Rumours: The Dishonoured Copelands: The Fallen Greek Bride (The Disgraced Copelands) / His Defiant Desert Queen (The Disgraced Copelands) / Her Sinful Secret (The Disgraced Copelands)

“Disgusting.”

“And I’d open you and lick you and taste you and make you come.” His head cocked and he shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “When is the last time you came? How long has it been since you had an orgasm? A day? A week? A month?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“I did it in the shower yesterday, before you arrived. Stroked myself as I thought about you, picturing your breasts and your pale thighs and how much I enjoy being between them.”

“Is there any point to this, Drakon? Or do you just wish to humiliate me?”

“Humiliate you, how? By telling you how much I want you, even now, even after you walked out on me?”

“But you don’t want me, you just want to have sex with me.”

“That’s right. You don’t believe you’re attached to your body, or that your body is part of you. Instead it’s a separate entity, which makes me think of a headless chicken—”

“Don’t be rude.”

“Then stop jumping to conclusions. Just because I like your body, doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the rest of you.”

“Humph!”

His eyebrows shot up, his expression mocking. “Is that the best you can do?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, her chin jerking up. “I get nowhere arguing with you.”

“Very wise. Much better to just dispense with the clothing and let me have what I want.” He paused, and his gaze moved slowly, suggestively over her. “And what I know you want, too. Not that you’ll admit it.”

Her chin lifted another notch. “And what do I want?”

“Satisfying sex without pushing the limits too far.”

Dark pink color stormed her cheeks. “Without pushing the limits at all.”

The corners of his mouth curled. So she did want sex. Just nice-girl sex … sweet, safe missionary-position sex. His cock throbbed at the thought. He’d like some sweet, safe-missionary sex as well. “I’ll see what I can do. But first, I’d like to see you. But I’m getting bored by all the discussion. Either we’re going to do this, or we’re not—”

“Your shirt first.”

“Excuse me?”

“You want to do this? Then we’ll do this. But you’re not the boss and I’m not taking orders.” Her tone was defiant and her eyes flashed and she’d never been angry before when they’d played these games. She’d been shy and nervous, but also eager to please. She wasn’t eager to please now. “You don’t get to have all the power anymore.”

“No?”

“No. I’m not your servant or slave—”

“Which is good, since I don’t make love with my servants, and I don’t have slaves.”

“The point is, you might be able to bark orders at Bronwyn, but not at me.”

“I had no idea you were so hung up on Bronwyn,” he drawled, liking this new feisty Morgan. She was a very different woman from the one he’d married and that intrigued him.

“I wasn’t hung up on her. You were.”

“Is that how it was?”

“Yes.”

“So are we going to talk about Bronwyn, or are we going to have sweet, safe missionary-position sex?”

Her lips compressed primly. “You’re horrible. You know that, don’t you?”

“Horribly good, and horribly hard, and horribly impatient. Now, are we, or aren’t we?” he asked, sauntering toward her, relaxed, easy, his arms loose at his sides. But it was a deceptive ease, and they both knew it as the temperature in the luxurious bedroom seemed to soar and the air sparked with heat and need, the tension between them thick and hot and electric.

Closing the gap between them, Drakon could feel Morgan tense, her hands squeezing in convulsive fists, even as her eyes widened and her lips parted with each quick shallow breath.

“You’re trembling,” he said, “but there’s no need for that. I won’t eat you. Not unless you want me to.”

“Drakon.” Her voice sounded strangled and her cheeks were crimson, making her blue eyes darken and shimmer like the sapphire sea beyond the window.

“I hope you’ll want me to. I love how you taste, and how soft you are in my mouth … so sweet. But is that too risky for you? Pushing the limits too much?”

“You love to torment me.”

“Yes, I do,” he agreed, circling her slowly, enjoying just looking at her, and watching the color come and go in her exquisite porcelain complexion, and listening to her soft desperate gasps of air. “But this is nothing, Morgan. I haven’t even gotten started.” He stopped in front of her, gazed down at her, thinking she looked very young and very uncertain and very shy, much like his virgin bride. “Now tell me, what should I do to you first?”

