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.
Into a landscape of sensation. Up to some pinnacle of cataclysmic feeling.
Her senses expanded until they filled her mind; her body felt aflame. He reached deeper within her; a rush of rapture flowed down her veins, under her skin, tightening her nerves, driving her senses…
Until they fractured. Shattered.
Sharp, almost biting delight gripped her, held her in a vise, poured radiant pleasure through her.
The wave swept on, past, through her, leaving in its wake a sense of earthly bliss. A sense of floating in tactile glory, lapped by waves of delight.
Gradually, the waves subsided; sensation diminished, the feelings ebbed. His hand left her.
To her surprise, she felt empty. Incomplete.
Unfulfilled.
As her wits returned fully, she made the connection. Realized this was a two-act play and he’d stopped at the intermission.
And had no intention of going any further.
She knew without asking; his decision was there, solid and real in his heavily locked muscles, in the brutual tension riding him.
In confirmation, like a curtain falling, he flipped down her skirts and locked his hand over her hip.
She had absolute confidence in his self-mastery. Drawing back from the kiss, she boldly reached between them, traced the hard line of his erection, the solid weight she could feel riding against her thigh.
Closed her hand as well as she could; felt him shift, heard the hiss of his indrawn breath.
Leaned close and whispered against his lips. “You want me.”
The sound he made was guttural, a strangled laugh. “You can hardly doubt it.”
She couldn’t, not with the evidence burning her palm, yet the degree of that want, the sheer power of his desire was a surprise-a shock.
Even more a temptation.
Yet the realization-the physical fact, an ephemeral knowledge brought to life, translated to flesh and blood-sent a shiver of pure caution, an elemental sensing of danger coursing through her.
He drew in a tight breath; eyes closed, he pressed his hand between them, closed it over hers. Tightened her grip on him.
Then, slowly, drew her hand away.
He breathed out; she couldn’t truly see his face in the darkness, but would have sworn the harsh planes had grown even more hard-edged.
Against his lips, she breathed, “Why?”
She didn’t need to be more specific. He would know even better than she that he could have taken her if he’d wished.
His gaze touched her face, traveled it, then he lifted his hand and traced a finger across her lips. She scented, and tasted, her essence. Then he leaned close and kissed her, kissed it from her lips.
“Are you ready for that?”
His words drifted through her mind, not really a question.
She drew back, looked into his eyes, dark, shadowed, unreadable. Could still feel his desire, the powerful need that was riding him. Answered truthfully. “No. But-”
He kissed her; stopped her words. She hesitated for an instant, the understanding that he did not wish her to utter them, didn’t wish to hear what she would have said-what he’d known she’d been about to say-sweeping through her. Then she returned the kiss. Gratefully.
Sensed the heat slowly dying between them. Let it fade. Ebb. Until…
Their lips parted, yet they remained close. Their gazes touched. Lifting one hand, she traced his chiseled cheek. Put their thoughts into words. “Next time.”
He drew breath, chest swelling. Then he gripped her waist and eased her back. “If you wish it.”
If you wish it.
The hardest words he’d ever had to say, yet he’d had to say them.
His hand locked about hers, they walked back to the house; a short discussion over whether or not he needed to escort her back to her room-a discussion he’d won-had helped get them back onto something resembling their normal footing.
Not that that was the same as it had been a week ago.
All well and good, but the desire now riding him had spurs a foot long. Never before had the need for a woman, let alone a particular woman, been so consuming; never before had he had to mask, to mute his natural inclinations to this extent.
Having to let her go tonight, to let her escape him, wasn’t a script of which his inclinations, his warrior instincts, approved. Having to battle them, having to keep a cool head while his body went up in flames, did not please his temper at all.
A fact of which she was well aware; she’d been shooting quick glances at him ever since they’d left the summerhouse. His face, set and hard, bore witness to his feelings-feelings she knew him well enough to guess.
She knew, but he seriously doubted she understood. For all her talk of learning about sex and trust and marriage, he very much doubted that it had occurred to her yet just where they were-what the next stage encompassed, what destiny she was flirting with.
It would. Which was why he had to play a long game. To get what he wanted, to secure all he wanted, he needed her absolute, unqualified trust.
And the only way to get that was to earn it.
No shortcuts, no sleight of hand.
No pressure. Of any kind.
He felt like growling.
If you wish it.
When she stopped and thought about what that “it” encompassed, he was going to have problems enough. Their past wasn’t going to make her smile fondly and forge ahead without long and earnest consideration; her temper, and his, weren’t going to make her decision to embark on the final stage any easier.
As for her intelligence, her willfulness, and even worse, her independence… stacked against the panaply of his most fundamental characteristics, with which she was extremely familiar, convincing her to risk giving herself to him was going to be an uphill battle. He needed every advantage he could gain.
He trudged on through the balmy night. She kept pace with him easily, her stride long and free.
One consolation-she’d never been a chatterer. She spoke when she wished to; with him, she never seemed to feel the need, as so many other females did, to fill the silences. They lay between them, not awkward but comfortable, like well-worn shoes.