But not yet.
He didn’t bother asking if she was sure. Setting his lips to hers, he drew her back into his arms, sank back into the sofa, drawing her with him, across his lap.
Her knees were curled alongside his thigh; lying back, holding her to their kiss, he sent one hand stroking down her back, over the swell of her hip, tracing down the long line of her legs.
Drew her down into the heated darkness, step by small step drawing her deeper into the realm where passion and primitive wants held sway. Where the need to be touched grew and swelled to a compulsion, where the compulsion to be intimately known became an overriding need.
When he drew her skirts up and slipped his hand beneath, the only murmur she made was one of encouragement. He fought the urge to send her wits spinning, to befuddle her until he had captured her; with her, he was following a different script, one designed to capture more than just her body. He wanted her mind and her soul as well.
So he kept their kiss light, enough for her to be aware, to know, not just what he was doing, but every touch, every caress, every intimate liberty. And to know he knew it, too.
She was wearing silk stockings. His fingertips traced her calf, then trailed upward; he cupped the back of her knee, then slowly stroked higher, finding her garter, circling it with his fingers.
He felt the shudder that went through her when he reached higher and touched her bare skin. Like her breasts, fine, delicate, warm with desire. He traced, and knew she was with him, that her awareness was focused on the shifting connection between his hand and her thigh.
The edge of her chemise trapped his fingers; he flicked them free, slid his hand beneath the fine silk, cruising over the bare skin of her hip, over her bare bottom, over skin that heated and dewed at his touch.
She shuddered and clung to the kiss, for one moment shaken; he soothed with his lips, with his tongue, with his hand slowly, possessively, stroking, then, when she eased, more explicitly exploring.
She shivered, but stayed with him—followed and felt as he wished. Experienced the thrills, both his and her own, as they took the next step into intimacy.
When they’d both had their fill, he traced forward, over her hip, splayed his fingers over her bare stomach. Felt again the shudder of pure awareness that racked her, sensed her sudden tensing.
Felt forced to breathe against her swollen lips, “You’re sure?”
She dragged in a breath, her breasts swelling against his chest. “Touch me—touch me there.”
He didn’t wait for further direction, needed no detailed instruction. Taking her lips again, taking her mouth, he waited only until he sensed her awareness join with his again before sliding his hand lower, tracing the sweet curve of her stomach down to the profusion of soft curls between her thighs.
Stroking slowly, deliberately, through them, he touched her, set his fingers to her softest flesh and traced, explored, learned. And still she was with him, sharing every sensual moment, every single tactile impression . . . never before had he been so aware of a woman beneath his hands.
The knowledge of what that would translate to once he had her beneath him, body to body, skin to naked skin, sent a shaft of pure heat to his groin. He was aching, had been since she’d walked so confidently into his arms; pure torment was only a heartbeat away.
Yet the moment held the power to command him—for once helped in holding the raging need at bay. This—she—was too important, this conquest above all others meant life and death to him.
Fingertips throbbing, acutely sensitive, he eased her thighs wider, parted her soft folds, traced, teased, tantalized, until she moved against his hand, deliberately, wantonly—with her usual decision demanding more.
Her fingers were lost in his hair, blindly clinging; he opened her and eased one finger into her scalding sheath. Her slickness burned him, seared through him, tempted beyond belief. He could barely breathe—couldn’t think beyond the all but blinding surge of passion, the welling need to bury himself in the sweet feminine flesh his fingers so artfully teased.
Grimly, he held on, held the primitive urge back, ruthlessly contained. It didn’t fade but simply hardened, solidified into a brutally painful reality that would not leave him.
It was enough to let him go on, to continue along the path he’d mapped unmindful of the price he would later pay.
Caught in the coils of passion, deeper than she’d imagined might be, Portia was only dimly aware of that fractional hiatus—the momentary shifting of his attention—before it returned, in full force, to her. To where he was touching her, caressing her, repetitively teasing in some way she didn’t understand.
Her body seemed to know, to recognize some pattern that was beyond her conscious mind. She had to let it lead her, had to follow mentally behind, learning, seeing, realizing.
Feeling. She’d never imagined that physical sensation could be this acute, this consuming. His lips never left hers, his arm around her supported her, the hard wall of his chest was close, reassuring in the face of the whirlpool of sensations swirling through her, buffeting her mind, dragging at her senses.
The fact that his hand lay between her thighs, that he’d eased them apart and was stroking her there, her flesh slick and wet, swollen and hot, should have overwhelmed her, but did not. She could sense the heat, the furnace her own body had become, the deeper heat that flared within when he probed, then opened her and penetrated more deeply.
Her breath caught, her nerves, until then sensitized and alive, started to curl. Tight. Then tighter. Her muscles started to tense, but in some new and novel way.
Lungs locked, she gasped through their kiss, clung to him as between her thighs, deep inside her, sensation built.
He was stoking it deliberately; she knew that much. Knew this was what she’d asked for, what she needed to know, wanted to know.
She let go, let slide the last vestiges of inhibition, and let the tide welling inside sweep her up. Sweep her on.