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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to escape.
When at last Roan raised his head, she was humiliated to hear herself give a tiny whimper. He murmured something in his own language, his voice husky and soothing as he bent to her again, stroking her heated skin with his fingertips. And where his hands touched, his lips followed, marking out their own voluptuous path on her shivering, aching flesh.
She could feel her body yielding helplessly to his caresses, inch by quivering inch, and knew that she’d already reached a brink she’d never known existed until that moment. And that beyond it was the unknown. The unimaginable—and the unimagined.
Then, as Roan began to kiss her breasts, she stopped thinking altogether, every atom of her awareness suddenly and shockingly focussed on this new and dizzyingly erotic sensation.
On how his tongue was stroking her nipples with such exquisite precision, teasing them to a delicious wantonness that was half pleasure, half pain. Or how the touch of his mouth felt like velvet against her skin.
At the same time his questing hands continued to drift downwards, outlining her small waist, then fanning outwards across the flatness of her stomach to trace the curve of her hips, and linger …
She moved restively under his touch, driven by some totally carnal imperative, telling herself that he could not stop there, because she could not bear it. That she needed to know—everything, even if she was never able to forgive herself for this shameful capitulation.
Tomorrow could take care of itself, she thought. But tonight—ah, God—tonight …
And as if she’d spoken aloud, made some plea, Roan’s fingers moved down, gliding with delicate finesse over the silken mound at the joining of her thighs, then beyond, parting her slender legs to explore without haste the slick molten core of her womanhood, and to penetrate it—gently but with heart-stopping exactitude.
Her already laboured breathing caught in her throat, her tiny sob one of utter yearning as her body arched towards him in an offering she could no longer deny.
‘Patience, agapi mou. I have no wish to hurt you.’ His whisper was ragged, but the slow, subtle movement of his fingers inside her was totally deliberate—completely certain. And exquisitely, irresistibly pleasurable, she realised. Triggering a series of small, unbelievable sensations, which she focussed on blindly—greedily, instinct telling her that there was more—so much more in waiting. If only she could reach …
Making her want it—all of it. And—suddenly, terrifyingly—all of him too.
And, as if he’d read her fainting thought, Roan’s touch changed, deepened, became explicit, so that suddenly her last remnants of control were slipping away, as the pleasure altered too, as she felt, somewhere in the depths of her being, a faint almost intangible throbbing. As it intensified, taking her by storm, drawing her into some fierce upward spiral of delight. As she moaned and writhed, crying out as the spiral of feeling reached its culmination, and her body was suddenly convulsed, torn apart by sharp rhythmic spasms that somehow combined agony with rapture.
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