Rumours: The Dishonoured Copelands: The Fallen Greek Bride (The Disgraced Copelands) / His Defiant Desert Queen (The Disgraced Copelands) / Her Sinful Secret (The Disgraced Copelands). Jane Porter
She wanted to be ravished. Stripped. Tied up. Taken. Tasted. Devoured—
Oh, God, she was mad, she was. What sane woman wanted to be ravished? What kind of woman ached to be tied up and taken? Tasted?
What was wrong with her?
Before Drakon she’d never had these thoughts. She’d never imagined that sex could make one feel absolutely wild. She’d never dreamed that desire could be an uncontrollable fire that made one lose all perspective … as well as one’s reason….
But desire was an inferno, and she felt absolutely consumed by need now. Lying facedown on her bed, her body ached with need. Her skin burned, her senses swam. Every muscle in her body felt taut and every nerve ending far too tight. She wanted relief, craved release, and the fact that she couldn’t have it made the aching emptiness worse.
Morgan buried her face in a pillow and knotted her fists and screamed. And screamed some more.
She wanted him. She wanted him, wanted him, wanted him and he could give her what she wanted, too. He’d do it. He’d do anything she wanted and yet it was wrong. They weren’t together, they hadn’t been together in years, and she couldn’t use him to scratch an itch … no matter how powerful the itch.
And yet, oh, God, her body ached and throbbed and she felt wild … hot and tense and so very raw.
Dammit. Damn him. Damn that kiss in the stairwell. Damn this terrible incredible unforgettable chemistry.
It wasn’t right to want him this much still. Wasn’t fair to still feel so much, either, especially when she knew how bad he was for her, how very destructive. She couldn’t blame him entirely. The doctors said the problem was hers … that she didn’t have proper boundaries. She didn’t have a clear or strong sense of self and the only way she’d achieve a strong, mature sense of self was by leaving Drakon….
As if it were that easy.
Just leave him. Forget him. Forget he ever existed.
And now he was downstairs, so intense and real, so physical, so sensual, so fiercely beautiful.
Morgan beat the bed with her fist, maddened by the futility of her desire. Blood drummed in her veins, need coiled tightly, hotly in her belly, and her entire body ached with emptiness. How could emptiness throb and pulse? How could emptiness burn? But it did. And she felt wild and furious and frustrated beyond reason.
If only she could go to him, and beg for him to help her, beg him to give her release. Beg for pleasure.
She’d happily crawl for him, crawl to him, if it meant that he could tame the beast inside her … that voracious hunger that made her feel too wild, too frantic, too much.
Drakon stood just inside the doorway of Morgan’s suite and watched her beat her fist against the bed, her dark hair gleaming, her tunic riding high on her thighs, the soft fabric clinging to the firm, rounded curves of her hips and butt.
She had a gorgeous butt, and it made him want to spank her, restrain her, knowing it’d arouse her, make things hotter, make her wet and anxious and hungry for him.
And then he’d make love to her.
With his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, his hands, his cock. He loved the softness of her skin and the scent of her, the way she blushed, the way her tongue traveled across the bow of her upper lip and the way she’d squirm beneath him, her slim body arching, her hips grinding up to meet his, her legs opening for him.
“Undress,” he said, his voice pitched so low it sounded like a growl.
Morgan swiftly sat up, eyes enormous in her face, cheeks flushed.
“Do it,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.
Her lips parted in silent protest and yet he knew she was tempted, seriously tempted, because she wanted the same thing he did—excitement, pleasure, release.
“And what?” she whispered, her tongue darting to her lower lip, moistening it.
He was already hard. Now he wanted to explode. “And let me look at you. I want to see you, my beautiful wife.”
“I’m not your wife.”
“Oh, you are my wife. And have been my wife and will be my wife until the day the divorce is granted. Then … you’ll be someone else’s woman, but until then, you are mine. And you know you are. That is why you came here to me, wanting my help. You knew I’d refuse you nothing.”
He saw the flicker in her eyes, that recognition of truth. “Just as you know I’ve never refused you anything,” she whispered, her voice unsteady.
No, she hadn’t, he thought, his shaft growing even harder, making him hotter, remembering how she always responded to him.
He’d known plenty of women who liked hot sex, but he’d never been with anyone as passionate as Morgan. She wasn’t comfortable with her passionate nature, though, and during their six months together she’d struggled with the concept of physical pleasure, and resisted giving in to her sensual side, viewing it as a weakness, or something shameful, instead of an intimacy that brought them closer together … binding, bonding, making them one. “But I’ve never forced you, Morgan—”
“Not forced, no, but you have pushed me, pushed me beyond what I was comfortable doing.”
“Isn’t that exciting, though? To try new things … explore new things … to know and then go outside your comfort zone?”
Another flicker of emotion passed over her lovely face. She had such fine, elegant features, as well as that famous Copeland reserve, a trait shared by her equally glamorous sisters. The reserve came from the way they’d been raised … from birth they’d been privileged, and had enjoyed a luxurious lifestyle of private schools, private jets, private islands. Their money attracted attention, and men, lots and lots of men, and by the time the four Copeland girls had become women, they knew they were special. Unique. They believed they deserved better.
Drakon had been drawn to Morgan’s beauty, but also her reserve. He’d viewed it as a challenge to break through her cool, haughty exterior to discover the warm woman underneath.
And once he’d touched her, she’d been more than warm. She’d burned as if consumed by a fever and during their honeymoon, those four weeks here at Villa Angelica, he’d enjoyed discovering the depths of her passion and exploring her desires, her fears and her limits.
“But everything with you was outside my comfort zone,” she said, trying to hide the quiver of her lower lip. “Everything was overwhelming.”
She’d said this once before to him, during the last week of their honeymoon after an erotic afternoon on a private island, and he’d been startled that her memory of lovemaking on the pristine ivory beach had been so different from what he’d felt. Returning to his yacht, which had been anchored off the island while they picnicked on the beach, he had never felt closer to her, or more committed, and he’d been shocked when she accused him of taking advantage of her. Shocked and sickened.
He was Greek—a man of surprisingly simple tastes. He valued his family, his friends and his culture, which included good food, good drink and great sex. He wouldn’t apologize for enjoying sex, either, or enjoying his wife’s beautiful body. What did she expect him to do? Pretend he didn’t like sex? Act as though he didn’t find pleasure in her warmth and softness?
Back in Athens after the honeymoon, Drakon had tried to be the husband she wanted. He stopped reaching for her quite as often, and then when he did reach for her, he changed the way he touched her, holding back to keep from overwhelming her. He knew she didn’t like it when he expressed hunger, or focused too much on her pleasure, and so instead of just being with her, and enjoying her, he practiced control and distance, hoping that a less passionate husband would be more to her liking.
Instead she’d left.
And just remembering how he’d turned