She felt her spine arching of its own accord, as if her body were inviting more of what his mouth and hand were doing at her breast. Another groan broke from her, in a kind of helpless surrender to what was happening to her—a surrender she was making with her own desire...
For a new hunger was building in her now—a new need not just to lie there, her hands flexing in the pillow, her eyes fluttering shut at the exquisite sensations his ministrations to her bared, exposed and achingly cresting breasts. He had bared both now to his touch and his mouth, and his lips were laving her peaked nipple, his sensitive fingers skilfully squeezing and scissoring.
This new hunger was moving her limbs restlessly, searchingly, and her seeking hand soon found what it wanted, snaking around the strong column of his neck, her fingers playing in his hair, while her other hand girdled the lean circuit of his waist, as if of its own volition pushing the material of his shirt free from his waistband, sliding across the warm, strong contours of his back.
It felt glorious, wonderful, exhilarating! And then her legs were sliding sideways, for suddenly she was aching to feel the full length of his body on hers, wanting to feel his hips against hers, his thighs lying within the cradle of hers, to feel—with shock, and amazement, and a catching of her breath in realisation—just what the full weight of his body on hers entailed...
Did he hear the revealing catching of her breath? He must have, for his mouth lifted from her breast and his eyes were pouring into hers now, those gold flecks burning to molten flame.
‘Do you not know how much I desire you?’ There was humour in his voice, but promise, too... His long eyelashes dipped over his molten gaze and his mouth lowered to hers. ‘How very, very much...’
And suddenly the tenor of his embrace changed. Its slow sensuality quickened, and it was with an abrupt movement that he was pulling his shirt over his head, not bothering with anything so delaying as buttons, before coming down on her again, kissing her again, warmly, persuasively, ardently.
Then, briskly, he had rolled her over on to her front and was smoothing the material of her dress upwards, lifting her hips and waist, ridding her of all that was not necessary as he turned her back to face him, her long hair tangling around her throat, cascading over her naked breasts.
For a moment, endless and timeless, he gazed down at her. She heard Greek words breaking from him, and then English, as his gaze devoured her.
‘You are so beautiful. Perfect...’
Then, with another sudden movement he stood up.
‘Don’t move.’
His voice was a growl, and in the dim light he towered over her, his golden torso bronze in the light from the lamps as she gazed upon the perfection she had known that baring would reveal to her.
And not just the perfection of his torso.
With a widening of her eyes she realised why he had stood up, for with brisk haste he was casting aside his chinos and the last remaining barrier between them...
She shut her eyes. It was instinctive, immediate, and even as she did it she heard him laugh. As if in triumph and satisfaction.
And then she felt his weight beside her on the bed, lying beside her. Felt his hand smooth her hair from her face as she dared to open her eyes again.
His gaze was pouring down on her once more, desire blazing...
Then his mouth lowering to hers again. And with bemused wonder she gave herself to every exquisite, sensual caress—for what did she know of how a couple made love, except what she had read or fantasised about in the long, lonely, empty years of her youth?
And now it was happening. Desire and growing passion were sweeping her away, unleashed kiss by kiss, touch by touch, caress by caress. Caresses that now, emboldened, she was seeking for herself, revelling in the muscled sinews and the warmth of his smooth skin, the contours and sculpting of his spine and hips and broad shoulders as an instinct as old as time urged her on.
Her spine arched, her breasts pressed against the wall of his chest and her hips crushed his. And then came the shock, the wonder of his arousal for her, his blatant desire, and, oh, the quickening of her own flesh, so that the hunger within her was growing, and mounting.
She wanted him—dear God, she wanted him... She wanted all of him, wanted his complete possession, wanted to give herself to him as a woman gave herself to a man...totally and all-consuming...
Her urgency and her hunger were his, answering his. He was cupping her shoulders, rearing up over her only to swoop down on her mouth with one last arousing full-throated kiss...and then he was plunging deep, deep within her as her thighs parted to receive him and her body opened to him...
Pain knifed through her and a piercing cry was torn from her throat. Her body froze.
Greek broke from him. Disbelief was in his eyes as he pulled away from her, staring down at her.
She could not move—could only feel the pain echoing still in her body...the body that was instinctively closing against him now. As it did so he was immediately freeing her, rolling sideways, lifting his weight from her.
His head whipped towards her and there was still that stunned disbelief in his face. ‘Rosalie! Thee mou—why did you not tell me?’
Her body had curled instinctively into a foetal position, her thighs pressed close together, her arms, without his body to hold, fallen slackly to her sides.
She turned her head to him, her expression working, her body and her head a tumult. ‘I...I...’
She could get no further. And suddenly, out of nowhere—out of the mountainous tower of her emotions and the overwhelming confusion of her mind and body over all that had swept over her—another tearing cry broke from her and she burst into tears. Tears for all that had happened...that had not happened.