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So that she could teach him, in one icy lesson, that he would get nothing from her but her bleak and unswerving indifference—the only weapon now left in her admittedly futile armoury—forcing him to leave, disappointed with his hollow victory, and never come back.
But she knew now, in this first moment, how right it was to be afraid of him. And not because she feared the violence of a forced surrender. Instead it was the coaxing insistence of his mouth as it moved on hers that scared her. The way her traitorous senses were reacting to the texture of his skin, the warmth of his body penetrating the little clothing she had left, and the unbelievable intoxication of his unique male scent as his arms tightened round her.
And, worst of all, the hardness of him against her thighs, the stark proof that he did indeed want her. Because this explicit power of his arousal was somehow triggering an instant and shaming response from her—the kind of meltdown in her most intimate self that she’d never envisaged in her whole life. The scalding, physical rush of what could only be animal desire.
Except it couldn’t be true, because she was immune—wasn’t she? Had based her whole life on her iron resolve to remain celibate. But it was simple to claim immunity when there was no temptation. She could see that now when it was—almost too late.
When the firewall she’d built around herself was crumbling, engulfed by a flame she hadn’t known existed, but which she had to fight—and extinguish before it became a fire.
Battling, she realised, for self-respect, as well as self-preservation, and the safe, solitary future which she could not—would not relinquish.
But, in that same instant, she realised that her hands were no longer imprisoned in his grasp, and that Roan was taking his mouth from hers and looking down at her, the dark gaze not arrogant in triumph, as she might have expected, but hooded, questioning.
Harriet stared back, some female instinct telling her urgently that it was still not too late. That somehow—for some inexplicable reason—she was being offered a choice. That if she said no this time, he would listen, and, in spite of everything that had gone before, he would not force the issue. And that he would let her go.
And all she had to do was speak.
No was such a small word, she thought, and so simple to use that even very young children could manage it. And it was a lifeline. The only one …
She drew a deep breath, framing the negative clearly and concisely in her head, but no sound emerged except the faintest of sighs.
Not even when he began to touch her, his fingers light as they stroked her cheek and moved slowly downwards, teasing the lobe of her ear, then lingering on the leap and quiver of her pulse, before slipping under her collar to explore the angles and hollows of her throat and shoulder.
Nor when she realised his other hand was resting, without force, on the curve of her hip, and she would only have to step backwards to detach herself—even move out of range altogether.
So why was she was simply standing there—mute, unmoving and half undressed? Looking at him, oh, God, as if she was—waiting …
And in that moment Roan bent his head, his mouth finding her parted lips with renewed and sensuous urgency, his tongue gliding against hers in deliberate demand.
Harriet found she was suddenly quivering, as if her skin had become imbued—sensitised with a thousand tiny electrical charges, coming to life with treacherous vibrancy as his kiss deepened endlessly. The person she’d been an hour ago—the cool, ambitious career woman—no longer seemed to exist.
In her place was a creature she didn’t recognise, who was allowing a man, for the first time in her life, to explore her mouth with passionate sexuality. And that was only the first of the demands that would be made of her.
Because, at the same time, his hand was moving downwards to the warm, proud lift of her breast, where it lingered, shaping the soft swell with his palm while his thumb delicately traced the erect peak in a caress that pierced her to the core of her being.
‘Oh, God.’ The words came choking from her tight throat. ‘I can’t—please—please …’
But when his hand moved, it was only to release the remaining buttons of the satin jacket and push it from her shoulders, before running his fingers gently, lightly, over her back and down her spine, making her arch against him involuntarily so that the steely pressure of his body seemed already to be invading the damp, aching heat between her thighs.
Making her gasp into his mouth as, still kissing her, Roan lifted her into his arms and carried her across the living area, and into the lamplit bedroom beyond.
Throwing back the covers, he put her down on the bed, then straightened, and she heard the rasp of his zip as he prepared to remove the remainder of his clothing.
She said in a voice that didn’t belong to her, ‘Please—turn off the light.’
‘So that you don’t have to look at me?’ he asked softly. ‘Or so that I cannot look at you? Either way, it is not going to happen. Tonight you will need all your senses, matia mou.’
‘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.
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 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.
