‘I do,’ he growled, nudging her off. ‘It’s my helicopter and I need it functional. Get in the back.’
Orla didn’t have to be told twice. With less dignity than she’d have ideally liked, she scrambled between the seats and into the small utilitarian space designed not for passengers but luggage. She landed on the rubberised floor, and a second later Duarte was on top of her, pressing her down with his warm, hard weight and kissing her with a fierce, desperate need that matched her own.
She didn’t want finesse. She had no idea what he was muttering in her ear, her Portuguese just not up to that, but she caught the urgency in his voice and guessed that he had no time for it either. While she yanked his shirt from the waistband of his trousers, he shoved her skirt up, dispensed with her knickers and grabbed her knees. He clamped his hands on her hips and shifted, and then his head was between her legs, his mouth on her, hot and skilled.
At the electrifying sensations that lanced through her like lightning, a groan tore from her throat and her chest heaved. Her hands found their way to his head, and her back arched and then, suddenly, she was crying out as spasms of white-hot pleasure racked her body.
She was only dimly aware of Duarte moving to rummage around in his overnight case. She was limp. Blitzed. She’d never shattered so fast and hard that she’d very nearly passed out. Yet, unbelievably, when he lifted her hips and slid into her with one powerful thrust, it triggered a fresh wave of ecstasy that detonated the aftershocks and had her shuddering and shaking all over again.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, her heart filled to bursting, and when he hurled them both over the edge into a bright, dazzling shower of stars she wondered how, when the conference was over, she was ever going to let him go.
***
That was more like it, thought Duarte, rearranging his clothes while his heart rate slowed and his breathing steadied. Frantic and desperate and unexpectedly intense, but, at the end of the day, just sex.
He helped a flushed and dazed Orla off the helicopter, grabbed his bag, and then, with the intention of implementing his plan to avoid her by day at the forefront of his mind, without looking back, strode away.
‘Wait.’
He instinctively stopped and spun round. ‘What?’ he snapped, irritated beyond belief that he didn’t even seem to be able to resist her voice and determined more than ever to keep his distance the minute he’d dealt with this.
‘I bought these for you.’
She held out a bag, and for a moment he just stared at it as though it were about to explode.
‘Little custard tarts,’ she said with a warm smile. ‘Your favourite, you said.’
Yes, well, he’d said too much lately. Given away too much. But that stopped now. ‘Obrigado.’
‘You’re welcome. And thank you for taking me to Porto and arranging everything. No one’s ever done anything like that for me before.’
Her eyes were shining and his stomach clenched with even greater unease. What was going on? Why was she looking at him so...tenderly? She’d better not be getting any ideas.
‘It was hardly a proposal on an iceberg or dinner in front of the Mona Lisa.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I don’t need grand gestures that are frequently style over substance. I had a really great time.’
‘Good,’ he said bluntly, mentally adding to his plan the need to figure out how he was going to pulverise any potential yet very much misguided expectations she may have. ‘I’m returning to the house. I’ll see you tonight.’