Rumours: The Dishonoured Copelands. Jane Porter

me go? Set me free?”

      “Because I’m not like you. I don’t make commitments and run from them. I don’t make promises and then break them. I promised five and a half years ago to be loyal to you, and I have been.”

      His deep gravelly voice was making her insides wobble while his focused gaze rested on her, examining her, as if she were a prized pet that had been lost and found.

      “Those are just words, Drakon. They mean nothing to me. Not when your actions speak so much louder.”

      “My actions?”

      “Yes, your actions. Or your lack of action. You only do something if it benefits you. You married me because it benefited you … or you thought it would. And then when times were difficult … when I became difficult … you disappeared. You wouldn’t grant me a divorce but you certainly didn’t come after me, fight for me. And then when the world turned against us, where were you again? Nowhere. God knows you wouldn’t want your name sullied by connection with the Copeland family!”

      He studied her for an endless moment. “Interesting how you put things together. But not entirely surprising. You’ve inherited your mother’s flair for the dramatic—”

      “I hate you! I do.” Her voice shook and her eyes burned, but she wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He’d taken everything from her, but not anymore. “I knew you’d mock me, humiliate me. I knew when I flew here, you’d make it difficult, but I came anyway, determined to do whatever I had to do to help my father. You’ll let me plead with you, you’ll let me beg—”

      “That was a very passionate speech, so please forgive my interruption, but I’d like to clarify something. I don’t believe you’ve begged. You’ve asked for money. You’ve demanded money. You’ve explained why you needed money. But there’s been very little pleading, and absolutely no begging, at all.”

      A pulse beat wildly in her throat. She could feel the same wild flutter in her wrists and behind her ears. Everything in her was racing, raging. “Is that what you want? You’d like for me to beg you to help me?”

      His head cocked, and he studied her, his gaze penetrating. “It’d certainly be a little more conciliatory, and far less antagonistic.”

      “Conciliatory.” She repeated the word, rolling it over in her mouth, finding it sharp and bitter.

      He said nothing, just watched her, and she felt almost breathless at the scrutiny, remembering how it had been between them during their four weeks here on their honeymoon. It was in this villa she’d learned about love and lust, sex and pleasure, as well as pain and control, and the loss of control.

      Drakon never lost control. But he’d made sure she did at least once a day, sometimes two or three times.

      Their sex life had been hot. Explosive. Erotic. She’d been a virgin when she’d married him and their first time together had been uncomfortable. He was large and it had hurt when he entered her fully. He’d tried to make it pleasurable for her but she’d been so overwhelmed and emotional, as well as let down. She couldn’t respond properly, couldn’t climax, and she knew she was supposed to. Knew he wanted her to.

      He’d showered with her afterward, and kissed her, and beneath the pulsing spray of the shower, he lavished attention on her breasts and nipples, the curve of her buttocks and the cleft between her thighs, lightly playing with her clit until he finally accomplished what he hadn’t in bed—she came. One of his arms held her up since her legs were too weak to do the job, and then he’d kissed her deeply, possessively, and when she could catch her breath, he’d assured her that the next time he entered her, it wouldn’t hurt. That sex would never hurt again.

      It hadn’t.

      But that didn’t mean sex was always easy or comfortable.

      Drakon liked it hot. Intense. Sensual. Raw. Unpredictable.

      He loved to stand across the room from her—just as he was doing now—and he’d tell her what to do. Tell her what he wanted. Sometimes he wanted her to strip and then walk naked to him. Sometimes he wanted her to strip to just her panties and crawl to him. Sometimes he wanted her to wear nothing but her elegant heels and bend over … or put a foot on a chair and he’d tell her where to touch herself.

      Each time Morgan would protest, but he’d look at her from beneath his black lashes, his amber gaze lazy, his full mouth curved, and he’d tell her how beautiful she was and how much he enjoyed looking at her, that it gave him so much pleasure to see her, and to have her trust him….

      Obey him …

      She hated those words, hated the element of dominance, but it was part of the foreplay. They had good sex in bed, but then they had this other kind of sex—the sex where they played erotic games that pushed her out of her comfort zone. It had been confusing, but inevitably she did what he asked, and then somewhere along the way, he’d join her, and his mouth would be on her, between her legs, and his hands would hold her, fingers tight on her butt, or in her hair, or gripping her thighs, holding them apart, and he’d make love to her with his mouth and his fingers and his body and he’d arouse her so slowly that she feared she wouldn’t ever come, and then just when the desire turned sharp and hurt, he’d relent. He’d flick the tip of his tongue across that small sensitive nub, or suck on her, or stroke her, or enter her and she’d break. Shatter. And the orgasms were so intense they seemed to go on forever. Maybe because he made sure they went on forever. And by the time he was finished, she was finished. There was nothing left. She was drained, spent, but also quiet. Compliant.

      He loved her flushed and warm, quiet and compliant. Loved her physically that is, as long as she made no emotional demands. No conversation. No time, energy or patience. Required no attention.

      Morgan’s chest ached. Her heart hurt. She’d been so young then, so trusting and naive. She’d been determined to please him, her beautiful, sensual Greek husband.

      Their honeymoon here, those thirty days of erotic lovemaking, had changed her forever. She couldn’t even think of this villa without remembering how he’d made love to her in every single room, in every way imaginable. Taking her on chairs and beds, window seats and stairs. Pressing her naked back or breasts to priceless carpets, the marble floor, the cool emerald-green Italian tiles in the hall …

      She wanted to throw up. He hadn’t just taken her. He’d broken her.

      “Help me out if you would, Drakon,” she said, her voice pitched low, hoarse. “I’m not sure I understand you, and I don’t know if it’s cultural, personal or a language issue. But do you want me to beg? Is that what you’re asking me to do?” Her chin lifted and tears sparkled in her eyes even as her heart burned as if it had been torched with fire. “Am I to go onto my knees in front of you, and plead my case? Is that what it would take to win your assistance?”

      He didn’t move a muscle and yet the vast living room suddenly felt very small. “I do like you on your knees,” he said cordially, because they both knew that on her knees she could take him in her mouth, or he could touch her or take her from behind.

      She drew a ragged breath, locked her knees, praying for strength. “I haven’t forgotten,” she said, aware that she was in trouble here, aware that she ought to go. Now. While she could. While she still had some self-respect left. “Although God knows, I’ve tried.”

      “Why would you want to forget it? We had an incredible sex life. It was amazing between us.”

      She could only look at him, intrigued by his memory of them, as well as appalled. Their sex life had been hot, but their marriage had been empty and shallow.

      Obviously that didn’t trouble him. It probably didn’t even cross his mind that his bride had feelings. Emotions. Needs. Why should it? Drakon’s desires were so much simpler. He just needed her available and willing, as if she were an American porn star in a rented Italian villa.

      “So on my knees it is,” she said mockingly, lifting the hem of her pale blue skirt to kneel