Morgan’s heart was pounding so fast she couldn’t catch her breath, and she opened her mouth, lips parting, to gulp in shallow gasps of air. She felt as if she were balancing on the edge of a volcano while little voices inside her head demanded she throw herself in.

She needed to leave, to escape the villa, to summon the helicopter and fly far, far away. Remaining here with Drakon was stupid and destructive. She might as well fling herself into that volcano … the outcome would be the same.

And yet, wasn’t she already there, in the fiery pit? Because molten lava seemed to be seeping through her veins, melting her bones and muscles into mindless puddles of want and need.

She actually felt sick with need right now. But could she do this … go through with this … knowing it would be just sex, not love? Knowing Drakon wanted her body but not her heart?

“Are you crying?” he asked, his voice dropping, deepening with concern, as his hands wrapped around her arms, holding her up.

She shook her head, unable to look him in the eye.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She swallowed hard, tried to speak, but no sound would come out. Not when her throat ached and her heart was still thundering in her chest.

He reached up to smooth a dark tendril of hair back from her face. “Have I frightened you?” His deep voice was suddenly gentle, almost painfully tender.

Hot tears scalded the back of her eyes. She bit hard into her lower lip so that it wouldn’t quiver.

“I would never hurt you, Morgan,” he murmured, drawing her against him, holding her in his arms, holding her securely against his chest.

She closed her eyes as the heat of his body seeped into her hands, warming her. He felt good. Too good. It was so confusing. This was confusing.

She didn’t push him away, and yet she couldn’t relax, waiting for the moment he’d let her go. But she didn’t want him to let her go. She wanted him closer. Wanted to press her face to his chest and breathe him in. She could smell a hint of his spicy fragrance and loved that fragrance—his own scent, formulated just for him—and what it did to his skin. He smelled like heaven. Delicious and warm and good and intoxicating. He smelled like everything she wanted. He smelled like home. He was home. He was everything to her, but wasn’t that the problem? With him, she lost herself. With him, she lost her mind.

With a strangled cry, Morgan slid a hand up across his chest, to push him back, and just like before, once she touched him, she couldn’t take her hand away. She stroked across the hard plane of muscle of his chest, learning again the shape of his body and how the dense smooth pectoral muscle curved and sloped beneath her palm. God, he was beautiful. And without his shirt, his skin would feel so good against hers. She loved the way his bare chest felt against her bare breasts, loved the friction and the heat and the delicious, addictive energy—

“Can’t do this,” she choked, shaking her head. “We can’t, we can’t.”

“Ssshh,” he murmured, cupping her face, his thumbs stroking lightly over her cheekbones, sweeping from the curve of the bone to her earlobes. “Nothing bad will happen—”

“Everything bad will happen,” she protested, shivering with pleasure from the caress. She loved the way he touched her. He made her feel beautiful, inside and out, and she struggled to remember what bad things would happen if he touched her….

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, hands slipping from her face to tangle in her hair.

“And mad, Drakon, certifiably insane—”

“That’s okay.”

“Drakon, I’m serious!”

“I am, too.” His head dipped lower and his lips brushed hers, lightly, slowly, and she shuddered, pressed closer, a stinging sensation behind her eyes. One kiss … could it be so bad? One kiss … surely she could be forgiven that?

His lips found hers again and the kiss was surprisingly gentle, the pressure of his mouth just enough to tease her, send shivers of desire racing up and down her spine. This was all so impossible. They couldn’t do this, couldn’t give in to this, it’s all they had and while the chemistry was intense, chemistry wasn’t enough. Sex wasn’t enough. She needed more. She needed a relationship, love, intimacy, commitment, but right now, she also needed this.

She’d missed him so much. Missed his skin and his scent, his warmth and his strength, and her defenses caved as his hands framed her face, and he held her face to his, deepening the kiss, drinking her in.

She could feel him and smell him and taste him now and she was lost. Nothing felt better than this. Nothing felt better than him. He wasn’t just her husband, he was home and happiness—

No. No, no, no. Couldn’t think that way, couldn’t lose sight of reality. He wasn’t home or happiness. And he’d finally agreed to let her go. After five years of wanting out, and she did want out, she was free.

