The decadent scent.
Her eyes on his, the warmth of her body, burning into his.
“Because I cannot…” she faltered, her tongue emerging to wet her lips, as if she had grown nervous. “What happened between us was wrong. I cannot indulge in such unbecoming, improper, utterly foolish—”
Wolf ended her diatribe with his lips, for there went his restraint and all his good intentions. Hearing her call what had happened between them yesterday improper and foolish felt wrong to his marrow. Because kissing her, touching her, had been… Words did not exist which could sufficiently describe it.
The hand at her waist and the one at her back worked in synchronicity to pull her against him. He angled his mouth over hers, his tongue teasing the seam of her lips. She opened on a sound that was part sigh, part moan, and it went straight to his cock. Her tongue moved against his, and she tasted like pure honey, sweet and delicious, and he did not think he could ever get enough.
Not from a hundred kisses.
Nor a thousand.
He groaned, bringing her nearer still. Her arms went around his neck, clinging, her breasts crushing into his chest. What was it about this woman that brought him to his knees? That made him forget every vow he had made to himself, every pain and hurt he had previously endured, that made him ignore each warning clamoring to be heard within him?
He kissed her and kissed her, their breaths becoming one, her sigh of contentment finding a part of his soul he had long believed turned to ash and bringing it back to life. Bleeding hell, if he died tomorrow without ever touching another wench, he would die a happy man to know this woman’s lips had been beneath his last.
There was no reason for him to feel such a depth of association.
And yet, he did.
His instinct, however, still remained strong. Being raised in the rookeries left a cove with an undeniable reaction to the slightest unexpected sound. He heard the damned shop cull returning. Footsteps, a discreet knock, followed by the scrape of the latch.
With a muttered curse, he withdrew, setting Portia away from him, and spinning on his heel, he clasped his hands behind his back in time for the door to open. The obsequious cove had returned, arms laden with lace and gloves. With the mountain of goods obstructing his view, the poor fellow likely had no idea what he had just intruded upon.
And Wolf was glad for that, even if he mourned the interruption. Already, he missed her in his arms. Missed her mouth on his.
“Your requests, sir,” the man said, helpfully depositing his burden upon the table.
“Thank you,” Wolf offered, his voice sounding husky and thick with desire even to his own ears. “If we could have a few moments to examine the wares?”
Alone.
That last bit was implied. Wolf didn’t know if this was the manner in which a gentleman ordinarily conducted himself at Bellingham and Co. Lord knew he was not one to dabble in purchasing trinkets and trivialities for wenches. And Christ knew he was no gentleman. But he wanted Portia alone, no audience. He would do whatever was required to have it.
“Of course, sir.” Another bow, and the shop cove disappeared, leaving the fripperies he had procured behind, the door once more discreetly closed.
Wolf turned back to Portia, admiring the flush in her cheeks and the sparkle in her vivid, green eyes. She looked nettled with him and deliciously well-kissed.
“Your behavior is outrageous, sir,” she said.
He gestured to the door. “Leave if you like.”
She remained where she was. “Why are you here?”
He fought the urge to grin. “To kiss you.”
Her color heightened. “Then you followed me, just as I’ve said.”
“Into this establishment? Aye, that much is true. I was waiting in a carriage when I recognized you.” He studied her lovely face, knowing he would see it in his sleep tonight.
A regal brow rose, her shoulders stiffening. “You were awaiting someone, then?”
He nodded, pleased in spite of himself that she appeared troubled by the possibility he was dancing attendance on another lady. “My sister.”
“You have a sister?”
This time, he did grin. “You find it so difficult to believe? The quality ain’t the only ones with siblings, my lady.”
Her lush lips parted. “That is not what I meant to suggest.”
They were wasting precious time speaking of things that did not interest him nearly as much as learning her full name and where and when he might see her again did.
Wolf moved nearer, drawn to her as he had been from the moment their gazes had connected the day before at The Sinner’s Palace. “What did you mean to suggest?”
Her gaze dipped to his mouth, and he knew she was thinking of the kisses they had so recently shared, the same as he was. “I suppose that what I meant was I had not thought of you having a family, a sister for whom you wait whilst she completes her shopping.”
“You were thinking of me, then.” He longed to touch her, but he restrained himself. He had kissed her first and orchestrated their privacy in this antechamber it was true, but he wanted them to be equals. He needed to be certain she desired him every bit as much as he did her.
Her flush heightened. “Yes,” she admitted, the lone word the barest whisper of a sound. “I was thinking of you.”
He smiled. “How?”
Her eyes widened, and he thought he could stare into the vibrant, emerald depths for an entire day and still find new shimmering hues within them. Gold, cinnamon, streaks of brown, hints of gray. They were not hazel, not like his, but richer, fancier. Just as she was. And fringed with dark, luxurious lashes that seemed to Wolf to be the most extravagant—and beguiling—eyelashes he’d ever beheld on a woman.
“Do you truly wish to know, sir?” Her voice was soft, so soft he would not have heard her words had the distance between them been any greater.
“Wolf,” he reminded her, once again tamping down the urge to reach for her, to take her in his arms and pull those decadent curves against him. “I ain’t a sir. And I most certainly ain’t a gentleman.”
Sirfelt as if it were an appellation that was better bestowed upon a lord. A lofty cove. A damned nob. And there was nothing proper or gentlemanly about Wolf. He was a Sutton, born to the rookeries. He would always be tarnished. A counterfeit, never the genuine article. Regardless of how much wealth he earned, no matter the respectability he fought to garner.