, “This is crazy.”

  And it’s only about to get that much crazier.

  Lust pounds through my limbs, and I let instinct take over.

  My hands go to her ass, palms completely full, and I boost her up into the air. She defies gravity for only a second, eyes round with shock, before resettling into the cradle of my arms.

  “Oh!”

  “Wrap your legs around my waist,” I growl, trailing my mouth over her jaw to the shell of her ear.

  She does, and this time she whispers “oh” in a completely different tone. It’s breathy and feminine and accompanied by a squeeze of her legs and a swivel of her hips. “You feel . . . you feel so good.”

  With her back pressed to the stairwell wall, I stabilize my weight on two rungs, one hand planted on the wall beside her and the other still clutching her ass to keep her steady. Her pouty mouth finds mine as I grind my erection into the fleece-lined apex of her thighs. Back and forth, a slow, sensuous glide directly over the seam of her leggings.

  My control frays just a little more, and I force my hips to keep the smooth, easy rhythm instead of picking up tempo. Slow. Easy. I repeat the words like a mantra. Slow. Easy.

  Mina arches her back, driving her hips against mine.

  Slow. Easy.

  She’s killing me. Destroying any willpower I have left, decimating it into smithereens when she reaches between us and shoves my T-shirt up, exposing my stomach . . . and the crown of my cock trying to make an escape from my jeans.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and drop my forehead to her shoulder. “You drive me fucking insane.”

  Avidly, I watch her fingertips trace the rigid lines of my abs. My breathing comes heavy and labored, and she takes no pity on me. Those fingers skate down, light as a feather, and tease the tip of my cock with a caress I feel to my soul.

  “Fuck me.”

  She gives a throaty laugh. “I was so wrong about you.”

  I can’t look away from her hand. It mesmerizes me with every torturous pass over my cock, never gripping me fully or pulling me completely from my jeans. But she circles her palm over the crown, spreading my pre-cum, and I’m powerless to the guttural groan that escapes me. “How?” I finally grunt, thrusting my hips upward.

  Another swirl of her palm over my dick. “I thought you were rigid.” She tightens her legs around me, and the very rigid part of me strains against the very soft part of her. “Cold,” she adds softly. “But clearly I just need to listen for when you start cursing in English.” Hooking a hand around the back of my neck, she drags me close and molds her mouth to mine for a hot-as-hell kiss. She pulls back only long enough to whisper, “It’s your tell, how I know you’re teetering on the edge of showing whatever you’re really thinking.”

  I nip at her plump bottom lip. “Oh yeah?”

  It’s then I feel the button of my jeans come loose. The zipper inches down, far enough for Mina’s slender hand to dive inside my briefs and circle my hard-on with a tight, confident fist.

  Holy hell, she feels good wrapped around me. She pumps her hand once, twisting at the crown, and stars dance in front of my vision. Shit, “good” doesn’t even cover it. This is . . . this is—my mouth parts as she glides up and down, up and down, never losing pace. She squeezes at the base, then allows her thum
b to run along the vein on the underside of my dick on her next pass up my length. Another groan frees itself from my chest.

  “That,” she says, her honey eyes colliding with mine, “and I thought you’d be quiet in bed.” Her lips curl flirtatiously. “Or maybe that was wishful thinking on my part, a way to make me feel better about not having you for myself.”

  A way to make me feel better about not having you for myself.

  Her words only make my cock swell more. I’ve never thought about how I am in bed, aside from the basics: that I know exactly how to make a woman orgasm. But the particulars of how I am? Yeah, it’s not something I dwell on. And it’s not like anyone’s ever called me out for being vocal in the sack—except for Mina.

  The one woman who never fails to challenge me, no matter where we are, including an old and rickety stairwell, the location of our first kiss. It’s a major contrast to my time on Put A Ring On It, when every date and every moment was orchestrated for a panoramic view and a drone flying high above us to catch an embrace from all angles.

  I’d prefer the raw honesty of this moment with Mina any day of the week.

  I lean down and whisper my lips over hers. Her fist circles my cock.

  “You keep doing that and I’m gonna come.” Without waiting for what I know will be a sassy comment, I hold her tightly against me and swivel away from the wall. I head up the stairs, ignoring the creaks and whines beneath my feet, and focus on the woman in my arms.

  Except maybe I focus a little too much—on the soft skin of her neck and her full, kissable lips—because I fail to notice the wood groan on the third rung from the top of the stairwell. Not until my foot’s already sinking down, down, down and Mina’s crying out in panic and the rung gives out completely beneath me.

  19

  Mina

  It’s not every day that a first kiss with your lifelong crush ends with him thigh-deep in a stairwell.

  I’m not sure which shocks me more: the kiss (God, that kiss) or the fact that Nick is seconds away from plummeting to his death. All right, so he probably won’t die, but only because he’s got the muscles of Ares and the self-discipline of the almighty Zeus.