Too Wicked to Tame (20 page)

He hovered over her sleeping form, hands flexing at his sides. Tension thrummed through his muscles. Anger coursed his blood—anger at himself for being drawn to her despite all he knew her to be.

He didn’t know which urge the strongest: to pull her in his arms or shake her until her teeth rattled in that stubborn head of hers. She thought him nothing? Damned if that didn’t wound him to the core, didn’t leave him staring at the rafters long after her breathing had grown slow and even in sleep. And what was she, the one that had duped him with her pretty denials. He had even begun to feel empathy for her.

She shifted, rolling onto her back, her hair a dark puddle around her. Her shoulders gleamed like pale marble above the blanket’s edge. His mouth went dry at the sight. Only a thin barrier of fabric hid her nudity from his eyes. A few feet separated him from the unhindered sight of her, from total access to the body that had haunted his dreams for nights. And his mind for days.

A soft sound escaped her lips, and her eyes fluttered open. She stared up at him though unfocused eyes. A soft, dreamy smile curved her lips. Then she blinked. The smile vanished, right along with the dreamy look. With a startled cry, she lurched up, forgetting the blanket, forgetting her nudity.

His breath escaped in a hiss as he devoured the sight of her small, pert breasts, the dusky nipples, the gentle slope of her belly. It was too much. The sight undid him, made his legs weaken and buckle beneath him.

He dropped to his knees before her, greedily drinking in the sight of her.

She followed his gaze to her breasts, gasped and made a grab for the blanket pooled around her waist.

A growl sounded from deep within his chest and something hot and primal erupted low in his gut. Without thinking, he tore the blanket from her and tossed it aside, forcing her to lay before him in all her naked glory.

She made a small sound of distress and tried to cover herself with her hands, but he seized her wrists, his fingers flexing around the delicate bones. Bones so fragile the barest pressure would snap them.

His gaze ran the full length of her body, roaming over the sleek lines and gentle curves. She tucked her knees in an attempt to cover her most secret part and the move, so basic, so womanly, enflamed his desire to have her, to give up the fight and fall—to descend into the very depths of the abyss he had spent a lifetime fighting.

He had always preferred his women buxom, voluptuous like Della. Yet Portia’s coltlike slimness possessed its own beauty. Achingly feminine, soft and graceful as a willow bending in the wind, her body demanded worship, praise from his mouth and hands. There was no fighting it, no strength left in him to resist.

Releasing her wrists, he grasped the smooth and supple outside swell of one hip. His breath hitched and he slid his hand around, cupping the fullness of one cheek. Her gasp reached his ears, different than any sound he’d ever heard, ripped from some place deep in her throat where plea sure hid.

His fingers flexed, digging into the roundness of her bottom, forcing her closer, until her legs unfurled, opening her like a flower to him. He pressed his full length against her, moaning at her softness, her silken limbs, her warm body.

Her wide eyes locked with his, the luminescent blue glowing like precious gems in the firelight.

“What are you—”

He silenced her with a violent shake of his head.

No time for words. For logic. Logic had clearly fled if he would come to this woman. If he would take her in his arms, clutch her lissom figure against his as if he had some kind of claim on her.

Closing his eyes, he curled his fingers and trailed the backs along the sleek flesh of her back, over each tiny bump of her spine. Delicate, tantalizing—he wanted to skim his mouth over each and every one.

His hands continued their exploration, roaming every inch of her. The tender hollow of her navel. The delicate shape of each rib. The soft curve of her belly that quivered under his fingertips. His hands grazed the underside of each breast, testing their slight weight. He brushed open palms over her hard nipples. Her breathing grew harsh, arousing him nearly as much as the silky feel of her.

Unable to stop himself, he closed a hand over each breast, gripping the firm, petite mounds, squeezing, kneading, rolling the distended peaks. Her desperate keening filled the air, knifing through him, making him burn, banishing any lingering reservations. A strangled laugh rose up in his throat. Not that he had any notion of stopping.

Her hands grabbed his forearms, her nails cutting his flesh in a pain that bordered plea sure.

“Heath,” she whimpered, begging, pleading.

