Purchased for Passion. Julia James

Compliant to his will.

      Holding down with iron force the voice that was trying to speak deep inside her head. The pressure that was building, molecule by molecule, inside her veins.

      It wanted to get out, she knew. She must not allow it.

      Must not.

      She went on standing there, motionless beside Leo Makarios’s bed, with him lounging back against the headrest.

      Looking at her.

      There was something in his eyes, dark and hooded, something that made the prickling in her skin intensify again, as if the voltage applied to her flesh had just been increased.

      She felt her breath quicken and tried to suppress it.

      His eyes washed over her.

      Her heart started to slug in her chest; her veins dilated.

      Desperately she tamped it down.

      Leo’s voice was murmuring. Slow, and low, with a creamy, sensual timbre.

      ‘Oh, Anna Delane, you have no idea how much I’m going to enjoy this.’

      His voice was soft and heavy. His eyes slumberous with desire.

      He reached a hand out to her, taking hers in his. Her hand was limp, inert.

      He drew her down on the bed and she sat there, half twisted towards him. Looking at him. Nothing in her eyes. Nothing at all.

      She was a doll, a puppet. Capable of no feeling at all…

      Slowly, never taking his dark, slumberous eyes from her, he lifted his hands to her hair, pulling out the pins. Her long black hair tumbled down over her shoulders, cascading over the jadegreen silk.

      Leo spoke again, his Greek accent low and heavy, his lashes sweeping down over those dark golden eyes.

      ‘You come to me like a sacrificial virgin.’ His hands sifted through her hair. ‘Laying down your virtue for me. Pure, unsullied, innocent.’ Something shifted in the depths of those eyes. Shifted, and hardened.

      Like his voice.

      ‘How extraordinarily deceptive appearances can be.’

      The words drawled from him.

      She did not respond. Did not speak. Did not do anything except go on sitting there as his long, sensual fingers sifted through her hair. Her body was like marble—motionless, insensate. It had to be—it had to be—she must not be anything else! Must not let herself feel his fingers in her hair, feel the myriad pressure points in her skull sending a soft, shivering sensation through her. She must not feel that.

      Must remember she was only a puppet. Feeling nothing. Nothing at all.

      His fingers stopped, then slid through her hair to stroke the back of her neck. Slowly, sensually…

      And suddenly, out of nowhere, sensation started to flow through her. She tried to stop it, tried to remember why she was there, with no feelings, no thoughts, no will, merely a mindless doll that Leo Makarios could touch and stroke, and she would let him, because that was what she had to do…

      But it was impossible.

      She could not stop herself. Could not stop the sensation rippling through her as his fingers played with the sensitive skin they were touching.

      She felt her eyes close. Heavy, slumberous.

      Slowly, his fingers tautened around her nape. Leisurely he drew her down towards him. She let him do it. She let him brush her lips with his, slide his tongue within and start to caress her.

      She let him slip her top from her, the silky material sliding away, let him pull her over him, let her bared, braless breasts graze against the towelling of his bathrobe, let his hands slide beneath the waistband of her silk trousers, mould over the soft roundness of her bottom. Even as he started to slide off the material, down her thighs she let him do it, wanted him to.

      Anna let him go on kissing her, moving his mouth on hers, let the hard shaft of his manhood probe at the juncture of her legs, let his hand palm her breast in slow, rhythmic circles as its peak ripened under his touch.

      She let herself lie there, spread across him. His hand was at the nape of her neck, the other at her breast, and his mouth was on hers, his thighs hard beneath hers, his shaft strong and seeking.

      She had no will, no emotion, only total, absolute submission to sensation—sensation he was arousing from her, stroking from her, caressing from her. A slow, spreading fire started to lick through her. A long, low pulse started in her veins, and in every cell of her body a warm, dissolving heat began to steal.

      She felt herself move, press her body along his, felt the hardness of his hips, the lean strength of his smooth, muscled chest. Felt her mouth move, move over his, felt herself start to kiss him back, to seek his tongue with hers. Felt the hunger start, deep, deep within her. Felt her hands curl over his strong, sculpted shoulders, revelling in the touch of his skin beneath her kneading fingers.

      The fire was licking now, like flames at dry grass, spreading through her veins. She could hear low, aching moans, and knew they were coming from her throat, but she could not stop them. She had no will, no power.

      Something had taken her over. Consumed her so completely, so absolutely, she was helpless in its thrall, in its overpowering, overwhelming need.

      A need to move her body over his, touching, seeking, questing, with her thighs tautening, hips lifting slightly, so slightly, but just enough, just enough…

      She wanted…

      She wanted…

      She wanted to feel his hand on her breast, palming it, scissoring rhythmically, pulling at her inflamed, jutting nipple. Wanted the other breast to feel the same. Wanted more, more—much more.

      The fire was coursing through her, hungry for more to feed it with. The low, aching moans were coming again, need and ravening hunger.

      Hunger for him. For the lean, hard body beneath her. For the silky moistness of his mouth, the sensuous gliding of his tongue, the rich velvet of his lips. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough.

      Fire licked again, all through her veins, but with a new focus, a new urgent source of heat.

      She wanted…

      She wanted…

      She twisted her hips, feeling the long hardness of his shaft at her belly.

      She wanted…needed…

      Again she lifted her hips, straining down on him with her thighs, her hands pressing on his shoulders, her breast ripe in his hand, as she writhed against his body.

      She felt the tip of his shaft against her, and the fire flamed within her. She reared up, hands pinioning his shoulders, her thighs over his, hair tumbling over her back. And with a last, low, rasping moan in her throat she caught his tip at the vee of her legs, lifting and positioning it just where it had to—had to be.

      He let go her mouth, let go her nape, and she threw back her head, rearing up over him. Her eyes were blind, shut, her body one single writhing twist of flame.

      His hand glided down her back in a single smooth sweep, splaying over her bottom.

      Words came from him. She could not hear them. Could only feel the tip of his probing shaft at the entrance to her inflamed, aching, flooding body.

      And she wanted it. Needed it so much that not having it was a torment, a hunger, a desperation.

      So she took it.

      Took him into her.

      His hand splaying across her guided her down on him, slowly, infinitely slowly, and he filled her, stretching and moulding her.

      A long, low exhalation breathed from her. He was solid inside her. Solid, and hard and full. For a long, timeless moment she just stayed there, half-reared over him,