It did not matter. Portia placed her gloved hands atop his, thinking to remove his touch. But the heat of him seared her through the barrier of soft kid. And the scent of him, musk and citrus, so sensual and unexpectedly alluring, hit her. He was raw power, harsh, masculine beauty, and she had never, not since her days as a reckless debutante who believed the world rested in the palm of her hand, wanted to kiss a man more than she wanted to kiss him. The realization stunned her.
Robbed the breath from her lungs for the second time. Stole her ability to speak. Banished her determination.
I must remember why I am here, she urged herself sternly. I must think of Avery.
Yes, Avery was the reason she had come. The unexpected call from Mrs. Courteney had led her here to The Sinner’s Palace in the hope that she would find some answers, or at least a whisper of a hint of something, anything about where he may be.
But then, the man’s head dipped, his delicious mouth hovering just over hers, and she forgot about her reason for venturing to The Sinner’s Palace in furtive fashion just before the ball Granville had insisted she attend. Forgot about everything but the maddening stranger and the desire suddenly coursing through her traitorous body.
“Are you going to do it?” she asked, her voice huskier than she would have preferred, marked with hunger.
Because all she was truly thinking about was him kissing her. His lips on hers.
And then, somehow, her fanciful imaginings became reality. His mouth joined with hers, hot and surprisingly soft. The jolt of awareness that surged through her was unprecedented. She had not felt so much from a simple kiss in…
Ever.
She had never felt so wild, so alive, so desperately seeking and needing.
Not even the kisses that had enticed her to ruin years ago had possessed such an effect upon her. Suddenly, she was ravenous for more. Her hands fled his, no longer protesting his grasp on her waist but twining around his neck instead. One swift step forward, and her body molded to his sturdy frame, her breasts crushed to his wide chest. His heat and strength enveloped her as he wrapped her in an embrace that was at once protective and possessive.
This is where I belong.
The giddy realization was utter foolishness. Likely borne from the lonely, proper widow’s life she had been living. To say nothing of the cold marriage she had endured as penance for her youthful follies.
Thoughts of Blakewell inevitably subdued some of her ardor, chasing her enjoyment of the moment. The stranger kissing her must have taken note of the tensing of her body, for he abruptly pulled his lips from hers. Her mouth instantly mourned the loss of the fiery connection, the fierce pressure of his lips molding over hers.
To her relief, he did not withdraw entirely. Instead, he remained as he was, holding her tightly and yet not too tightly, near enough that his breath—gratifyingly ragged—passed hotly over her mouth.
“Forgive me,” he said. “It was not my intention to kiss you.”
How could he know the withering of her passion had not been caused by him, but rather by the insidious ghosts of her past, never far from her heels? He could not.
Somehow Portia knew, to her very marrow, that if she allowed her beautiful stranger to retreat, she would never again know his kiss. And for reasons she did not dare examine, she could not bear for that to happen.
The old Portia returned.
The wicked wanton.
The one who had allowed her passions to rule her.
The girl she had thought long buried.
Lady Scandal.
Because instead of disengaging and accepting his apology, instead of allowing him to accept all the blame for their sudden, fervent kiss, she slipped her gloved fingers into his too-long hair. Grasped a handful and held him there, where she wanted him.
“I believe it was I who kissed you, sir,” she said, denying him the right to claim the passion that had sparked to life, refusing to allow him to so summarily dismiss it.
Because she wanted—craved—more.
“Wolf,” he growled.
For a moment, she feared she had mistaken him. She blinked, dazed by a powerful combination of desire and shock at her own wayward actions, her response. “Wolf?”
“My name.” A smile curved his lips, revealing a straight line of teeth, a slight, charming gap between the front two. “It’s Wolf. Not sirrah. Not sir. Wolf.”
Good heavens, he had the name of a beast.
She ought to be appalled. It was a ridiculous name. A name no gentleman in her circles would proudly call his own. And yet, it suited him.
“Wolf,” she repeated, trying it on her tongue. He was a stranger no more, then. For he had a name.
“Aye.” The grin widened, his hazel eyes—gray and green with flecks of copper and gold—searing into her. “Better. If you kiss me, you ought to at least know that, just as I should know yours, milady.”
She should tell him a different name. Fears of Granville and what he would do should he discover she had come to a gaming hell alone and kissed a baseborn man she had not even been introduced to, cautioned her not to tell this man—Wolf—her true name.
And yet, it seemed a sin to besmirch the undeniable attraction burning between them with a lie.
“Portia,” she said.
And what was the harm? London was likely teeming with at least a dozen Portias, if not more. She had not told him she was the widowed Countess of Blakewell. He knew nothing of her, aside from her given name and her face. And where were their paths ever likely to cross, apart from her lone excursion to this gaming hell?
Nowhere.
“Portia.” One of his hands moved from her waist, sliding to her lower back, anchoring her to him. “Fitting name.”
Did he mean it as an insult or as praise? She could not tell. It hardly signified.
Because in the next moment, he added, “My turn, then.”
And his lips were on hers. Fiery and demanding, working over hers as if he sought not just to pleasure her, but to consume her. Ravishing kisses. That was what they were. And he had yet to use his—
Oh.