Her nipples, rosy and tight, beckoned, the most succulent fruit.
As step by step passion claimed her, as her body undulated to the rhythm he set, as the blush of desire intensified and her lids fell, he bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth.
Tasted her, teased, waited, feeling her urgency well, feeling the tide rushing through her veins.
Then he suckled fiercely, heard her cry, felt her hands clench tight on his skull as release claimed her.
He held her and feasted as the contractions faded, as all tension flowed from her. Withdrawing his hand from between her thighs, he swept her up; kneeling on the bed, he laid her down.
Her eyes opened, and she watched him. Displayed naked and delectable on the red silk coverlet, she followed his every move as, languidly, unhurriedly, he undressed.
There was no reason to rush, as he’d said; he intended tonight’s performance to be a play of multiple acts-she would need at least a few minutes to recover, the longer the better. The better for the next time; the better for him.
He was a past master at thinking of other things, of ignoring the driving beat in his blood, yet it was only that experience, the knowing what was possible if he stuck to the script, and his iron will, that kept him from falling on her and ravishing her.
Her skin was incredibly fine; although the flush of desire was fading, it was so pale and translucent it took the golden glow from the candlelight, sheened with a sensual gilding. Her raven black hair, thick, falling in large wavy locks, lay spread beneath her shoulders, a frame for her face.
The face of a very English madonna, softened even more by passion’s stamp and lit by a sensual glow.
And slowly dawning expectation.
Fascinated anticipation.
He moved about the bed, divesting himself of coat, waistcoat, shirt-all in the usual manner of a gentleman preparing for bed with the intention of sleeping rather than indulging himself to the hilt with a delectable houri he’d already rendered boneless.
She followed his every move.
They said not a word, but the tension rising between them, around them, intensifying about the bed, was a palpable thing.
It kept his heart racing, pulse thudding; when he finally stripped off his trousers, it was with intense relief.
Laying them neatly aside, he straightened, then came to the side of the bed.
From under the black screen of her lashes, she lay back and watched, blatantly let her gaze run down from his face, over his chest, down over his ridged stomach to feast lovingly on his erection.
He could almost hear the word in her mind, saw her fingers curl.
Crawling onto the bed, he sat back on his ankles, just out of her reach.
Lifted one hand, beckoned. “Come here.”
At his tone, harsh, gravelly, very much a command, her gaze flicked up to his face. Then she shifted, came up on her elbow. He was reaching for her arm to help her to her knees when instead she bent toward him.
Her hair swept his groin; before he could react, he felt her breath caress his aching flesh, then she licked. Long. Lingeringly.
And he was lost.
Forgot his script entirely as she shifted and settled to her task, leaning on his thighs, one hand caressing, gliding up and down, fondling as her tongue licked, laved, winding him tighter, then she drew back, considered all she could see, then bent her head and took him into her mouth.
His fingers speared through her thick hair, spasmed on her skull when she sucked. He had to cling for dear life to his control as she tormented him, had to fight to summon enough will to, the moment she paused to draw breath, grab her shoulders and lift her up. Away.
She met his gaze. “I haven’t finished yet.”
“Enough,” he ground out. “Later.”
“You said that last time.”
“For good reason.”
“You promised.”
“That you could look. Not taste.”
She narrowed her eyes as she complied with his wishes and, now on her knees, straddled his lap. Their faces again close, she frowned into his eyes. “Methinks you protest too much. You like it. A lot.”
He clamped his hands about her hips. “I like it too damned much.”
She opened her lips; he stopped her words in the most effective way he knew.
He slid into her, slowly, working his way steadily into her soft sheath, drawing her down, down, until she lost the last of her breath on a gasp, closed her hands about his face, framing it, holding it so she could kiss him.
As evocatively as any houri ever birthed.
He didn’t need any encouraging; he moved beneath her, into her, moving her on him to the same rhythm. She caught it, grabbed it, danced with him. On him. Clamping tight about him, then easing as he lifted her. He didn’t lift her far; she liked him deep, it seemed, and he was quite content to humor her, at least in that regard.
There was, to his mind, nothing more sensually satisfying than being sheathed to the hilt in hot, slick, voluptuous feminine flesh.
Especially hers.
With her, the satisfaction went much deeper than mere sex. Far deeper than sensual gratification. It went to the heart of him; like some heavenly elixir, it soothed, fed, eased, then became an addiction and incited.
He changed tempo, let the urgency build; she wrapped her arms about his shoulders and clung tight. To him, to their kiss.
To the building, growing, swelling need that rose through them, more primitive than lust, more powerful than passion.
Like a tide rushing in, it filled them; they rode it, faster, higher, deeper, harder.
Until she shattered. Her body tightened unforgivingly around him, then her tension imploded. She cried out, the sound smothered between them. He held her down, brutually forceful, keeping her immobile while her contractions rippled through her, about him, and faded.
All strength went from her, and she slumped against him.
Only then did he dare draw back from the kiss, draw breath, think. Of his next move.
Portia finally managed to drag in a shuddering breath. Realized he’d stopped, that he was still iron-hard, rigid inside her. His hands ran soothingly down her back, but his body was tense, locked-waiting.
Lifting her head, she looked into his eyes. Saw the beast prowling behind the bright blue.
“What now?”
He took a moment to answer; when he did, his voice was a bass growl. “Next act.”
He lifted her from him, gently pushed her toward the pillows piled at the bed’s head.
On her knees, she slumped that way.
Landed on her stomach. Waited for him to turn her over. When he didn’t, she came up on one elbow and looked back at him.
He was still sitting on his haunches, flagrantly erect; as she watched, his gaze rose from her bottom.
“What?” She glanced back, around.
He hesitated, then shook his head. “Nothing.” He reached for her legs. “Lie back.”
He flipped her over, spread her thighs wide, came over her and wedged his hips between, and entered her. With one powerful thrust that had her arching wildly, that nearly made her forget.
But not quite.
He withdrew and thrust again, seating himself fully, then, obedient to her tugging, let his body down atop hers.
She caught his eye. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing you need to know.” He pressed a hand beneath her hip, tilted her up to meet his next thrust.
“I won’t pay attention until you tell me.”
He laughed. “Don’t tempt me.”
She tried to glare, but his next thrust, deeper, harder, wiped the impulse from her mind.
