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Her hands came to his torso and he gritted his teeth. She explored the breadth of him, tracing her fingertips over his chest, and then kissed everywhere her fingers had just touched. His body flamed; it was almost too much to bear. She was proving to him that they belonged together.
“Your touch is like no other, Portia. You know that. See what you do to me.”
“We are good here, in bed, Juan Carlos,” she whispered.
“We are good everywhere, sweetheart. Why do you fight me on this?”
She turned her face from him and disengaged, and he knew he’d pushed her too far. Something was eating at her. Something was making her hold back from him. “Don’t retreat,” he whispered. He couldn’t let her think. Couldn’t let whatever notions she had in her head continue to separate them.
He sank down on the bed beside her and unleashed his love for her, stripping down her defenses, loving her with everything he had inside. Holding her steady with one hand, he eased her dress off with the other, baring her upper body. He cupped her breasts, made love to them with his mouth and tongue and was rewarded with sighs of pleasure, little throaty moans of delight. Her throat, her chin, her lips. He devoured them all while covering her body with his. She arched her hips and they moved in the same unique rhythm, thrusting, aching, groaning until he couldn’t take another second. He joined their bodies, pushing through her mental defenses and bringing them skin to skin.
Her eyes closed to the pleasure, her face beautifully masked in satisfaction. He thrust into her deep and long. It was hot and damp and sweaty and when he sensed her readiness, he called her name. “Portia.” Her eyes snapped open. He stared into them and announced, “This is our place.”
Connected by more than their bodies, she sighed and nodded her head.
Then he brought her home.
* * *
Early dawn broke through the curtains and Juan Carlos smiled in his drowsy state, his eyes still closed as images of making love to Portia flashed in his head. God, how he’d missed her. And now she was where she belonged. With him. After the night they’d shared, he hoped he’d convinced her that she loved him, he loved her and whatever was bothering her could be worked out and put to rest. It wasn’t rocket science. Perhaps he’d pushed her too far early in their relationship. They’d only known each other for weeks. Not the months or years some take to cement their connection. She’d gotten cold feet. Any problems that arose could be dealt with. He couldn’t see a reason why they shouldn’t live their lives together. They’d made love twice during the night, and the second time had been even more thrilling and revelatory than the first. No one could tell him that Portia didn’t love him. She’d displayed that in the way she’d taken the initiative, kissed him, touched him and made love to his body.
It was good, so good, between them. In all ways.
Juan Carlos rolled over to cradle her in his arms. They’d welcome the day together. But his hands hit upon cold sheets. He squeezed his eyes open. Portia was gone, her half of the bed empty. Was she always an early riser? He didn’t know. They’d spent time together at the farmhouse in Alma on his schedule, not hers. There were still things they needed to learn about each other.
He hinged his body up, eager to see her. Eager to kiss her. Rising from the bed, he dressed in his trousers and shirt, ran a hand through his hair to comb down the spiky ends and then padded out of the room.
Halfway down the hallway of her modest three-bedroom condo, he halted, hearing mewling sounds coming from the living room. Of course, the kittens. Portia must have been anxious to see them this morning and tend to them the way she always had. Their carrier came equipped with kitty food, and water was their drink of choice. He grinned. He could almost picture her playing with them on the carpeted floor. Bringing them here had been a good plan to get his foot in the door and soften Portia’s heart, but ultimately he’d done it to bring a smile to her face.
As he approached the sounds grew louder and no, they didn’t appear to be coming from the kittens. It was a human sound, the heartbreaking echo of quiet crying. He stood on the threshold of the living room to find Portia, sitting up on the sofa, her arms around her legs, rocking back and forth with tears soaking her face.
The kittens were happily swatting at her feet, but it was as if they weren’t there. Her sorrow was so deep she didn’t hear him stride into the room. “Portia, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”
She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, shaking her head. “You shouldn’t have come, Juan Carlos,” she whispered.
