“In the rear? What on earth do you mean? Do you mean he goes in from the rear?”
“Are you trying to kill me, Portia?”
“Of course not. Why are these questions painful?”
Hair-raking ensued, as did pacing and growling. Sinclair paced like a caged lion, in a slow but lithe movement in front of her, spiking his fingers through his hair. He paced through the shadows beneath the stair, his boot soles striking the flagstone floor. The basement smelled of damp and the sea, of fires and hanging, dried spices.
Finally Sinclair stopped. “You want the truth of what they are doing? Both men are making love to her, in her pussy and arse. One is inside the hot grip of her pussy, the other man has slid his staff up her butt. She is being doubly penetrated, which is an intense, arousing sensation for most women.”
For some reason, his words came into her brain slowly. Pussy. Staff. Butt. It took a few ragged heartbeats for her to understand what he meant—
Oh!
Of course, she’d heard whispers that two men could do intimate things together, but she’d never really grasped how it could happen. And now she—
Oh my. My.
What would that feel like?
Her blush swept over her like a raging fire touching dry hay.
In the other room, the widow cried out. It was a shriek of sensual agony that made Portia’s legs wobble.
She wanted to see how this . . . worked. She moved toward the doorway again. Sinclair hauled her back. All of a sudden, all she could see was his dark gold waistcoat with fanciful embroidery of lions. Her heart beat rather swiftly. The soles of her feet tingled. That was mystifying. But suddenly her whole body felt aware.
“Protecting you from men is not my only duty, Portia,” he rumbled. “I also want to protect your innocence. You should not see things like that.”
“You look. You do that all the time at orgies.”
“It’s different for—”
“For men. Of course. It always is.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “My life is entirely different from my brothers’ lives. I have to be maid, cook, schoolteacher. No man would ever do that. He would think he was far above all that. Besides, what man could actually do it all?”
A smile touched his lips. “I meant that it’s different for me. Since I’m an unrepentant sinner. Hence the nickname.” He frowned. “It sounds as if you are worked like a slave.”
“It takes rather a lot of work to run the home. And, if I wanted to, I could just step around you and go and see what the Wanton Widow is doing,” she added stubbornly. “Why shouldn’t I know what it’s like for a woman to have pleasure?”
“You should be shocked,” he growled.
“Maybe I’m not. It’s exciting to see two men serving her, caring about giving her pleasure. They have put her desires above their wants. They are willing to not fight over her, to work together to please her. It’s rather stunning.”
Partly she was teasing him—but partly, she ached so much, it was crippling. It hurt.
His brows shot up, to vanish under his wind-swept chocolate brown hair. His gaze went over her, slowly. Something changed about the air—it became thick, hard to breathe, and felt as if it was charged with static, could spark and shock them.
In the shadows beneath the stairs, she put her hands on his chest, her fingers stretching over the embroidered lions, touching the solidity of the duke, the warmth through his clothing.
That touch was like striking a match and having the sudden whoosh of heat and flame.
He bent to her. His lips so soft, his lower lip slightly thrust forward, ready to claim her mouth.
No, no.
Yes.
Look at the Wanton Widow. Was she tying herself in knots over what she should or should not do? Not in the least. She wasn’t waiting for another marriage. She was enjoying her pleasure.
Portia knew she didn’t belong in the world of orgies. But right now she wanted Sinclair. She ached for him.
What if she kissed him? With no fears, no worries, no expectations. What if she just kissed him . . . for fun?
She slipped her hands to Sinclair’s shoulders. And kissed him.
She opened her mouth. Parted her lips. Let her tongue slide into his mouth to play with his. Their tongues tangled and she felt the ache intensify. She pulled closer to him, pressing against his broad, hard body.
His hands slid down to her waist, skimmed over her hips, cupped her bottom. She knew his next move—to lift her so she was poised over the hard ridge in his trousers, where she would be going half-mad feeling him press against her.
What if she caressed him instead of the other way around?
Her palm pressed against the thick, firm bulge contained behind the fine fabric of his trousers.