His Shock Marriage In Greece. Jane Porter

wanted to tell her to wrap her fingers around him. He wanted to tell her how to stroke him—firmly, from the base of his shaft to the tip of his rounded head. He wanted what he wanted, and yet, he was also curious to see what she’d do next, and how she intended to satisfy him.

      Her fingers slowly curved around him and she lowered her head to touch the tip of her tongue to the head of his shaft.

      He stifled his growl of appreciation as her tongue lapped at him, licking the throbbing tip as if he were a lollipop or ice-cream cone.

      It was all he could do not to rock his hips. He wanted to be in her mouth. He wanted the pressure of her hand and the wet heat of her mouth, and she wasn’t quite getting the hang of it yet, but just watching her lick him, and suck him, made him hungrier, and fiercer.

      She was trying so hard to please him, and she was applying herself so passionately to the task, that every flick of her tongue across his swollen head made him groan inwardly. She was either a splendid actress, or she genuinely enjoyed sucking him. The fact that she might just enjoy this...night...had never once crossed his mind. He hadn’t ever thought of her wanting him, or desiring him, and watching her lavish him with attention made him want to explode.

      He stopped there, aware that these weren’t the thoughts of a considerate husband.

      Not that he’d ever be a truly good, considerate husband, because he wasn’t a good or considerate man. He was too bitter and broken. Too ambitious. Too driven. He’d come from nowhere, having risen up from nothing—literally olive trees and a stone hut in the middle of a hilltop orchard—and then even that had been taken from him, taken by those who believed money made them better than others, that money gave them the right to use and abuse.

      It’s why he’d worked so hard his entire life—to distance himself from the victim he’d been.

      Having hit the absolute bottom, he knew he’d never be weak again.

      His world was strength, power, domination. It was his one and only goal.

      He wanted a family to prove that he’d overcome a dark past, and he had the means to ensure they’d be safe. They’d be comfortable, guarded, protected. His children would be able to go to the best schools. They’d have the best security. They’d never be exploited. But he needed a wife who would love them, because he didn’t love. He didn’t have normal emotions and feelings, and there was no room for feelings, just as there would be no romance.

      Should he take Kassiani to his bed, it would be strictly business. Just like consummating the marriage was serious business. The moment he took her virginity, there would be no going back. The moment he claimed her, there would be no annulment.

      Did he want to claim her?

      He studied her from beneath heavy lids, his erection aching in her hands, the thick tip damp from her mouth.

      Even though she was the wrong bride, she was still a Dukas and the marriage still gave him what he wanted—all of North America’s West Coast ports. All the Dukas ships. All the trade agreements.

      Part of him wanted to punish the Dukas family for playing him, but that would be cutting off his nose to spite his face. Kassiani would meet his needs just as well as Elexis. Maybe even better because his children did need a mother who would feel and care and fight for them. They’d need one parent with a heart.

      He should just take her to bed, and claim her. He wouldn’t be rough with her, even though he liked hot, hard sex. Sex without apology. He’d never made love to a woman and felt love. Sex—intercourse—was a release, and it felt good after he climaxed, but there wasn’t much else he felt in the bedroom, other than loathing. He’d never tell anyone but he could barely tolerate being touched. He could barely endure being inside his skin. It was always a fight, a battle, to not remember the past. To not let memories resurface.