Page 97 of Holding Out for a Gyro
“Now your turn,” I prodded. “What do you love about me?”
It was shameless, but he was trapped in the car with me, and I honestly wanted to hear it. I could never understand what he saw in me.
He squeezed my hand. “You feel so good.”
“Uh-uh. Not my body.”
“I’m not talking about your body.” He glanced over with a cheeky grin. “When we first met, I admit that I loved howyou made me feel validated, understood. Like you were on my side when nobody else had been. And then, without changing sides, you started to challenge me to become a better version of myself.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “You did the same for me.”
“As I got to know you, I kind of became addicted to your kindness—” At my scoff, he repeated, “Yes, your kindness. You’re thoughtful, funny, a hell of a lot of fun to be with, and I missed your sassy wit when I left. I miss you whenever you’re not beside me.”
I couldn’t believe he thought all of those things about me, and I hadn’t even been pretending.
“I don’t deserve you,” I said.
He shook his head. “It’s never a question of deserving. Love doesn’t work that way.”
Of course it didn’t. My mother had proven that time and again. I felt smug in my good luck. I’d held out for someone better, and look at who I’d found: my perfect companion.
And that night, in a hotel in Ioannina, I was glad to have my sexy lover in my bed.
Bas undressed me slowly, naming every part of my body he wanted to touch, every place he needed to kiss, everything about me he loved.
“Your neck, right here, drives me wild.” He kissed my neck.
“This swell, right here, where your breasts disappear under your sexy, lacy bra.” He slipped my straps down and traced my skin.
“I love how your hips feel in my hands.” He gripped my waist and pulled me close, and his erection pressed against me.
I said, “I fantasize about the first night when you stripped your shirt off in your kitchen.” I tugged the edges, and he helped me pull it off.
I unbuttoned his pants and yanked them down. “And I love tosee you completely stripped.”
He returned the favor.
I led him to the bed and pushed him to sit. I put my knees on either side of his hips and eased myself down onto him, straddling his thighs, stomach against stomach, skin on skin, my arms around his neck, his hands spanning my back.
He made my senses come alive. Every inch of his body looked gorgeous, felt sensuous, smelled tantalizing, tasted delicious. And his voice, when he told me he loved me, sounded like the bells of San Marco at sunset.
“Kiss me, Bas.”
“Always,” he said.
Every part of us touched, and I paced myself, wanting to make this moment last for all eternity.
Wish number three: let him stay with me forever.
On Friday, we crossed the breathtaking Rio-Antirrio Bridge onto the Peloponnese peninsula. We’d easily make it to Athens by lunch if we pressed on, but Bas said, “Can we make a side trip?”
As if that hadn’t become my catchphrase since we left Saint-Tropez.
“Of course.” I was exhausted, but Greece was a country I could easily spend a year exploring. I was following our progress as we drove, looking outside as the map came to life. This was my dream come true.
“My dad would kill me if I didn’t see the tomb of Agamemnon.”
“I thought Agamemnon wasn’t real.”
