The Greek's Pregnant Lover

The minx.
He was already hard, but the pressure grew more urgent as her soft touches on his scrotum continued. “You’re on dangerous
ground there, pethi mou.”
“Am I?” She was no longer sitting on him, but her knees were still on either side of his.
He took that as an invitation and flipped onto his back, his breath expelling in a hard gust at the sight of her naked body above
him. “You are so damn beautiful.”
“You’re prejudiced.”
“You think so, glyka mou? I think you could have made millions as a model.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Did you just call me sweet?”
“My sweet. You’re learning Greek.”
“Just that one.”
Good. He wasn’t sure he wanted her to know he often called her his woman. It might sound like he meant something more than
he did, but even if their sex wasn’t based in some foolish romantic commitment, he was a possessive guy. It was just the way he
was made and sometimes, the words yineka mou slipped out. She was his, for now. Maybe he should be more circumspect.
Now that she was learning what his Greek endearments meant.
His aching hard-on felt ready to explode, distracting him. He gave her his best cajoling look. “Ride me?”
Her stunning blue gaze went dark with passion as he’d known it would. “Do we have time?”
“Always.” They were not on a tight schedule, even if she wanted to visit more museums in one day than he usually saw in a year.
She didn’t require any more convincing, but moved into position above his bobbing erection. “You look ready to burst.”
“I feel it,” he choked out gutturally from between clenched teeth as her slick feminine flesh brushed against him.
She went to reach for a condom and he stayed her with a hand between her perfectly shaped breasts. “Neither of us has been
with anyone else in almost two years. I’ve had two clean bills of health over that time.”

He knew she’d tested every six months for a couple of years after finding out Art was such a damn tomcat and wasn’t surprised
when she said, “Me, too.”
“Then, let’s go bare.” She used the patch for birth control, so they didn’t need to worry about making a baby neither of them were
ready for.
“Yes,” she breathed out, lowering her body so his hard length slid inside her moist channel.
He said that word that she always chided him for and had to fight the urge to surge upward with every ounce of selfcontrol he
had earned in his thirty-five years of life. She rewarded his restraint by dropping down and engulfing his entire length in her
humid heat. Damn, massaging him had excited her.
She was slick with arousal and her inner muscles clenched at him in undeniable need. They moved together like animals mating
and yet, not. Their supreme awareness of each other could be no less than human. Their gazes locked and never broke once
during the wild ride.
The sensation of their bare skin moving together threw him into a convulsive climax, but he didn’t have to worry. She was right
there with him, her head thrown back, her pleasure falling from her lips in a keening cry that tingled at the base of his spine.
This moment in time was perfection.
Zephyr surprised himself by enjoying their gluttonous day of museum-viewing. While he liked museums, he wouldn’t normally
have planned an entire day around visiting as many as he could get to. However, Piper’s enthusiasm and fascination was
catching. That was the only excuse he could make for how interested he was, even in exhibits that he had seen before as a child
on group trips with the other children from the home.
He’d refused to use the term orphan because he hadn’t been one. He’d had both a mother and a father, even if neither had been
willing to make him an important part of their life.
“This just goes to show that we repeat ourselves creatively. This would be considered ‘modern art’ by current art critics. If it
hadn’t been dated as being more than four thousand years old.”
They were standing in front of an early Cycladic statue that did indeed look like something he might see in a gallery dedicated to
modern artists. “It seems odd the statues would be so lacking in intricate detail when the pottery has such complicated patterns
on it.”

“I’m sure someone hundreds of years from now will find it strange that our houses are built like cookie-cutter images of one
another, but we are so particular about what goes inside them.”
He turned to her, laying a hand on her waist and not questioning the urge to do so. “You think so?”
“That, or they’ll postulate we only ate on plastic because plastic dishes are the only ones that survive that long.” Her azure eyes
glittered with humor.