“That’s not me. I love you. I’m going to marry you. Spend my life with you.” He drew his fingers up her arm. He saw the little shiver she gave. Heard her soft, throaty moan.
He felt such a strong jolt of lusty agony, he almost stumbled.
“Then we can wait just a little longer,” she said. But it came out in a whimper.
“I’m not going to ruin you, Portia. I want to please you.”
“Please me? What do you mean?”
He wanted her to know how good he could be in bed. That way, if she found out the truth about his past, maybe she wouldn’t be as horrified if she knew how much pleasure he could give her.
Maybe...
He jerked off his shirt, baring his torso. His heart pounded so hard, he was surprised he didn’t see it push against his chest.
“Oh!” she gasped.
“Don’t be scared,” he said. What he wanted was her hands caressing him. Touching him.
She bit her lip. “But if I let myself be ruined before marriage, I would be breaking every vow I ever made to myself. I would feel so terrible, facing my parents who believe I am good.”
“I won’t do anything wrong, Portia. I promise.” He bent to her ear—pretty little ears—and touched the lobe gently with his lips. She gave a sharp, sweet gasp. It was hard to move slowly.
But taking it slow forced him to savor everything. The softness of her skin as he nuzzled her neck. The tickle of her hair against his cheek. She smelled lightly of lavender water.
“I won’t ask for more than you can give,” he said. “But I need you to touch me.”
“Touch you?”
He clasped her hands and laid her palms on his naked chest. Her fingers were long and slender and graceful. Feather-light, her fingertips skimmed over his bare skin. She traced his muscles.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered. “I like touching you. I . . . I’ve never seen a male torso before. I mean, except on statues. Yours is completely perfect. Your muscles are so big and hard.”
The innocent shine in her eyes hurt his heart. He wished this was his first time. That he was innocent too.
Her fingers brushed his nipples. They were tight and hard. Tentatively, she stroked them. Strummed them.
He threw back his head and groaned.
“Have I hurt you?”
“No, I like it.” Then he did something hellish. “This is new to me too,” he lied.
“It is?” That seemed to make her braver. To save children, she sashayed into the stews, facing pimps and madams. But here, she was nervous.
She caressed his shoulders, laying her palms on them. She felt his biceps, his chest. And he guided her hands down lower, and finally coaxed her to slip her right hand in his trousers.
She squeaked. “You’re so hot.”
He nuzzled her neck. “I like that. Hold my cock, love.”
“What?”
Kissing behind her ear made her gasp. “Play with my cock,” he urged.
“Oh, er . . .” But she did it. Her fingers slid around his shaft.
He hadn’t been a virgin for a long, long time, but he almost exploded like one. He gritted his teeth, fighting for control. Did she like him? Was he good enough for her?
He knew she wouldn’t let him undress her. And he couldn’t take the risk that he would lose control. Since coming to London, he’d been working on developing control. That one night when he’d gotten drunk and Willoughby had sent the young prostitute to pursue him had been the only night he’d broken his vow to change. He’d given in to Will’s goading to drink and have fun.
“What do I do?” she asked. “How do I touch you?”
“Wrap your hand around it and move up and down,” he said softly.
She gripped him and slid her hand along him. This was different, seeing the act that had become so warped to him as it actually should be—a sharing of love. Something sweet and erotic.
“What’s wrong? You just got the saddest look on your face.” Concern furrowed her brow.
“Nothing. Keep touching me.”
She did, squeezing harder. He’d done so much, but this—this was perfect. He had to let his head drop forward as pleasure and agony hit him.
She jerked him faster. He was getting tighter, tenser—
God, yes. His hips jerked as the spasms sent his semen rushing through his cock. He spurted out into his trousers. On Portia’s hand.
She squealed and he laughed softly at the innocent sound.
“That’s your seed.”
“You made me come, Portia. Now I want to do that for you.”
He cleaned her hand with his handkerchief, led her to the sofa. Begged her to trust him as he settled her down on its soft cushions.
Muslin fell over his arms as he lifted her skirts. He glanced up. She nodded. “I want to share this with you—I am ready.” She adopted a brave look.