Mistress To a Latin Lover. Jane Porter

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      Cass should never have been his mistress. She should have been someone’s wife. Treasured. Respected. Valued.

      Stifling the anger and self-loathing within him, Maximos drew her even closer, held her more securely and kissed the top of her head. Not an hour, he silently corrected. Yours forever.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      DON’T look at the clock, Cass told herself, don’t watch time pass. Because an hour was nothing. An hour was brutally short. Just sixty minutes. Three thousand six hundred seconds. An hour would be gone in no time.

      And despite being held so securely, Cass felt pain at being in Maximos’s arms, not joy. Because she was waiting again. Waiting to say goodbye, to let him go.

      She hated waiting, too. Hated letting him go.

      She could do a hundred things—all difficult, all requiring prowess, talent, skill. But the one thing she couldn’t do was let Maximos go.

      She’d tried, too. God knows she’d tried. She’d wanted more, needed more, but somehow less with Maximos seemed better than more with anyone else.

      Now lying in Maximos’s arms, curled against his side, Cass felt the past rise up, the life she’d lived and she was suddenly, vividly reminded of their last weekend together, the weekend in Paris which didn’t turn out to be a full weekend at all. She’d arrived Saturday afternoon, was scheduled to fly out Sunday noon, and a car was waiting for her at the airport.

      She took the car to her hotel—the Four Seasons, of course—and checked into her suite and waited.

      And waited.

      And finally he called late Saturday night—to say he couldn’t make it, but he’d see her Sunday morning, he’d definitely see her before she returned home. She’d been upset, hurt, disappointed and yet she clung to the fact that he’d promised Sunday morning, held on to the fact he’d given her his word.

      And he had come Sunday morning and they’d had a late breakfast before he’d taken her to the airport but it wasn’t the weekend she’d hoped for.

      Just like their relationship had never been what she’d hoped for. Because she’d needed more than empty hotel suites, even if they were lavish suites. She’d needed less disappointment and more peace. Less hurt and more happiness.

      Maybe he did keep his word, because like that Sunday in Paris, he’d eventually show up but more and more often he’d show so late there was no time to talk properly, make love properly, be loved properly.

      And now she’d let it happen again, and everything was screaming inside her, everything was on fire. She’d allowed herself to be reduced to nothing. Because she loved him.

      It felt as if she’d carelessly cut her own throat and the knife hadn’t even been that sharp, but she’d done it fast, surrendered herself to him before she thought her actions through. Before she understood the consequences.

      Cass bit down on her tender knuckles. She’d been tricked, fooled by the body and the senses. Somehow, each time she made love with Maximos, she thought there was more. She was sure there was more…that there could be more, if she only asked.

      If she dared to risk.

      Because making love with Maximos made sense. She loved the way he looked at her. She loved the heat and the interest and energy. And when he touched her, the walls came down completely and it was about them, the two of them together. Sexy, seductive, and inexplicably beautiful. No one had ever touched her the way Maximos did, no one had ever made her feel so perfect. So…sacred.

      In his arms like this, the only thing she feared was time. When he was with her, she feared time passing. When he was away, she feared time slowing. Time was the only obstacle.

      Or so she’d once thought.

      Maximos rubbed her shoulder, dropped a kiss on her head. “I have to go now.”

      “Max—”

      “It’s been an hour.”

      And they’d made a deal. She’d begged him to stay, and he had, and now she couldn’t make him feel bad for leaving.

      “All right,” she said, her voice low and unsteady.

      “You’ll be okay?”

      No. “Yes.”

      She felt him throw the covers back and he slid from the bed and then drew the covers back up over her.

      “You’re sure?” he asked, reaching for his clothes.

      She listened to the clink of his belt buckle, the whisper sound of fabric sliding against skin. “Yes.” But she couldn’t watch him dress. She couldn’t do it again so she closed her eyes, turned her head away. But the hurt was huge, sharp, a dragon with endless teeth. Why was he always leaving her?

      Or was she just the kind of woman men left?

      Cass hiccupped as the door quietly opened and closed.

      He’d gone.

      Maximos had made it perfectly clear tonight that he wanted no commitments, nothing to tie him down. She was, and always had been, about convenience.

      And she wasn’t convenient anymore.

      Battling tears, she pulled the duvet up over her head, covering herself entirely. Don’t think, she told herself. But the hot, humiliating tears wouldn’t stop falling.

      How could she have loved him so much and he felt so little?

      How could he take her, make love to her, for two years giving her pleasure, receiving such pleasure, only to let it all go away?

      How could he just walk away? She’d given him everything—access to all her body and every millimeter of her heart—why hadn’t that been enough?

      The questions burned her, returning now just to haunt her just as they had every night and day for the past six months. How could someone willingly give up something like what they had? Their relationship was different. Their desire was hotter, brighter, their satisfaction greater. They had everything.

      How could that not be enough?

      She sobbed into the crook of her arm, sobbing so hard there were moments she couldn’t catch her breath and finally she knew she had to stop. Pull yourself together. This isn’t the end of the world. You’ll get over him. It’s just a matter of time.

      Pushing wet strands of hair from her cheek, Cass took a deep breath, and then another. Time heals all wounds.

      Maybe. Maybe not.

      She drew a shaky breath, and then another. This, too, shall pass. Nothing lasts forever.

      And yet the clichés just made her angrier.

      She didn’t want to get over Maximos. She didn’t know how to get over Maximos. Not when СКАЧАТЬ