Greek Affairs: The Virgin's Seduction: The Virgin's Wedding Night / Kyriakis's Innocent Mistress / The Ruthless Greek's Virgin Princess

And sobbed her helpless joy against his mouth.

Afterwards, there was silence, broken only by the sound of her own torn and flurried breathing, as she lay, eyes closed, struggling to regain command of her dazed and bewildered senses—and the body which had so utterly betrayed her.

Hectically conscious that she was still lying in his arms, with his lips against her hair, and that every nerve-ending in her damp awakened flesh was still tingling in euphoria.

Yet knowing at the same time that nothing had changed, in spite of the response he’d forced from her. He was still the stranger—the predator—the cheat. The enemy she would never forgive for the loss of her sexual independence. She would not call it innocence.

She was only thankful that he’d said nothing. That she’d not been subjected to some jeering and hideously truthful comment about the ease of his conquest. Which, of course, was not over yet.

Eventually he released her, and she felt him move away to the edge of the bed. Hoped for one brief instant that he was content with the humiliation he’d already inflicted. Might be merciful, and not insist on taking his triumph to its ultimate conclusion.

Until she heard the faint crackle of a packet being torn open, and understood its significance with a sinking heart. Knowing that he only planned to spare her the danger of pregnancy.

Not a detail overlooked, she thought bitterly, recalling the smoothness of his dark face against her skin, and its musky fragrance, indicating that he’d even taken the trouble to shave before he came to her.

He drew her back into his arms once more, whispering her name, compelling her to the trembling awareness of the hardness of him, all that male strength and potency hotly aroused against her thighs, and demanding the access that would consummate their union. Another aspect of the physical reality of intimacy that she could only dread. Because it was another opportunity for self-betrayal.

As he bent to kiss her, she turned her face away abruptly, and felt him pause.

‘Sulking, matia mou?’ he asked softly, the dark eyes quizzical. ‘Angry that you now know yourself better than you did?’

‘Is that your excuse for your—revolting behaviour?’ Her voice was small and husky. ‘That you’ve taken me on some—journey of self-discovery? Well, thank you for nothing, you bastard.’

There was a silence, then Roan said evenly, ‘Strangely, I was trying to make your initiation into womanhood slightly less of an ordeal, Harriet mou. But perhaps that was foolish of me, and I should have ignored your inexperience, and any discomfort it might cause, and simply—taken you.’

He added harshly, ‘I shall not make the same mistake again.’

Almost before she realised what was happening, he pushed her back against the mattress, reaching almost negligently for a pillow to slot under her hips. Then, lifting himself over her, his clenched fists clamped to the bed on either side of her body, he entered her in one smooth, purposeful thrust, her body still too relaxed in the aftermath of recent pleasure to offer any resistance.

She gasped wordlessly, and he paused. ‘Am I hurting you?’

‘No.’ Her voice was a thread.

And it was true, she realised, as Roan inclined his head in curt acknowledgement and began to move, asserting his initial mastery ever more deeply with each slow, rhythmic thrust of his lean hips.

True—because she wasn’t in pain, but in—astonishment. Devastated at the ease of his possession—amazed that her untried, resentful body could have accepted—sheathed—such formidable sexual power so effortlessly.

And a million miles from the traumatic act of domination that she’d feared.

In fact, the controlled impetus of his body in hers was already having an effect she’d not allowed for—because she’d not known it could exist.

Had not dreamed the joining of their flesh, the restrained force of him inside her, could, against all expectation, prove to be more enticement than subjection.

Or that it could create these incredible new sensations—these aching impossible needs. Suggesting that it was not just her body that she was surrendering, but her mind too.

Because desire was unfurling deep inside her like the first petals of a spring flower in the warmth of the sun. But desire for more than this basic coupling that she’d brought upon herself. She wanted the intimacy of touch—his lips parting hers, his hands on her fevered skin. Needed his earlier tenderness to alleviate the raw passion of conquest.

But what chance was there, when he wasn’t even looking at her, his face a bronze mask, his mouth hard? Surely there was—something she could do.

