Rumours: The Dishonoured Copelands. Jane Porter

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