Page 32 of Greek's Temporary Cinderella

As he came free of her she buckled over, jack-knifing onto her side, curling into a foetal position—protective and rejecting. He put his weight on his knees, staring down at her. In the low light from the bedside lamps he saw her hair was totally swamping her face.

‘Eliana—Christos!—what is it? What’s wrong?’

Consternation was in his voice, bewilderment, incomprehension... The contrast from a moment ago, when he had been blind with desire, craving only one consummation, with what was now pounding through his blood was total.

His answer was only that she hunched her body even more, hugging her drawn-up knees, and from her throat broke a noise that could only be a sob.

With a shaking hand, he smoothed away those tresses from her face. It was still contorted.

He said her name again, his voice shaking now, as did his hand as it lifted away from her. Instinctively, he let his hand close over her shoulder, but she only wrenched herself away the more, and another noise tore from her.

‘Dear God—I didn’t mean to hurt you!’ His own voice was broken, with shock—more than shock—racking through it.

What had happened? What the hell had happened? She had been aflame for him—and he for her.

It had been an instant conflagration as his eyes had gone to her, walking into his room when he had thought her in bed next door. He had felt a shaft of searing gratification at the sight of her, at the clear purpose in her as she came towards him, her body shaped sensuously, gloriously, by her clinging gown, her hips swaying, breasts all but bared by the revealing drape of her low décolletage, and her hair loosened and, oh, so wanton, cascading over her shoulders...

She had come up to him...kissed him. Her lips lush and velvet, claiming his, her hands winding around his neck to draw him to her. And that instant had released from him all that had been waiting for release.

His response had been instant, unstoppable—and all-consuming. Urgent and overpowering—overwhelming. He had been unable to resist—and why should he have? She had not come to him as she had the night before, as some kind of unwilling sacrifice, the difference had been absolute.

Lush and sensuous, desirous and desiring...

It’s what I wanted—all that I wanted.

And he had taken what she’d offered, what she had so clearly wanted as well. Every touch, every kiss, every yielding, every low, sensual moan in her throat, every caress and every arching of her body had been an invitation to him to take more, and yet more...

To take all he craved and hungered for.

Until—

His mind reeled, incomprehension possessing it totally. Not knowing what to do, he moved away. He must do something—but what? And how? And then, as he drew away from her, his eyes went to the bedsheet, where they had been lying.

And he froze all over again.

The pain was ebbing, and abject gratitude that it was doing so shuddered through Eliana. Slowly, slowly, she was surfacing from it, and feeling not just the pain, that sudden agony like a knife-thrust, convulsing her, but all the other sensations that had been flooding her overheated, over-stimulated flesh.

Cold was creeping over her now, and she felt her body shiver.

Then the quilt was being drawn over her, and her shoulder was being taken, and slowly, but insistently, Leandros was turning her towards him. Her knees were still drawn up, but she felt them slacken, felt the hectic pounding of her heart rate slow a fraction. Pain—a searing ache—still pierced her.

Leandros was beside her, a sheet pulled half across his waist. He was raised up on one elbow, on his side, and his other hand was carefully, gently, drawing her tumbled hair clear of her face.

He looked down at her.

‘I think you need to explain,’ he said.

Disbelief was still his dominant consciousness. Yet the evidence was pounding at him. Her scream, her cry of pain when he had entered her—and then... Thee mou, that smear of blood...

It isn’t possible—it just isn’t possible.

She was looking at him. Her features were no longer contorted, yet there was a pallor to her face that told she was still shaken. Her eyes were huge, distended, barely meeting his. But he wanted answers. Needed answers.

‘Eliana, you were married for six years—six years! How was I to think—?’ He broke off.

Words formed in his head, unspoken but vehement. What the hell kind of marriage had it been for those six long years? Clearly not the kind he had assumed it to be. Had raged that it would be...

And more of his assumptions had self-destructed as well. She’d given Damian no children—no grandson for his father. By choice? To avoid pregnancy? Or had there been chance of pregnancy...? No chance because either she or Damian had been incapable? Or—?

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