Releasing her breasts, he delved one hand between her thighs, brushing feather-soft curls damp with need. He tested her readiness, stroking the folds of her sex, already slick for him.

Her fingers dug like talons into his arms and she leaned forward, resting her damp forehead against his chest as he worked his fingers feverishly along those folds, back and forth, back and forth, each time brushing nearer and nearer to that tiny little nub. Finally, he touched it, rubbed his fingers over the pearl in fast, little circles. Her body tensed and she released a shuddering cry.

He drank in her rapturous expression, branding that look in his mind, never wanting to forget it.

Then, as the waves of her climax were still washing over her, he parted her legs and put his mouth to that exquisite plea sure point and sucked, tasting her passion.

Arching her back, she came up off the rug releasing a cry as sweet as any songbird. His eyes devoured the breasts quivering above him, golden in the firelight as her climax tore through her.

She collapsed back on the lambskin, her sinuous body panting and humming from her release.

He never took his eyes off her as he stood to shuck off his clothes, his movements as eager and clumsy as a lad.

Her eyes lifted, searching his. “Heath?” she asked, her voice a hoarse rasp.

He shook his head, one boot hitting the floor, then the next. Naked, he stood over her. Her eyes flitted over him, flaring wide. He held her wide gaze, daring her to object.

“This has been coming from the start,” he muttered, determined that nothing veer him from this course, determined that common sense not rear itself and put a stop to the very thing he had wanted to do since first laying eyes on her. “Since we met on that muddy road. There’s no going back now.”

He was past reasoning, past caring about all the reasons he couldn’t do this, why she was the last woman on earth he had any business taking to his bed.

He’d finally descended into the abyss.

There’s no going back now.

Portia heard the words, heard their challenge and knew a part of her should be annoyed, perhaps even afraid of the naked giant looming over her. The very man who had accused her of trying to trap him into marriage was now bent on ravishment.

Yet when she looked into his eyes and saw the question in his feverish gaze, the desperate need, she knew he waited, knew he wanted her to decide…in spite of his bold proclamation.

His arms, taut bands of steel braced on each side of her, trembled with restraint. She marveled that someone as formidable and powerful as he could waver in his strength. And the greatest shock of all was that she did that to him. Beyond finding herself naked in a man’s arms, she was the object of his desire. She had never considered herself capable of producing such a visceral reaction in a man. Not her—a woman who had passed five Seasons without an offer of matrimony. And not with him—a man with every reason to avoid entanglements with gently bred females.

She drank in the sight of him, the shadows pooling in the hollows of his face, the play of his sculpted muscles. Her gaze fell lower, eyeing his manhood springing from between his legs, daunting in its size. The hard length pulsed before her very eyes, seeming to summon her touch.

Instead of feeling the apprehension she should, her stomach clenched in response. The place between her thighs throbbed. Her breathing grew labored.

Could that part of him make her feel as wonderful as his marvelous mouth had? Her eyes shot back up to his, heat flaming her face at her lurid thoughts.

“Oh, yes,” he muttered, as if he had the ability to read her thoughts. “Touch me,” he commanded.

His rough voice, combined with the desperate intensity of his gaze, would have her do anything he asked.

She reached out and touched the center of his chest with one finger. Smiling tentatively, she trailed that finger down his sternum, over the flat plane of his hard stomach, her nail slightly scraping the firm skin. His breathing grew harsh.

Her finger inched lower, hesitating a moment before arriving at his jutting manhood. She touched the head of him, intrigued at the tiny bead of moisture that rose to kiss her fingertip.

He groaned.

Emboldened, she closed her hand around his throbbing length and gently squeezed, both amazed and delighted at the soft texture of him—silk on steel in her palm.

“Portia, I can’t wait any longer.” His jaw clenched, the muscles knotting, demonstrating his hard-fought control. “Tell me you want this.”

Her smile deepened. It thrilled her to see her power over him, to know how badly he wanted her, to know that he held himself back, waiting for her to say the word. Despite the infernal curse hanging over him—a perpetual storm cloud that influenced his life’s every action—he couldn’t resist her. So much that he would put aside the fears and habits of a lifetime for her. All for her.

Her heart swelled.

