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The outside door closed with a snap.
Marcus lifted his mouth, and Portia heard her own ragged breath. “Remind me not to allow a shrine to be built to me when I die,” he said, his leisurely gaze scanning her face.
“There would be nothing to put into it,” she managed, dredging up an echo of her former rage.
“Isn’t that an ill-mannered thing to say?”
“Yes!”
He laughed at her. “Good. You’re learning.”
“You’re a good teacher.”
He cupped her face, tracing her beauty with his eyes. “I’m a very good teacher, my lady.”
He meant the sensual arts. Portia supposed he was right to be smug. He was every bit as good in the flesh as her fantasy Marcus. Better. This real Marcus did things to her that the dream man hadn’t even thought of, things her imagination had not been able to conceive of.
“Now,” he said, serious again, “I’m about to do what I’ve been wanting to do since I first walked in the door and saw you dazzling that elderly gentleman with your smile. Are you going to try and stop me?”
Portia shook her head decisively. “No,” she said, “I’m not going to stop you, Marcus. Stopping you is not what I want to do.”
Chapter 9
He could see the desire in her face, and it increased his own even more, if that were possible. Her blue eyes were dark and dreamy, her mouth swollen from his kisses, and her cheeks were hectic. All signs that the woman in his arms was ready and eager for him to take her.
And yet he waited, relishing the moment, enjoying his victory.
It was Portia who broke the stalemate. Standing on tiptoe, she reached up and kissed him, her mouth open to his in long, hot kisses that made him groan. She slid her fingers over his shirtfront, down to where it was tucked inside his trousers, and tugged it out. Her palms were warm against his stomach, smoothing the skin of his chest, caressing him as though she couldn’t get enough of him.
She was on fire.
He hadn’t been mistaken. Whatever was between them sizzled, and it needed to run its course. They would burn with it until it burnt itself out. And experience told him that it would go out, eventually. It always did.
Her hand had wormed its way inside his trousers and he gasped as she ran her nails lightly over the hard length of him. Her eyes gleamed in the pale light from the narrow strip of window high above. And there was just enough light to see her smile, too. A wicked, wanton smile that he’d wager very few people had ever seen curling Portia Ellerslie’s adorable mouth.
“What are we going to do about your bloody petticoats?” he said hoarsely, as she continued to stroke him into raging desire.
She laughed and stepped away, drawing up her skirts, which seemed to consist of miles and miles of black silk and crepe and ribbons. Her petticoats were numerous. The first was very beautiful and made to be seen—satin, with flowers embroidered on it and layers of lace trimming the hem. The second was plain white cambric, the third another plain garment, and then another, and finally a knee-length petticoat of horsehair and wool weft, to hold out her voluminous skirts so they assumed the fashionable dome shape. Some of the petticoats were tied at her waist, while others were buttoned to the tied ones.
He watched, fascinated, as she untied the ribbons, working swiftly, and then she gave a cry of triumph as the whole lot came away and collapsed onto the floor about her feet. Taking his outstretched hand, Portia simply stepped out of them. She was still wearing her drawers, but these were quickly removed.
With a growl, he swung her around, his hands planted about her waist. Now, without her petticoats to hold them out, her skirts hung far below her feet. He lifted her, resting her with her back against the wall, and began to bundle them up, carelessly, while she tried to help. And then at last she was free to wrap her thighs around his hips, gripping him while clinging to his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, kissing his face and making little sounds of need.
Marcus pushed into her, smoothly and easily. She was so ready she almost peaked at once, but he held her hips so she could not move, forcing her to wait.
“Please, please,” she gasped.
“How much do you want to see me again?” he whispered.
Her body trembled around his. She jerked her hips, forcing him to release his iron control. With a groan he began to thrust into her, listening to her soft cries, feeling her pleasure as the ripples passed through her and into him, until he couldn’t hold off any longer.
Her climax became his, as he died in her arms.
He came to with his heart slamming in his chest. Leaning his forehead against the wall, he attempted to slow his breathing and regain his mind. She was lying limp in his arms, her head heavy on his shoulder, her arms loosely linked about his neck, her thighs still hooked about his hips.
He hoisted her up, gaining a firmer grip on her, and carried her to the wooden base of the daybed. He sat down with her still in his arms, and she sighed and nuzzled against him.
“I want to see you again,” he said, the words so familiar to him now, but no less true.