And yet when his tongue stroked the seam of her lips, she arched and gasped, opening her mouth to him. Drakon deepened the kiss, his tongue flicking the inside of her lip, making every little nerve dance. One of his hands slid from the back of her head, down over her shoulders to her waist before settling in the small of her spine, urging her closer, shaping her against his powerful body.

She shuddered with pleasure as his tongue filled her mouth and the fingers of his hand splayed wider on her back, making her lower belly throb, ache, just like her thighs ached.

Every thrust of his tongue shot another bright arc of sensation through her, sensation that surged to the tips of her breasts, tightening them into hard, sensitive peaks, and then deep into her belly and even deeper to her innermost place, and yet it wasn’t enough, not even close. Morgan dug her nails into his shoulders, pressing her breasts to his chest, practically grinding herself against his hips to feel the ridge of his erection rub against her sensitive spot at the junction of her thighs and the heat of his palm against her lower back.

It was still so electric between them, still fierce and wild, and she felt overwhelmed by desire, overwhelmed by the memory of such dizzying, maddening pleasure and the knowledge that he was here, and there could be more. And right now, she wanted more. She literally ached for him and could feel her body soften and warm for him, her body also clearly remembering that nothing in the world felt better than him in her. Him with her.

And then his hand was slipping slowly across the curve of her hip, to cup the roundness of her butt, and she nearly popped out of her skin. “Drakon,” she groaned against his mouth, feeling as if he were spreading fire through her, fire and such fierce, consuming need.

She trembled as he stroked the length of her, from her hip to her breast and down again. His hands were everywhere now, pinching a nipple, stroking the cleft of her buttocks, shaping her thighs. She wanted his hand between her thighs, wanted him to touch her, fill her, wanted him more than she’d wanted anything—

Wait.

Wait.

She struggled to focus, clear her head, which was impossible with Drakon’s amazing hands on her body and his mouth taking hers, promising her endless pleasure.

She had to move back, away, had to, now.

But then his hands were up, under her tunic, his skin so warm against hers, and when he unhooked her bra to cup her breasts, his thumbs grazing her tight, swollen nipples, she gave up resisting, gave up thinking and gave in to him.

He stripped off her clothes while kissing her, his hands never leaving her body as the clothes fell away, giving her no time to panic or reconsider.

Once naked, he carried her to the bed, and set her on her back in the middle of the enormous bed. The room’s windows and doors were open and the sunlight spilled across the floor, splashing on the walls while the heady sweet scent of wisteria filled the room.

Morgan watched Drakon’s face as he moved over her, his hard, powerful body warm, his skin a burnished gold, his strong features taut with passion. But it was his eyes that once again captivated her, and the burning intensity of his gaze. When he looked at her he made her feel extraordinary … desirable … rare … impossibly valuable. She knew he didn’t feel that way about her, not anymore, but with him stretched out over her, his skin covering her, warming her, it didn’t seem to matter.

She lifted her face to his, and his mouth met hers in a blistering kiss that melted everything within her. There was nothing she wouldn’t give him. And as he settled his weight between her thighs, his hips pressing down against hers, she shivered with pleasure.

He was resting his weight on his forearms, but she wanted more pressure, not less, and Morgan arched up, pressing her breasts to his bare chest, loving the friction of his nipples on hers even as she opened her thighs wider, letting him settle deeper into her.

“I want you,” she whispered against his mouth, her arms circling his shoulders, her hands sliding into his thick hair, fingers curling into the crisp strands at his nape. He felt good and smelled good and in this moment, everything was right in the world … at least, everything was right in her world. “I want you in me. I need you in me.”

“It’s been a long time.”

“Too long,” she said, lifting her hips, grinding up against him, not wanting any more foreplay, not wanting anything but him, and his body meshed deeply with hers.

“Patience,” he answered, kissing the corner of her mouth and the line of her jaw, smoothing her hair back from her face. “There’s no need to rush—”

But there was. She didn’t want to wait, had enough teasing and words and thinking, had enough of everything but him. And right now she just wanted him. She reached between them, caught his hard shaft and gripped it firmly, the way she knew he liked it, and rubbed his head up and down her, the warm, rigid shaft sliding across her damp opening, making him slick, and then bringing the silken head up to her sensitive nub, drawing moisture up over her clit.

