Rumours: The Dishonoured Copelands: The Fallen Greek Bride (The Disgraced Copelands) / His Defiant Desert Queen (The Disgraced Copelands) / Her Sinful Secret (The Disgraced Copelands). Jane Porter
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almost painfully tender.
Hot tears scalded the back of her eyes. She bit hard into her lower lip so that it wouldn’t quiver.
“I would never hurt you, Morgan,” he murmured, drawing her against him, holding her in his arms, holding her securely against his chest.
She closed her eyes as the heat of his body seeped into her hands, warming her. He felt good. Too good. It was so confusing. This was confusing.
She didn’t push him away, and yet she couldn’t relax, waiting for the moment he’d let her go. But she didn’t want him to let her go. She wanted him closer. Wanted to press her face to his chest and breathe him in. She could smell a hint of his spicy fragrance and loved that fragrance—his own scent, formulated just for him—and what it did to his skin. He smelled like heaven. Delicious and warm and good and intoxicating. He smelled like everything she wanted. He smelled like home. He was home. He was everything to her, but wasn’t that the problem? With him, she lost herself. With him, she lost her mind.
With a strangled cry, Morgan slid a hand up across his chest, to push him back, and just like before, once she touched him, she couldn’t take her hand away. She stroked across the hard plane of muscle of his chest, learning again the shape of his body and how the dense smooth pectoral muscle curved and sloped beneath her palm. God, he was beautiful. And without his shirt, his skin would feel so good against hers. She loved the way his bare chest felt against her bare breasts, loved the friction and the heat and the delicious, addictive energy—
“Can’t do this,” she choked, shaking her head. “We can’t, we can’t.”
“Ssshh,” he murmured, cupping her face, his thumbs stroking lightly over her cheekbones, sweeping from the curve of the bone to her earlobes. “Nothing bad will happen—”
“Everything bad will happen,” she protested, shivering with pleasure from the caress. She loved the way he touched her. He made her feel beautiful, inside and out, and she struggled to remember what bad things would happen if he touched her….
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, hands slipping from her face to tangle in her hair.
“And mad, Drakon, certifiably insane—”
“That’s okay.”
“Drakon, I’m serious!”
“I am, too.” His head dipped lower and his lips brushed hers, lightly, slowly, and she shuddered, pressed closer, a stinging sensation behind her eyes. One kiss … could it be so bad? One kiss … surely she could be forgiven that?
His lips found hers again and the kiss was surprisingly gentle, the pressure of his mouth just enough to tease her, send shivers of desire racing up and down her spine. This was all so impossible. They couldn’t do this, couldn’t give in to this, it’s all they had and while the chemistry was intense, chemistry wasn’t enough. Sex wasn’t enough. She needed more. She needed a relationship, love, intimacy, commitment, but right now, she also needed this.
She’d missed him so much. Missed his skin and his scent, his warmth and his strength, and her defenses caved as his hands framed her face, and he held her face to his, deepening the kiss, drinking her in.
She could feel him and smell him and taste him now and she was lost. Nothing felt better than this. Nothing felt better than him. He wasn’t just her husband, he was home and happiness—
No. No, no, no. Couldn’t think that way, couldn’t lose sight of reality. He wasn’t home or happiness. And he’d finally agreed to let her go. After five years of wanting out, and she did want out, she was free.
And yet when his tongue stroked the seam of her lips, she arched and gasped, opening her mouth to him. Drakon deepened the kiss, his tongue flicking the inside of her lip, making every little nerve dance. One of his hands slid from the back of her head, down over her shoulders to her waist before settling in the small of her spine, urging her closer, shaping her against his powerful body.
She shuddered with pleasure as his tongue filled her mouth and the fingers of his hand splayed wider on her back, making her lower belly throb, ache, just like her thighs ached.
Every thrust of his tongue shot another bright arc of sensation through her, sensation that surged to the tips of her breasts, tightening them into hard, sensitive peaks, and then deep into her belly and even deeper to her innermost place, and yet it wasn’t enough, not even close. Morgan dug her nails into his shoulders, pressing her breasts to his chest, practically grinding herself against his hips to feel the ridge of his erection rub against her sensitive spot at the junction of her thighs and the heat of his palm against her lower back.
It was still so electric between them, still fierce and wild, and she felt overwhelmed by desire, overwhelmed by the memory of such dizzying, maddening pleasure and the knowledge that he was here, and there could be more. And right now, she wanted more. She literally ached for him and could feel her body soften and warm for him, her body also clearly remembering that nothing in the world felt better than him in her. Him with her.
And then his hand was slipping slowly across the curve of her hip, to cup the roundness of her butt, and she nearly popped out of her skin. “Drakon,” she groaned against his mouth, feeling as if he were spreading fire through her, fire and such fierce, consuming need.
She trembled as he stroked the length of her, from her hip to her breast and down again. His hands were everywhere now, pinching a nipple, stroking the cleft of her buttocks, shaping her thighs. She wanted his hand between her thighs, wanted him to touch her, fill her, wanted him more than she’d wanted anything—
Wait.
Wait.
She struggled to focus, clear her head, which was impossible with Drakon’s amazing hands on her body and his mouth taking hers, promising her endless pleasure.
She had to move back, away, had to, now.
But then his hands were up, under her tunic, his skin so warm against hers, and when he unhooked her bra to cup her breasts, his thumbs grazing her tight, swollen nipples, she gave up resisting, gave up thinking and gave in to him.
He stripped off her clothes while kissing her, his hands never leaving her body as the clothes fell away, giving her no time to panic or reconsider.
Once naked, he carried her to the bed, and set her on her back in the middle of the enormous bed. The room’s windows and doors were open and the sunlight spilled across the floor, splashing on the walls while the heady sweet scent of wisteria filled the room.
Morgan watched Drakon’s face as he moved over her, his hard, powerful body warm, his skin a burnished gold, his strong features taut with passion. But it was his eyes that once again captivated her, and the burning intensity of his gaze. When he looked at her he made her feel extraordinary … desirable … rare … impossibly valuable. She knew he didn’t feel that way about her, not anymore, but with him stretched out over her, his skin covering her, warming her, it didn’t seem to matter.
She lifted her face to his, and his mouth met hers in a blistering kiss that melted everything within her. There was nothing she wouldn’t give him. And as he settled his weight between her thighs, his hips pressing down against hers, she shivered with pleasure.
He was resting his weight on his forearms, but she wanted more pressure, not less, and Morgan arched up, pressing her breasts to his bare chest, loving the friction of his nipples on hers even as she opened her thighs wider, letting him settle deeper into her.
“I want you,” she whispered against his mouth, her arms circling his shoulders, her hands sliding into his thick hair, fingers curling into the crisp strands at his nape. He felt good and smelled good and in this moment, everything was right in the world … at least, everything was right in her world. “I want you in me. I need you in me.”
“It’s been a long time.”
“Too long,” she said, lifting her hips, grinding up against him, not wanting any more foreplay, not wanting anything