Chapter Seventeen #2
“Don’t—” she began, but he silenced her with a kiss, claiming her lips with his own. A whimper escaped her as she surrendered, parting her lips as he thrust his tongue inside like a condemned man ready to devour his last meal.
“Oh, Portia, Portia…” he whispered, peppering her face with tiny, open-mouthed kisses that sent a firebolt of desire straight to her center.
“I cannot bear the notion of you in pain, and I curse myself for being the one to cause it.” He paused and cupped her face in his hands. “I’ve hurt you today—so many times…”
His voice cracked and he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were bright with moisture.
“Your pain is my pain, my love,” he whispered. “But I shall spend the rest of my days easing your pain, worshipping you and loving you.”
“You cannot love me,” she said. “You love your idea of what you wish me to be—and I cannot be that, Stephen.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” he said.
“Do you think love happens when a man comes face to face with his idea of perfection?” He shook his head.
“No, it is what differentiates us that I love—that you and I are willing to challenge each other, to express our differences and to celebrate them. It is that which makes us perfect for each other.”
He tilted her chin up and lowered his mouth to hers once more, but before their lips met, a voice called out.
“Quick!” Portia said, pulling him into the chamber and closing the door. “That’s Beatrice, and she’s with her maid. We can’t be seen.”
“You don’t want Lady Hardwick to see how much I love you?”
She slapped his arm, and he gave an expression of mock hurt.
“You wound me, my darling.”
“Hush! I don’t want the shock of seeing us in a compromising position bringing on Beatrice’s confinement,” she said.
“Not that she’s particularly timid. Henrietta told me that she used to keep a pistol under her pillow.
” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “She shot her husband once, thinking him an intruder.”
“Heavens!” he said. “Am I surrounded by hoydens?”
“Would you prefer timidity in a woman?”
“Certainly not.” He approached the door and turned the handle.
“No!” she whispered. “If Beatrice is retiring, her maid will soon follow. You don’t want to get caught.”
“But I shouldn’t stay here, much as I’d like to.”
She turned toward him, her cheeks warming at her impending boldness. “Why would you like to stay here?”
He gave a lopsided grin. “There’s a warm fire—and I admit the prospect of being harangued by a harridan in the passageway is not my idea of an enjoyable evening.”
“As opposed to the harridan in this room?”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “I would never consider you a harridan, Portia.”
His tongue flicked out and caressed the back of her hand. A shiver of need rippled through her, and she squeezed her legs together to ease the ache in her center.
How could such a simple touch elicit such wicked sensations?”
He licked his lips, and her stomach fluttered at the raw hunger in his gaze.
“I confess I’m disappointed in you, colonel,” she said.
A flicker of rejection gleamed in his eyes, and he tried to release her hand but she curled her fingers around his wrist. His pulse beat faintly against the tip of her thumb—his lifeblood, coming from a heart he’d professed as belonging to her.
“H-have I failed you?” he whispered, an undercurrent of vulnerability in his tone.
“I thought you valued absolute honesty above all else,” she said, tilting her head sideways in the manner of a coquette. “Do you expect me to believe you when you say you wish to remain here merely because of the warm fire?”
He drew her close, and a thrill coursed through her veins as his hot breath caressed her neck. Then he lowered his head and his hair brushed against her ear.
“Not merely the warm fire, my lady,” he said, his voice a low growl, “but the warm body I have in my arms—the body I intend to spend the rest of my life worshipping.”
She lowered her gaze to conquer the shame of her wantonness—and the fear of his rejection. “And…tonight?”
“Ohh…” His voice carried undertones of agony as he trembled against her. “Sweet Lord, what have I done to merit such temptation?”
She lifted her gaze. His eyes were closed and his jaw bulged as if he gritted his teeth with restraint.
“Stephen…” she whispered.
“Oh heavens, what you do to me!” he groaned. “What you have always done to me when I hear my name on your lips. If only you knew how I long to hear you cry my name!”
She lifted a hand to his cheek, and he drew in a sharp breath. He placed his hand over hers and exhaled.
“Portia…”
He traced a line along her arm, sending ripples of desire with each touch, the heat of his body seeming to burn through the thin fabric of her nightgown.
A whimper escaped her lips as her body began to pulse faintly, and she shifted closer to him, chasing the delicious sensation.
Heavens, was this what happened when a man seduced a woman? Was this why so many innocents fell to ruin—all for the sake of a single taste of…this?