His skin wore a faint sheen of sweat, and she watched it as if mesmerised—wondering if it would feel as exquisitely, thrillingly silken as the hardness that was filling her—moving inside her. And how it would be if she allowed her hands—her lips—to find out for themselves.

Commonsense dictated that she should just lie quietly, letting him use her in any way he chose, so that it would be over, and she could be rid of him. Because what she needed was her life back—not something else to regret.

Yet the memory of the delight he’d given her only minutes before was still urgent in her mind, the longing to make these discoveries about him well-nigh irresistible, no matter how much she might despise herself later.

I have to know …

Eyes half closed, she yielded, lifting her hands and running them lightly up his arms to his shoulders, then along to the nape of his neck, mapping the superb grace of his bone structure, feeling the taut muscles clench under her lingering fingertips.

Aware that the imperative drive of his body had faltered. Arrested. That he was still poised above her, but unmoving, the dark eyes watching her under sharply drawn brows.

‘Did I do something wrong?’ She was bewildered, even mortified that she could have been so mistaken. So totally ignorant of the ways of pleasing a man. And she had only herself to blame.

‘No,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Nothing—wrong.’ He pronounced the word as if he’d never heard it before.

Slowly he altered his position, lowering himself towards her, his gaze intent, so that he was easily within her reach. Close enough for her to go on touching him. If she wanted. Or if she dared.

She took a deep breath, drawing in the unique male scent of him, then began shyly, awkwardly, to stroke his face, the slant of his cheekbones, the line of his jaw, and Roan turned his head swiftly, capturing the caressing fingers with his mouth and suckling them gently and sensuously, before bending to pay the same delicious attention to her breasts, beguiling her nipples into renewed tumescence under the flicker of his tongue.

Desire pierced her again—pagan—almost violent. She made a little sound in her throat, arching towards him, and heard him groan softly in response.

‘Hold me,’ he commanded huskily, and Harriet obeyed, sliding her fingers up to his shoulders, only to find his own hands under her slender flanks, encouraging her to lift them and clasp them round him as he began once more to move.

Roan fastened his mouth to hers, kissing her with unrestrained and hungry passion, her response equally abandoned as they rose and sank together, locked in a stark unbridled impetus that was almost agony.

And she was lost—blind—drowning in this dark and terrifying magic, her body straining in desperate, fevered yearning for the ultimate revelation.

From some immense distance, she heard him say, ‘Now …’

And suddenly it was there—the fierce shuddering frenzy of pleasure—incredibly raw—wildly intensified. And she was soaring—crying out, her voice unrecognisable, as the harsh miracle of rapture consumed her, drained her, and flung her back, mindless and exhausted, to this room, this bed—and this man.

Leaving her trembling and sated under his weight, their damp flesh clinging, their bodies still united, his head heavy against her breasts in the wake of his own hoarsely groaned fulfilment. And feeling the glory of a triumph all her own.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SHE should move, Harriet thought drowsily—eventually. She should be pushing him away and telling him to go—now that he’d had what he wanted. Yet—somehow—she wanted to stay exactly where she was, enjoying those last fading echoes of blissful satisfaction. Maybe even—sleep.

Only to realise that Roan was the one on the move—lifting himself away from her, and swinging his legs to the floor. He stood up, stretching lazily, then sauntered across to the bathroom.

Not a look—not a word in her direction, thought Harriet, turning on to her side, and reaching down to pull the sheet defensively over her body. Forbidding herself to watch him go.

She heard the sound of the lavatory flushing, then, a moment later, the rush of water from her high-powered shower.

My God, she thought, stoking her resentment, he’s behaving as if he belongs here. As if we’d been married for ever.

On the other hand, while he was occupied with washing himself, it meant that she was alone with her clothes—her bag—her key within reach, and if she was very quick, and very quiet, she could be dressed and gone before he knew it.

But where? There were plenty of hotels, but they might take a dim view of someone arriving in the middle of the night without a reservation or proper luggage. Or she could always go to Tessa and Bill, but that was bound to involve the kind of awkward explanations she was anxious to avoid.