Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(61)

Taking charge was fun, after all.

“Touch me,” he murmured. “Stroke me, love.”

She moved her palm over the length of him, until she felt a change in shape. A ridge, then a rounded shape, and she knew she’d reached the head of it. Rolling her fingers around the bulge, she explored its girth—rather big. It was hot even through his trousers. Oddly, with each stroke she was sure the length and girth changed. For the larger.

Sinclair moaned.

The hoarse, deep, vulnerable sound of it drew a moan from deep inside her. A whisper of a moan, answering his because she’d made him feel like that.

“It’s good, Portia. I love your touch. For ten years, I dreamed of having you touch me.”

She wanted to shout at him: For ten years, I could have been touching you everywhere. Except you didn’t want it.

No, this was about fun. Meaningless fun. Her heart wasn’t to be engaged. Or threatened.

She was going to behave just like him. For once.

Her hand stroked, squeezed his erection, while she was panting into his mouth.

He kissed her, a long kiss that seared her. He squeezed her bottom, drawing her close, until her hand was trapped. Squished between her soft tummy and his rigid ridge. He retreated, so he was back against the wall.

Daringly, she squeezed him harder.

His mouth moved from hers on a ragged moan—

Next thing she knew, his mouth closed around the bodice of her scandalous gown and he sucked. She felt the tug on her nipple through silk and muslin. She was gripping his erection hard, but it was as much out of shock as to pleasure him.

“I want you. Can’t have you, but damn I want you.”

Even as he spoke, Sinclair gently tugged her bodice down. It was so scandalously low, it didn’t need much effort. As it went down, over her breasts with a slight rending of seams, her breasts popped up. They sat on top of the taut fabric of the bodice, pointing right at his mouth.

Her nipples tightened. They blushed dark pink. And the right one vanished into his mouth.

Portia went weak. “Oh . . . oh, please suck me.”

His lips pursed around her nipple. The dark, faint shadow of stubble scraped sensitive skin. Her sensitive skin.

She liked scraping.

Two men—how greedy was that woman? One man’s mouth on her nipple, his hand on her breast was enough to make Portia see stars.

Her head fell back and she moaned. Much louder.

Wait, her skirts were going up. Her bodice was down, her skirts being lifted to meet it.

His hand, strong and large, slid between her legs. He touched her between her thighs where she was hot and wet. But the ache didn’t feel relieved, it got worse, and she rocked against his hand.

He stroked her nether lips.

This was beyond scandalous. They were hidden beneath the stairs, but not completely hidden. True, they had been engaged before. But that wasn’t the same as wed. Now that she was unmarried and on the shelf, and this was something she was not supposed to do. She was a fool to even dream about it....

But, oh, she wanted it.

His fingers slipped between her nether lips, which were slick and sticky at the same time. He rubbed his fingertip harder—

She gripped the hard, strong biceps of his right arm . . . and his erection. She held tight, as he rubbed more and more. Her hips were rocking. Moans and whimpers filled the air.

Oh no, this wasn’t fun. It went beyond fun, into someplace where pleasure and need were like wicked drugs and she knew something wondrous was just around the—

Oh goodness.

Fireworks. Explosions. Any form of combustion paled by comparison to the burst of pleasure she felt. It brought sobs from her throat. Made her wits evaporate and made her fall against him, and he sucked her nipples—both of them, back and forth—while she was rocking with pleasure and floating in weakened joy. She didn’t care if everyone heard her.

He rubbed again and she gasped his name. “Sinclair. Julian. Oh, oh heavens.”

Gruff and low, his laugh spoke of the intimacy of this. Shared just between them, because he’d touched her in a way no one ever had.

He lifted her off her feet. Cradled her in his arms and buried his face in the crook of her neck.

“You know,” she said, “I had decided orgies were not for me. Maybe I was wrong.”

He lifted his head. His eyes narrowed. He was about to speak when footsteps clattered on the steps, heading down.

“Stay here,” he growled.

“No.”

He pointed through a doorway. It had to be the sitting room of a butler or housekeeper for there was a mirror over a small fireplace.

Portia saw her reflection. Mussed hair. A crumpled gown. Her bodice still down. She put her hands over her breasts. Her face was all red.

Oh dear. She’d felt like heaven. She didn’t look it.