Greek Affairs: The Virgin's Seduction: The Virgin's Wedding Night / Kyriakis's Innocent Mistress / The Ruthless Greek's Virgin Princess. Trish Morey
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his mission, this time, to persuade—and arouse. Which was the last thing she’d expected, or wanted.
She needed him to be rough—even brutal—she thought feverishly, so that she could feed her resistance to him—her loathing and contempt for this—unbelievable treachery.
So that she could teach him, in one icy lesson, that he would get nothing from her but her bleak and unswerving indifference—the only weapon now left in her admittedly futile armoury—forcing him to leave, disappointed with his hollow victory, and never come back.
But she knew now, in this first moment, how right it was to be afraid of him. And not because she feared the violence of a forced surrender. Instead it was the coaxing insistence of his mouth as it moved on hers that scared her. The way her traitorous senses were reacting to the texture of his skin, the warmth of his body penetrating the little clothing she had left, and the unbelievable intoxication of his unique male scent as his arms tightened round her.
And, worst of all, the hardness of him against her thighs, the stark proof that he did indeed want her. Because this explicit power of his arousal was somehow triggering an instant and shaming response from her—the kind of meltdown in her most intimate self that she’d never envisaged in her whole life. The scalding, physical rush of what could only be animal desire.
Except it couldn’t be true, because she was immune—wasn’t she? Had based her whole life on her iron resolve to remain celibate. But it was simple to claim immunity when there was no temptation. She could see that now when it was—almost too late.
When the firewall she’d built around herself was crumbling, engulfed by a flame she hadn’t known existed, but which she had to fight—and extinguish before it became a fire.
Battling, she realised, for self-respect, as well as self-preservation, and the safe, solitary future which she could not—would not relinquish.
But, in that same instant, she realised that her hands were no longer imprisoned in his grasp, and that Roan was taking his mouth from hers and looking down at her, the dark gaze not arrogant in triumph, as she might have expected, but hooded, questioning.
Harriet stared back, some female instinct telling her urgently that it was still not too late. That somehow—for some inexplicable reason—she was being offered a choice. That if she said no this time, he would listen, and, in spite of everything that had gone before, he would not force the issue. And that he would let her go.
And all she had to do was speak.
No was such a small word, she thought, and so simple to use that even very young children could manage it. And it was a lifeline. The only one …
She drew a deep breath, framing the negative clearly and concisely in her head, but no sound emerged except the faintest of sighs.
Not even when he began to touch her, his fingers light as they stroked her cheek and moved slowly downwards, teasing the lobe of her ear, then lingering on the leap and quiver of her pulse, before slipping under her collar to explore the angles and hollows of her throat and shoulder.
Nor when she realised his other hand was resting, without force, on the curve of her hip, and she would only have to step backwards to detach herself—even move out of range altogether.
So why was she was simply standing there—mute, unmoving and half undressed? Looking at him, oh, God, as if she was—waiting …
And in that moment Roan bent his head, his mouth finding her parted lips with renewed and sensuous urgency, his tongue gliding against hers in deliberate demand.
Harriet found she was suddenly quivering, as if her skin had become imbued—sensitised with a thousand tiny electrical charges, coming to life with treacherous vibrancy as his kiss deepened endlessly. The person she’d been an hour ago—the cool, ambitious career woman—no longer seemed to exist.
In her place was a creature she didn’t recognise, who was allowing a man, for the first time in her life, to explore her mouth with passionate sexuality. And that was only the first of the demands that would be made of her.
Because, at the same time, his hand was moving downwards to the warm, proud lift of her breast, where it lingered, shaping the soft swell with his palm while his thumb delicately traced the erect peak in a caress that pierced her to the core of her being.
‘Oh, God.’ The words came choking from her tight throat. ‘I can’t—please—please …’
But when his hand moved, it was only to release the remaining buttons of the satin jacket and push it from her shoulders, before running his fingers gently, lightly, over her back and down her spine, making her arch against him involuntarily so that the steely pressure of his body seemed already to be invading the damp, aching heat between her thighs.
Making her gasp into his mouth as, still kissing her, Roan lifted her into his arms and carried her across the living area, and into the lamplit bedroom beyond.
Throwing back the covers, he put her down on the bed, then straightened, and she heard the rasp of his zip as he prepared to remove the remainder of his clothing.
She said in a voice that didn’t belong to her, ‘Please—turn off the light.’
‘So that you don’t have to look at me?’ he asked softly. ‘Or so that I cannot look at you? Either way, it is not going to happen. Tonight you will need all your senses, matia mou.’
‘You’re vile,’ she whispered, with a shadow of her former fierceness. ‘You disgust me.’
He said laconically, ‘Tell me that tomorrow.’
And then he was beside her, taking her tense, trembling body in his arms and holding her close to his warm, lithe strength. Confronting her with the reality of his naked presence in her bed.
He said softly, ‘Don’t fight me, Harriet mou. Whatever you may believe, I can be patient. And I am not going to hurt you.’
Any bitter response she might have planned was instantly stifled by his kiss, his mouth deeply searching, the play of his tongue against hers an irresistibly sensual challenge.
Then his lips moved slowly downwards, nibbling gently at the column of her neck, questing the hollows at the base of her throat, the fragile skin beneath her slender arms, and in the curve of her elbows.
Lashes veiling her eyes, she moved restively, her quickening breath sighing through her parted lips, as his lean fingers moulded and caressed the scented fullness of her breasts, then moved down to the waistband of her remaining garment to unfasten the single button and ease the whispering satin over her hips and down, so that she too was naked under the intensity of his dark eyes.
No one had ever seen her even half undressed before, or not since her early childhood, she thought frantically. And certainly no man—ever …
Her face burning, she tried to roll away, desperately covering herself with her hands, but he drew her back to him, gently but inexorably.
‘You are too beautiful to hide yourself,’ he told her softly. ‘Lovelier even than in my dreams of you. And when you blush, you become the colour of a rose all over, Harriet mou. Did you know that?’ There was a smile in his voice, but no mockery now. Instead he sounded—almost tender. ‘I wondered if it would be so.’
He kissed her again, slowly and ever more deeply, and, in spite of herself, Harriet knew she wanted to respond. That it was all she could do not to slide her arms round his neck, to clasp her hands at the back of his head and hold his mouth to hers, so that this warm, languid exploration might never stop. So that she could capture the feel—the taste of him and make them a prisoner of her senses for ever.
And hating him—even hating herself—didn’t change a thing.
She thought, shivering, I can’t let this happen. Dear God—I can’t …
Only to realise the decision was no longer hers to make. And had not been so since the first caress of his mouth and hands. That she’d