“I thought of you last night, alone in my bed.”
Her words tore him from his ruminations, sending lust bolting through him. The confession was enough to unman him. Alone, in her bed? Had she touched herself? Brought herself to completion? The thought of her delicate fingers slicking through her silken quim, bringing herself to a writhing peak of pleasure, made his heart pound. Made him forget all the reasons he ought to leave this room—hell, the entire establishment—and never cross paths with his tempting Portia again.
Made him draw nearer to her when he should have gone.
Aye, she was the Siren, but it was too late. Wolf’s ship had already been drawn onto the rocks.
Time to drown.
* * *
What in heaven’sname was she doing, taking such a reckless, foolish risk as pretending this man was her husband? And worse, she was lingering here with him, flirting. Making revelations better kept in the deepest, darkest secrets of the night. That she had thought of him alone in her bed. But it had been more than that, of course. Far more.
She had dreamt of him.
Of his hands on her body.
And to her shame, when she had awoken, it had been to the crashing wave of pleasure as her inner muscles contracted. She had reached her pinnacle while sleeping. Without ever having been touched.
Portia was not certain if it was because her body had gone so long without someone else’s touch aside from her own and Wolf had reminded her what pleasure felt like, or if it was this man in particular who affected her so. This tall, broad-shouldered, callused-handed East End rogue who had kissed her breathless in his gaming hell.
Coming to Bellingham and Co. had been another rash decision. But after her brother’s departure, remaining within the same four walls had been as loathsome a prospect as facing more of his wrath was. Edwin had been engaged with his tutor, and she had been unneeded, so she had covered the bruising on her cheek in the manner to which she had grown accustomed. Losing herself in some mindless distraction had seemed a boon.
Now, she was no longer certain.
Because there was far more danger for her here than there had been at Blakewell House. A different manner of danger, it was true. But danger nonetheless. If Granville were to hear word that she had been alone with Wolf at Bellingham and Co., pretending to be his wife, he would fly into another rage. And she was not certain he had yet recovered from the last.
She could not afford to anger him, because she could not afford to lose her son. Edwin was her beloved boy, the sole source of happiness in her existence.
“I’d be telling a fib if I were to say I didn’t think of you last night too.”
Wolf’s low, delicious rasp stole her from her frenzied thoughts. He had thought of her? Warmth slid through her. She found herself moving toward him. Swaying.
He knew what she wanted, for he reached for her, his hands settling on her waist in a possessive hold that thrilled her in a primitive way. He was not rough or cruel. He may have claimed he was no gentleman, but he had shown her more tenderness than she had believed existed.
Her gloved hands settled on his shoulders, holding him to her, as she searched his gaze. This is wrong, Portia. This is foolish. You must cease this nonsense at once. The warnings she issued to herself tripped over themselves. But she could not seem to heed a single one. Because the heat and strength radiating from his big, masculine body was positively magnetic. And so was he.
“How?” she asked, a whisper.
The question was as forbidden as the answer. Wrong in every sense. She should not be here. Should not have gone to his gaming hell the night before, let alone allowed him to take such liberties. Just as she should not have returned his wicked kisses this afternoon.
“Naked,” he said softly, his hungry stare dipping to her lips. “Naked in my bed.”
She compressed her lips, attempting to maintain her composure, to tamp down the needy sound that longed to break free and further shame her. But she had been denied tenderness, gentleness, the kisses and caresses of a lover, for so very long. Her cold marriage had been no comfort to her in any sense save one, and whilst her son’s welfare and happiness and future were of the utmost import to Portia, part of her long buried wondered why she could not also steal a small shred of happiness for herself.
She was a widow.
Blakewell was gone, and she had been a loyal and faithful wife to him for all the years of their marriage.
“I should not be here with you now, like this,” she murmured, still reluctant to withdraw.
“You are free to leave,” he reminded her, flexing the fingers on her waist that proved his hold was gentle.
She could escape with scarcely any effort. The problem was, she had no wish to make it. Absolutely no will to flee the circle of his arms. Her breasts were against his chest, and she felt the delicious hardness of that wall of muscle through the stiff boning of her stays. The pulsing between her thighs was insistent. The same desire that had overwhelmed her the day before in the surprisingly luxurious gaming hell office had beset her now, and she was helpless to resist.
Portia ran her tongue over her lips, a nervous gesture she could not seem to suppress. “You have managed to mire us in a situation from which there is no easy means of extrication.”
She was blaming him because it was easier than admitting what she felt. Easier than surrendering. And because doing what she wanted was dangerous to everything she held dear. She had not been free to do as she wished in years. She ought to be accustomed to self-denial.
“Certainly there is.” A slow, charming grin curved his lips. “You need only to move your feet, and they shall take you out the door.”
The rogue. She had to bite her lip to stave off an answering smile. “You have informed that unwitting man we are husband and wife. Do you truly believe merely removing myself from this chamber will solve the problem you have created?”
“It doesn’t feel like a problem at the moment.” His head dipped, until his breath was fanning over her mouth in the prelude to a kiss that, just as he said, very much did not feel like a problem to Portia. “Not to me. Does it to you?”
Her hands—her silly, weak hands—appeared to have a mind of their own, for they were traveling now. Curling into the long, dark strands at his nape, where his hair brushed over his coat. Oh how she wished she were not wearing gloves, that she might experience the silken texture against her fingertips.
“No,” she admitted, flustered by his proximity and her reaction both. “But that is, by very definition, a problem. I should not want to be here with you. Alone. Like this.”
“I can’t think of a better way for you to be. Than alone. With me. Like this.” His grin deepened. “Or mayhap other ways.”
It was the other ways, and his beautiful mouth, and his warmth and his strength and his hands and the devil-may-care attitude he espoused that were the true problem. For they were all, in sum, impossible to resist.
“He will be returning at any moment,” she felt compelled to warn.
“Then we had best make the most of our time while we have it.”
She thought of how they had made the most of their too-brief interlude the day before. Recalled his fingers skimming over her needy flesh. Her hems and petticoats pulled to her waist. The way he had taken command of her, knowing what she wanted before she had. How he had brought her to shuddering, delicious release.
Portia told herself to command her restraint. To step away. To forget all about this man. This Wolf.
But her brother was not here. And neither was anyone who could carry a tale to him. Not in this tidy little private room at Bellingham and Co. And the temptation to give in and allow herself a fleeting moment of passion and indulgence was so strong. Stronger than the last misguided urge that had set her life on the unhappy path she had thus far trod. Different in every way from what she had felt so long ago, as an immature girl who had been easily swayed by a handsome face. There was something deeper between herself and Wolf. A connection she had felt from the moment their gazes had met and held.