Arching her spine, she rubbed her bare breasts against his chest.

“You mean you could stop?” she purred.

His hands clamped down on her hips, positioning her beneath him. The head of him probed her entrance and she sucked in a breath.

His breath caught in a hiss as he pushed inside her slowly, one inch at a time. Her muscles stretched to accommodate him.

His gaze, fathomless as a midnight sea, mesmerized her, lodging deep in her soul as he held himself still as stone over her.

“Heath,” she whimpered, her fingers digging into his tense forearms, urging him on, desperate for more, not understanding what more could be but knowing it hung there, elusive, just beyond her reach. “Please.”

“I don’t want to hurt—”

“Heath,” she moaned, instinctively opening her legs wider and angling her hips to take him in deeper.

A choked cry escaped him. “Portia,” he muttered, his breath fanning hotly against her throat.

“You don’t know—”

Portia shook her head from side to side on the rug, the throbbing burn in her core desperate to have all of him.

She let go of his arms and slid her hands down his back, skimming the smooth skin until she clutched his firm buttocks with both hands. Guided by instinct, she dragged him closer, impaling him deep in her womb.

Their cries mingled, filling the air: his exultant, hers shocked at the plea sure-pain of her rendered maidenhead—at the overwhelming feeling of completion, of never again being anything except a part of him.

His body pressed heavily upon her, comforting and thrilling in its weight.

“Portia?” he gasped in her ear, chest shuddering atop her. His arms came around her, holding her as if she were some gentle, precious creature that might vanish at any moment.

She didn’t answer, couldn’t. Could only move, writhe beneath him. Rotating her hips, she tightened her inner muscles and clenched him tightly, her body begging for more, for an end to the incredible fire that he had stoked within her.

“Oh, God,” he groaned and moved, withdrawing himself nearly out of her before thrusting back inside. Ripples of white-hot plea sure washed over her as he repeated the action, pumping in and out of her. The feel of his hardness hammering into her, the strong fingers digging into her hips, anchoring her for his amorous assault, drove her over the edge.

Her head came off the rug, a scream rising from deep in her throat, hovering on her lips. His frenzied stroking stoked her passions higher, created a maelstrom of desire that at last wrung an air-shattering shout from her lips.

He pumped several more times, the violent smacking sounds of their bodies coming together thrilling her in the deepest, primal way. With a brief shout, he pulled from her body, leaving her suddenly bereft.

Portia watched as he spilled his seed into his waiting hand. She looked from his cupped hand, a tightness gripping her chest as she studied his face. The heavy fall of his dark hair obscured his eyes, yet she longed to see them, longed to gauge his exact emotions and understand how he could even possess the foresight to withdraw his body from hers at the peak of passion.

Suddenly he looked up, flinging the hair back from his face, and she found herself pinned beneath his searing gaze. And there, in his eyes, she saw it. Everything that would forever keep them apart. Curse or no, he’d never let her have his heart. The Earl of Moreton refused to love.

Not her or any woman. She tormented herself to think otherwise.

She dipped her gaze, determined that he not read her pain—the inexplicable, unreasonable pain that clawed her heart.

Heath rose and walked away. Portia sat up and hugged her knees to her chest, resisting her sudden sense of desolation, fighting the desire to follow him with her eyes, her heart.

“Portia.”

She turned at the sound of her name, a hush on the air. He handed her a damp cloth. She stared at it for a moment, puzzled, and then she winced, understanding.

“Thank you,” she murmured, accepting the cloth. She looked from him to the linen, an awkward flush creeping up her neck. Absurd considering what had transpired between them.

“Do you mind?” she asked in a small voice, careful to keep her eyes on his face and not his nudity. She motioned for him to turn around. He shot her an annoyed look.

Snatching the cloth from her hand, he commanded, “Lay down.”

“W-What?”

“Lay. Down.” He must have read her bewilderment, for he softened his voice. “Let me do this for you, Portia.”

She slowly fell back on the rug. Throwing an arm over her eyes as if she could hide from the intimacy, she spread her legs for him, forcing her muscles to relax as he cleaned her, eliminating the evidence of her rendered maidenhead. She only wished the memory of what she had done could be wiped out as easily.