He traced a line with his fingertips along her throat, then the ripples in her body increased as he followed the neckline of her nightgown. How could a touch be so soft, yet elicit such potent sensations deep inside her body?
Then he slipped his hand inside her nightgown, letting his fingers slide over her breasts.
She tilted her head back, drawing in a lungful of air, as her whole body tightened with an unfathomable sensation, wicked in its deliciousness.
He cupped one breast, and tears stung her eyes at the tender reverence of his touch, as if he treasured her.
His lips curved into a smile, then he flicked his thumb over her nipple. It hardened to a painful point against his palm, and she let out a low cry. Her breasts grew heavy and warm, and she arched her back, offering them to him, succumbing to her body’s instinct to chase the pleasure.
“Stephen!”
At her cry, he withdrew his hand, his cheeks coloring. “Forgive me. I-I cannot do this.”
Blushing with shame at her wantonness, Portia folded her arms over her chest. “Go, then,” she said, stepping back. “You’re under no obligation. I can speak to my brother tomorrow.”
“Oh, heavens!” he said. “Do you still believe I don’t desire you more than anything—that I don’t want to be with you, to make love to you for the rest of my days? I—” He broke off. “I-I cannot take your innocence like this—a stolen moment in another man’s house. It’s not…”
“Not what?” she said. “Not proper? Perhaps not by Society’s standards, but is not admitting our feelings and desires an expression of honesty?”
He blinked, and a sheen of moisture glistened in his eyes. Then he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers. His chest rose and fell in a sigh.
“Yes, my love,” he said, brushing the tip of his nose against hers, “it’s the ultimate expression of honesty.”
“Then stay,” she said. “If you love me, stay.”
He glanced toward the bed, and a thrill of anticipation coursed through her at the flare of need in his eyes.
“Are you certain?”
She nodded. “Yes, Stephen. I have never been more certain.”
He lifted his hand to her breast and grazed it with his knuckle, and she let out a low cry as the nipple again hardened, poking hungrily at the fabric.
“Shh…” he whispered. “You must be quiet.”
“But—”
He pressed a finger against her lips. “I will stay if you promise not to make a sound—however much you wish to.”
She met his gaze, and her soul surrendered at the tenderness in his eyes.
“Yes, my love,” she whispered. “I promise.”
He brushed his lips against hers, then lifted her into his arms and carried her over to the bed.
“Stephen,” she protested, “I can walk.”
“Perhaps, but I want to carry you,” he whispered. “Always.”
He placed her on the bed, then lifted the hem of her nightgown.
“May I?” he whispered.
She nodded, then lifted her arms while he peeled off her nightgown. Her skin tightened in the air, and she shifted her arms in an instinctive move to cover her breasts, but he caught her hand.
“No,” he whispered. “You have nothing to fear, nothing to be ashamed of. Let me look at you—at your beautiful body.”
“More flattery?”
“No, devotion. Now hush—be still while I show you. Lie back.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her back. For a heartbeat she resisted, then she yielded to his touch and sank onto the bed.
“That’s it,” he breathed. “Now, let me look at you.”
He took her hand and pressed his lips against the center of her palm. His tongue flicked out against her skin, and she drew in a sharp breath.
“Hush,” he whispered again. “Not a sound, remember?”
He peppered her hand with featherlight kisses, pressing his lips against each fingertip. Then he took her forefinger into his mouth, caressing its length with his tongue. He curled his tongue around her fingertip, and she suppressed a groan at the little pulse of desire in her center.
“That’s it…”
He climbed onto the bed, which shifted under his weight, then placed a hand on her belly, his fingers warm as he caressed her skin, almost with reverence.
He traced a path toward her breasts. She held her breath in anticipation of his touch, and her nipples tightened with a delicious ache.
The urge to cry out—to beg him to ease the ache—was almost too much to bear, and she arched her back, her breath catching as he lowered his head and she felt his warm breath on her skin.
Then he lowered his head and took her breast in his mouth.
“Mmm!”
Her body jerked upward, and she clamped her lips together to stem her cry at the burst of pleasure that tore through her.
He lifted his head and smiled, his eyes wide and dark with desire. “Good girl.”
Sweet heaven! Her body pulsed again at his gentle praise, and she shifted her thighs to ease the growing ache between her legs.
“H-how did you know that—” She broke off, her cheeks warming with shame.
He had done this before—with other women.