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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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.
Anyway, if she was honest, wasn’t it altogether too late for flight? A case of locking the stable door long after the horse’s departure?
And wouldn’t it also send Roan all the wrong messages, implying that she was scared? When what she needed to do was convince him that nothing that had happened between them made the slightest difference to her. That he didn’t feature, even marginally, in her general scheme of things.
That he never had, and he never would.
However, she might also need to convince herself, she thought with a sudden thud of the heart, her teeth grazing the swollen fullness of her lower lip. And what kind of admission was that?
Oh, God, she thought, what a hideous mess I’ve made of everything.
When Roan came back into the bedroom, he was wearing a towel draped round his hips, and using another to dry his hair. A faint aroma of her favourite carnation soap accompanied him.
She said glacially, ‘Don’t hesitate to make yourself quite at home.’
‘Thank you, agapi mou.’ His tone held faint amusement as he glanced round him. ‘But, somehow, I don’t think it will ever be that.’ He paused. ‘I have run a bath for you.’
She stared up at him. ‘Why?’
Roan shrugged. ‘You did not join me in the shower, as I had hoped, and I thought you might appreciate it—after your exertions.’ He slanted a smile at her. ‘Warm water is soothing—for the temper as well as the body, Harriet mou. But the choice is yours.’
‘It’s a little late for that,’ she said, ignoring his reference to the shower. ‘As you made sure.’
‘Not all the time—if you remember.’ The dark eyes challenged her to argue, knowing, of course, that she couldn’t do so—damn him. ‘Don’t let the water get cold,’ he added softly, and wandered into the living room.
Harriet sent a furious look after him, but couldn’t think of a single reason not to take his advice. She eased herself out from the concealing sheet, keeping a wary eye open for his possible return, and almost scampered into the bathroom.
Not just water waiting for her either, she realised, as she sank, sighing, through the thick layer of scented bubbles produced by her most expensive bath oil, and rested her head against the little quilted pillow fixed to the back of the tub.
She wasn’t accustomed to such pampering, and it annoyed her, because it was soporific too. And she needed to think—and fast—what to do next. How she could possibly face him in view of the appalling weakness she’d displayed—what she could say in her own defence. But for the moment it was easier simply to drift.
‘Will you drink some champagne with me?’
Her eyes flew open, and she sat up with a start, aware with vexation that she hadn’t heard his approach. She wrapped an arm across her breasts, watching with hostility as he sat down on the rim of the tub, holding out one of the flutes of pale, sparkling wine he was carrying.
‘Where did this come from?’ She knew there was none in the flat.
‘I brought it,’ he said, adding softly, ‘I regret it is not properly chilled, but perhaps you could glare at it.’
She scowled at him instead. ‘You think we actually have something to celebrate?’