Greek Affairs: The Virgin's Seduction. Trish Morey

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 her hands—her lips—to find out for themselves.

      Commonsense dictated that she should just lie quietly, letting him use her in any way 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.