Her Greek Groom. Sara Craven

its height, he cried out something in his own language, his voice harsh, almost broken.

      When it was over, he rolled away from her and lay, one arm covering his eyes, as his rasping breath slowly returned to normal.

      Cressy sat up slowly, pushing her hair from her eyes. She supposed she had scored a small victory, but it seemed a barren, sterile thing, especially when her newly awakened body was aching for the fulfilment she’d spurned.

      She felt cold, and a little frightened. She didn’t dare look at him, or say anything, even when, a long time later, he got to his feet and walked to the sofa and his discarded clothing. A brooding silence enclosed them both.

      At last he said, ‘You made me use you. Why?’

      She said, ‘I assumed you wished to be repaid for my father’s medical bills. You can’t always choose the currency.’

      He whispered something under his breath, and the controlled violence of it made her flinch. He picked up her dress and tossed it to her. ‘Cover yourself.’

      She slipped it over her head, but didn’t fasten it. She didn’t trust her shaking hands to deal with the zip.

      He was fully dressed when he spoke again, his tone clipped, remote. ‘You will find food in the kitchen. I brought a hamper from London. There is chicken, and champagne and peaches.’

      She ran her tongue across her dry lips. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’

      ‘I find I do not wish to eat with you,’ he returned curtly. ‘Besides, I think it best if I go before I do something I shall regret.’

      He walked to the door and she followed him, barefoot, holding the slipping dress against her.

      She said, her voice faltering a little, ‘Did you drive yourself here? I didn’t see another car.’

      ‘I parked at the back of the house. The housekeeper directed me.’

      ‘In my father’s place?’ Her voice rose. ‘Oh, God, how could she do such a thing?’

      ‘Because, unlike you, Cressida mou, she seems able to accept that I am the master here now.’

      Hurt exploded inside her, and an odd sense of desolation.

      She said thickly, ‘Damn you,’ and swung back her hand. She wanted to hit him—to drive the expression of cold mockery from his face.

      But he was too quick for her, grabbing her wrist with hard fingers, shaking her slightly, so that the damned dress slid off her shoulders again, baring her to the waist.

      She saw his face change, become starkly intent. He said softly, ‘There is only one way to deal with a woman like you.’

      He swung her round so that her back, suddenly, was against the closed door. She tried to cover her breasts with her hands, but his fingers closed round her wrists, lifting them above her head and holding them there.

      He said, ‘It is a little late for such modesty. Rage suits you better.’

      She said breathlessly, ‘Let me go—you bastard…’

      ‘When I choose,’ he said. ‘Not you.’

      She heard her dress tear as it fell to the floor. He took her quickly, his anger meeting hers in an explosive fusion that stunned the senses.

      She thought, This is an outrage… And then she stopped thinking altogether.

      Because his hands were under her thighs, lifting her so that she had to clamp her legs round his waist, join the driving rhythm of his possession.

      His mouth was crushing hers passionately, drinking the salty, angry tears from her lips. She was moaning in her throat, gasping for breath, dizzy and drowning in the merciless forces he had released in her.

      She tried to push him away, but it was already too late. Deep within her she could feel the first harsh tremors of her approaching climax. As the pulsations overwhelmed her, tore through her, she sobbed her release against his lips, then hung in his arms, limp as a rag doll, incapable of speech, hardly able to think.

      Draco stepped back from the door and carried her across the room, dropping her almost negligently on to the sofa.

      Cressy lay, staring up at him, her face hectically flushed, her hair wildly dishevelled and her eyes wide and enormous.

      His smile was mocking as he casually fastened his clothing. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket for his wallet.

      A shower of fifty-pound notes fluttered down on her.

      He said softly, ‘I think I have ruined your dress, agapi mou, so buy yourself a new one. Something that does not make you look as if you are in mourning for your virginity, hmm?’

      He paused. ‘And do not ever try to reject me again.’

      She wanted to reach out to him, to say his name, to ask him to stay with her, but she was too shattered by the impact of the last few minutes to be able to move or formulate coherent words.

      She could only watch helplessly as he turned and walked to the door, where he paused.

      ‘And do not wait for me to apologise,’ he flung back at her. ‘Because I find, after all, I do not regret a thing.’ And he went out, slamming the door behind him.