Greek Affairs: The Virgin's Seduction. Trish Morey

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      ‘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 been defeated—overwhelmed by the treachery of her own senses. Caught in a trap of her own making. A trap she no longer had the will 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.

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