by Sara Craven
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 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 t
he 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
S HE 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?’ she asked scornfully.
‘Why, yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’ He looked pointedly down at his shoulder, and she saw, mortified, that her nails had left faint red marks on the smooth skin. ‘Now, take your wine.’ He observed her reluctant compliance with amusement. ‘What shall we drink to? The future, perhaps?’
‘To going our separate ways,’ Harriet said curtly. ‘That’s the only aspect of the future that appeals to me.’
‘In spite of all that we have just been to each other?’ Roan asked mockingly. ‘You grieve me. But let it be as you wish.’ He touched his glass to hers, and drank, and she unwillingly followed suit, feeling the wine burst like sunlight in her dry mouth. A good vintage, she thought, surprised, and deserving of a better occasion.
‘Thank you.’ With a defiant flourish, she tipped the rest of the wine into the water, and handed him the empty glass. ‘I presume you have no other toasts to propose.’
‘I can think of none that would be appropriate.’ His voice was quiet.
‘So, perhaps now this—ritual hum
iliation is complete, you’ll go, and leave me in peace.’
‘I came here to spend the night, Harriet mou. And it is not over yet.’
‘But you—got what you wanted.’ She stumbled over the words. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘And why are you so ashamed of being a woman?’
It wasn’t the reply Harriet had expected, and she lifted her chin. ‘I’m not. It’s the shame of letting myself become involved with you that I can’t handle. I should have realised that, with you, poor doesn’t necessarily mean honest. That you’re just a manipulative, womanising swine, and I don’t know how I’m going to live with myself after—after what you’ve done to me.’
There was a brief tingling silence, then he said quietly, ‘Then I have nothing to lose.’ He drank the rest of his wine, set both glasses down, and stood up.
Before she knew what was happening, his hands were under her armpits, lifting her bodily out of the water. He reached for one of the bath sheets on the warm rail, and enveloped her in it, muffling her indignant protest.
‘Dry yourself,’ he instructed curtly. ‘Then come back to bed. It is time your sexual education was resumed.’
Her heart was pounding unevenly. She said chokingly, ‘You mean you’re determined to find other ways to degrade me.’
His smile was jeering. ‘Why, yes, my innocent. Believe me, the possibilities are endless, and I look forward to exploring them with you.’ He unfastened the towel he was wearing and casually dropped it into the linen basket. ‘So, do not keep me waiting too long,’ he added, as he left her.
Slowly, Harriet blotted the moisture from her skin, staring at herself in the mirror, trying to recognise the girl who’d swung out of the flat that morning on her way to finalise a simple business arrangement. Who’d believed the situation was under her control, and that she’d emerge a winner. And that she was—untouchable.
Well, she knew better now. The image looking back at her had eyes the colour of smoke, and the outline of her mouth was blurred from kissing.