The Greek's Virgin Bride

Hunger flooded through her. Her body leapt in recognition of what was happening. This was no seduction. It was redis­covery. Glorious, potent rediscovery. Her hands wound around his neck, holding him to her, unable to let go—not while the hunger that suddenly seared within her was feeding on him, mouth to mouth, shaping and touching, wanting and needing...

Needing so much more... Wanting so much more...

Wanting everything. Wanting possession.

His possession. Nikos Vassilis. Only his.

Now—oh, right now...now...

Reality douched through her. She yanked away from him, breathless, horrified.

'Nikos! No!'

Her rejection was a gasp of disbelief that she had actually got to this point. She twisted free, backing away.

'No?' The tone was quizzically ironic. She did not see the control he had to use to maintain so light a voice.

'No,' she said again, more firmly now, swallowing, trying to still the frantic beating of her racing heart. Trying to find reason, logic, hard sense. 'You don't have to do this. I...I said we had to talk about...about last night, and we do—but it's just to say I understand. I know why you...why you did what you did. I accept that. You felt sorry for me. You felt sorry for me because you saw me as an object of pity. But it's OK—' she held her hand up '—it's OK. I understand.' She swallowed again. 'You don't have to feel you must give a repeat perfor­mance. I understand.'

As she spoke Nikos had leant back against the rails, resting his elbows on the guard rail.

'I'm glad you understand,' he said lightly. 'It was certainly the worst night of my life, I can tell you!'

He looked at her, watching her face change as she took in what he had just said. There was a stricken look on it, but he ignored it.

'Yes,' he said again, 'certainly the worst night of my life.' Andrea could feel her nails digging into her palms. Did he have to be so brutal about it? Did he have to ram home just how repugnant he had found the ordeal of making love to a freak? Her throat had tightened, wire pulling on it. Agonising. He was talking again. She could hardly bear to hear what he was saying. But the words penetrated all the same.

'I've never done what I had to do last night,' he told her. 'It was excruciating.'

The expression on her face was devastated, but he ploughed on. 'And I never, ever want to go through it again. I tell you—' he eyed her straight, and said what he had to say '—having to hold myself back like that was absolute agony. I was aching for you—totally bloody aching for you.' A long, shuddering sigh escaped him. 'Theos, you've no idea what it was like, Andrea mou - having your fantastic, gorgeous body stripped naked and pulsing for me and not being able to possess you totally. God, it was hell—sheer hell!' He shook his head. 'Never again, I promise you—never again!'

He straightened suddenly, and rested his hand on either shoulder. 'But you needed your space, and I knew I owed you that. So...' He looked down at her, starlight in his eyes. 'Last night was your night, Andrea mou. But tonight—oh, tonight—' his voice had changed, husky suddenly '—tonight is mine.,.'' He pulled her into him, jerking her, and closed his mouth over hers. Then, with-a rough, urgent motion, he swept her up into his arms and strode off with her, to make her bis wife.

It was, she realised some eternity later, the rawness of his hun­ger, the voracity of his appetite that convinced her. As he tum­bled her down upon their vast bed, coming down beside her and pinioning her hands either side of her head as he lowered his mouth to hers again to feed and feed upon her, she felt rush up from the depths of her being such a gladness, such a glory, she was breathless with it.

His mouth ravished hers, allowing her no quarter, no de­fence, and he overpowered her effortlessly, easily. She was a willing traitor, oh, so willing! His body arched over hers and her hands ran over the smoothness of his shirt, fumbling with buttons as, overcome with a desperate urge she had never felt before, never known existed, she longed frantically to feel his skin, his flesh, his muscle and sinew beneath her seeking hands.

He helped her—shucking off his shut, peeling off her T-shirt while he did so, slipping the clasp on the back of her bra in one unseen skilful movement. Her breasts spilled free and she heard his throat rasp with pleasure at the sight before he buried his face in their ripeness, his questing mouth homing in on what he sought.

She gasped with pleasure as he suckled her, thrusting her breasts up, bearing down upon the bed with her hips, her shoul­ders. He fed voraciously, licking and sucking until her nipples were as solid as steel, radiating fiery points of pleasure fiercely through her body. Her hands roamed over the smooth steel of his back, glorying in the power of his perfect musculature, revelling in the feel of his body over hers.

He swept on, mouth racing down the flat, taut plane of her belly, tongue whirling within the secret of her navel even as he was urgently undoing the fastening of her jeans, sliding her zip open and then in the same movement sliding his hand in­side. She gasped and roiled as a thousand fires lit where he touched.

Her heart was racing, thundering. There was no light in the room and she could not see its garish, tasteless opulence. She could feel only the satin of the bedclothes beneath her naked back, her naked bottom and thighs, for her jeans were gone and her panties too were tossed aside. Now Nikos was moving over her, and she realised that somehow, somehow, he was as naked as she.

She gloried in the feel of him, revelled in it, racing her hands ail over his body. Flesh to flesh, skin to skin, mouth to mouth, pip to hip. She felt him straining at her, felt his engorged length against the softness of her belly, and the realisation, searing through her, sent a Shockwave of exultation through her. He wanted her! Nikos wanted her! She knew it—knew it abso­lutely. Men could not fake it. Their desire, their lust, surged in their bodies, signalling the urgency of their passions.

Like an outgrown cloak her fears fell away from her, cast aside in the revelation, and in their place, released like a tiger' from its cage, she was filled suddenly, desperately, with a long­ing so intense, a hunger so searing that her hand slid from gripping his shoulder as his mouth consumed hers down be­tween their bodies to grasp him.

She wanted to feel him, strong and potent in her hand, his surging masculinity inflaming her with a hunger that only he could fulfill. She clasped him greedily, feeling the strength of him.

She heard him gasp with pleasure, sending a power-pulse of desire through her. She wanted to please him, wanted to give him pleasure now, right now, just as he was filling her with feelings, sensations that stormed within her, roiled and rocked her. She wanted him—wanted him to pierce and fill and stretch her, flood her with his seed,

his very being,

'Nikos!' Her voice was a cry, a plea, an exultation.

He reared over her. 'Theos, but I must have you!' His voice was a rasp of hunger, intensity. His hand caressed her belly, her thighs, then parted her legs for him. She guided him to her, heart pounding, blood surging in her veins, her body afire. She was flooding for him, her body straining to his, hips twisting and lifting to him, reaching for him, and then she felt, with a thrill that went through her whole body, that he was poised above her, ready to thrust and pierce her to the very core, her very heart.