She heard him groan deep in his throat, a hoarse, guttural sound of pleasure, and it gave her a perverse thrill, knowing she could make Drakon feel something so strong that he’d groan aloud.

His hands stroked the outsides of her thighs and then down the inside and she shifted her hips, positioning him at her wet, slick core. “Do you want me?” she whispered, her lips at his ear.

“Yes,” he groaned, his voice so low that it rumbled through her. “Yes, always.”

And then he took control, lowering his weight, forearms pressed to the bed, and kissed her, deeply, his tongue plunging into her mouth even as he entered her body, thrusting all the way until they were one, and for a nearly a minute he remained still, kissing her, filling her, until she felt him swell inside her, stretching her, throbbing inside her, making her throb, too. Her pulse raced and her body tingled and burned, her inner muscles clenching and rippling with exquisite sensation. He was big and hard and warm and she could come like this, with her body gripping him, holding him, and Drakon knew it, knew how just being inside her could shatter her.

“Not yet,” she gasped, hands stroking over his broad shoulders and down the smooth, hard, warm planes of his back, savoring the curve and hollow of every thick, sinewy muscle. Men were so beautiful compared to women, and no man was more beautiful than Drakon. “Don’t let me come, not yet. I want more. I want everything.”

And maybe this was just the plain old missionary position, but it felt amazing, felt hot and fierce and intense and emotional and physical and everything that was good. Sex like this was mind-blowingly good, especially with Drakon taking his time, thrusting into her in long smooth strokes that hit all the right places, that made her feel all the right things. Morgan wished it could last forever, but she was already responding, the muscles inside her womb were coiling tighter and tighter, bringing her ever closer to that point of no return. Morgan’s head spun with the exquisite sensation, the tension so consuming that it was difficult to know in that moment if it was pleasure or pain, and then with one more deep thrust, Drakon sent her over the edge and her senses exploded, her body rippling and shuddering beneath his.

Drakon came while she was still climaxing and he ground out her name as he buried himself deeply within her. She could feel him come, feel the heat and liquid of him surging within her, and it hit her—they hadn’t used a condom. On their honeymoon they had never used protection. Drakon wanted children and she wanted to please him and so they had never used birth control, but this was different. They were divorcing. She’d soon be single. There was absolutely no way she could cope with getting pregnant now.

“What have we done?” she cried, struggling to push him off of her. “What did we do?”

Drakon shifted his weight and allowed her to roll away from him, even as a small muscle jumped in his jaw. “I think you know what we just did.”

“We shouldn’t have. It was wrong.”

“Doesn’t feel wrong to me,” he said tersely, watching her slide to the edge of the bed and search for her tunic, or something to cover up with.

She grabbed Drakon’s shirt, and slipped it over her arms into the sleeves and buttoned up the front. “Well, it was. We didn’t use birth control, Drakon, and we shouldn’t have even thought about sex without using a condom.”

“But we never used a condom.”

“Because we were newlyweds. We were hoping to have children, we both wanted a big family, but it’s different now. We’re separated. Divorcing. A baby would be disastrous, absolutely the worst thing possible—”

“Actually, I can think of a few things worse than a baby,” he interrupted, getting off the bed and reaching for his trousers. He stepped into one leg and then the other before zipping them closed. “Like famine. Disease. Pestilence. Or someone swindling billions of dollars—”

“Obviously I didn’t mean that a baby was a tragedy,” she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest to hide the fact that she was trembling. Just moments ago she’d been so relaxed, so happy, and now she felt absolutely shell-shocked. How was it possible to swing from bliss to hell in thirty seconds flat? But then, wasn’t that how it had always been with them?

“No, I think you did,” he countered. “It’s always about you, and what’s good for you—”

“That’s not true.”

“Absolutely true. You’re so caught up in what you want and need that there is no room in this relationship for two people. There certainly was never room for me.”

