CHAPTER14
Portia had been dreadfully young and naïve the last time she’d said those three words to a man. That man—Edwin’s father—had not been worthy of the sentiment. That man could not hold a candle to Wolf Sutton. Nor could any other.
Telling Wolf how she felt now was a risk.
But also a relief.
The moment the words left her, his expression turned so tender, an ache began deep inside her. Not desire, this time, although that was omnipresent in Wolf’s company. But something far stronger. And the tears in her eyes at his protectiveness toward her and her son would no longer be restrained. They slipped free, sliding in hot trails down her cheeks.
“Christ, Countess. I can’t abide it when you weep,” he said gruffly, and then he kissed up each tear, catching them with his lips as he kissed her face with excruciating gentleness.
She clung to his broad shoulders, pressed her body more firmly to his. She wanted to be one with him. To pretend, at least for a few stolen moments, that she would never have to leave his side.
“Make love to me,” she said, half command, half plea.
She did not have to make the request twice. Wolf took her in his arms, scooping her up and cradling her against his chest, despite their near parity in height. No one had ever picked her up thus, handling her with such ease. Not since she had been a child.
She held him tightly. “Wolf,” she exclaimed, breathless. “I am too heavy for you!”
“You are perfect for me,” he countered, stalking to his bed on the far end of the chamber.
She felt perfect in his arms, in his eyes.
She felt wild and exuberant, her heart beating far too fast, as if she had run a great distance. There were a hundred butterflies’ wings moving furiously within her, emotion clamoring to be freed. She settled for kissing him. It was rash and impulsive, but perhaps no more so than running to him here at his gaming hell despite the risk. No more so than confessing her love for him and asking him to take her to bed.
It was all a risk.
But her heart would not be denied.
His lips were hot and firm beneath hers, and he kissed her as if he wished to consume her. A long, drugging kiss as he moved them across the room. So deep and powerful that she was surprised when they reached the bed and he dipped to settle her upon it. The world swirled and swayed around her. She had felt this way before, when she had consumed too much wine. She was drunk on Wolf, on love. Her head was too light for her body. And her emotions were too complex, too wild, to be contained within her.
“I am not perfect,” she denied, thinking back to what he had said. “I have made so many mistakes in my life.”
“Every mistake led you to me.” He shucked his coat, dropping it to the floor, before his fingers moved to the buttons on his waistcoat. “And I’m damned glad you’re here, Countess. Damned glad you’re mine.”
But she wasn’t free to be his. Not truly. She would not think about that now. Could not bear to.
His waistcoat fell to the floor, and then he was yanking at his cravat, tossing that away too. She cared less about the state of her own garments than his. There was nothing she wanted more than to watch him. To see that big, beautiful body revealed to her once again.
Three buttons on his shirt sprang free, and then he caught a handful in his fist and hauled it over his head in one swift motion. There was his chest, wide and muscled and strong, embellished by the dragon in flight. Her position on the high bed meant that she was perfectly aligned to lean forward and press a kiss to his bare skin on one of the unfurled wings.
His skin was hot and smooth, his chest hairs tickling her lips as she kissed a trail along the dragon’s tail, following it to his nipple. Her curiosity won, and she decided to see if he was as sensitive there as she was. Tentatively, she braced her hands on him, loving the feel of his flesh beneath her touch, and flicked her tongue over his nipple.
He made a low sound of pleasure, and then his fingers caught in her skirts, raising her gown and her petticoats simultaneously as he bunched it up to her thighs. The trace of his callused hands over her sensitive skin had her quivering. She felt bold and powerful here with him. As if anything were possible.
What a fanciful lie.
And yet, she would not dash it away.
Instead, she would revel in it while she could.
She kissed every bare swath of skin her lips could find, inhaling deeply of his musky, masculine scent, so familiar and beloved, his warmth and vitality filling her with a renewed sense of hope. He was so firm, so strong. And he was hers. It was wrong of her, being here with him, but nothing and no one had ever felt more right.
Feeling bold, she kissed a path to his other nipple, this time nipping him lightly with her teeth. She loved the inking on his chest. Loved his body, his strength flexing beneath her traveling hands. Loved every part of her rugged, brutally handsome East End lover.
“Are you trying to bring me to my knees, Countess?” he asked, his voice deep and soft as velvet.
She smiled against his skin. “I can think of excellent uses for you in such a position, Mr. Sutton.”
“Ah, damn it. You make it impossible to resist you.” His fingers caught in her hair, gently tugging her head back so that her gaze met his hot, hazel stare. “I am not going to give you up, Portia. Not after tonight. You know that, don’t you?”
There was no other way to answer him save one. All the hopelessness, the despair that held her captive when she thought about the impossibility of her circumstances, fell away beneath the healing, potent heat of that gaze. When he looked at her this way, she felt omnipotent. Believed that somehow, together, they could find a way.
“I know, my love,” she told him, newfound strength lending her voice a conviction that had been absent until he had told her he loved her. “I don’t want to live without you.”
How freeing it felt to acknowledge that. To say the words aloud. Her fragile heart dared to hope it could be true.
“You don’t have to,” he vowed. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“I need you.” She allowed her hand to travel down his taut abdomen, over the tense muscle, the hot skin, until she moved over his trousers, where his cock was thick and hard.
She caressed the rigid length, wringing a moan from him as an answering ache began deep in her cunny, where she longed for him most. Between her thighs, she was wet and ready. Disrobing herself would take too much time. She was frantic for him.
Now.