Her eyes widened. “You can’t be serious, Drakon. You’re the most controlling person I’ve ever met. You controlled everything in our marriage, including me—”

“Do I look like I’m in control?” he demanded tautly, dark color washing the strong, hard planes of his face.

He was breathing unsteadily, and her gaze swept over him, from his piercing gaze to the high color in his cheekbones to his firm full mouth, and she thought he looked incredible. Beautiful. Powerful. Her very own mythic Greek god. But that was the problem. He was too beautiful, too powerful. She had no perspective around him. Would throw herself in the path of danger just to be close to him.

Good God. How self-destructive was that?

Before she could speak, she heard the distinctive hum of a helicopter.

“Rowan,” Drakon said, crossing to the balcony and stepping outside to watch the helicopter move across the sky. “He’ll have news about your father.”

“Then I’d better shower and dress.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

MORGAN REFUSED TO think about what had just happened in her bed, unable to go there at all, and instead focused on taking a very fast shower before drying off and changing into a simple A-line dress in white linen with blue piping that Drakon had shipped over from the Athens house with the rest of the wardrobe.

In the steamy marble bathroom, she ran a brush through her long hair before drawing it back into a sleek ponytail and headed for her door, careful to keep her gaze averted from the bed’s tousled sheets and duvet.

The maid would remake the bed while she was gone, and probably change the sheets, and Morgan was glad. She didn’t want to remember or reflect on what had just changed there. It shouldn’t have happened. It was a terrible mistake.

She took the stairs quickly, overwhelmed by emotion—worry and hope for her father, longing for Drakon, as well as regret. Now that they’d made love once, would he expect her to tumble back into bed later tonight?

And what if he didn’t want to make love again? What if that was the last time? How would she feel?

In some ways that was the worst thought of all.

It wasn’t the right way to end things. Couldn’t be their last time. Their last time needed to be different. Needed more, not less. Needed more emotion, more time, more skin, more love …

Love.

She still loved Drakon, didn’t she? Morgan’s eyes stung, knowing she always would love him, too. Saying goodbye to him would rip her heart out. She only hoped it’d be less destructive than it had been the first time. Could only hope she’d remember the pain was just grief … that the pain would eventually, one day, subside.

But she wouldn’t go there, either. Not yet. She was still here with him, still feeling so alive with him. Better to stay focused on the moment, and deal with the future when it came.

Reaching the bottom stair she discovered one of Drakon’s staff was waiting for her. “Mrs. Xanthis, Mr. Xanthis is waiting for you in the terrace sunroom,” the maid said.

Morgan thanked her and headed down the final flight of stairs to the lower level, the terrace level.

The sunroom ran the length of the villa and had formerly been a ballroom in the nineteenth century. The ballroom’s original gilt ceiling, the six sets of double glass doors and the grand Venetian glass chandeliers remained, but the grand space was filled now with gorgeous rugs and comfortable furniture places and potted palms and miniature citrus trees. It was one of the lightest, brightest rooms in the villa and almost always smelled of citrus blossoms.

Entering the former ballroom, Morgan spotted Drakon and another man standing in the middle of the enormous room, talking in front of a grouping of couches and chairs.

They both turned and looked at her as she entered the room, but Morgan only had eyes for Drakon. Just looking at him made her insides flip, and her pulse leap.

She needed him, wanted him, loved him, far too much.

Her heart raced and her stomach hurt as she crossed the ballroom, her gaze drinking in Drakon, her footsteps muffled by the plush Persian rugs scattered across the marble floor.

He looked amazing … like Drakon, but not like Drakon in that soft gray knit shirt that hugged his broad shoulders and lovingly molded to his muscular chest, outlining every hard, sinewy muscle with a pair of jeans. In America they called shirts like the one he was wearing Henleys. They’d been work shirts, worn by farmers and firemen and lumberjacks, not tycoons and millionaires and it boggled her mind that Drakon would wear such a casual shirt, although from the look of the fabric and the cut, it wasn’t an inexpensive one—but it suited him.

He looked relaxed … and warm. So warm. So absolutely not cold, or controlled. And part of her suddenly wondered, if he had ever been cold, or if she’d just come to think of him that way as they grew apart in those last few months of their marriage?