Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(71)

There were just the two of them.

Sinclair backed her up against the stone wall. His hands rested against the wall, trapping her. All she could think of was him. Powerful arms that had scooped her from danger. A broad chest to break her fall. His mouth—his beautiful, sensual, oh-so-talented mouth.

He leaned to her, his face showing pain. “Portia, damn, I let you go once. I can’t face losing you. Not forever. I could survive because I believed you were happy—”

His words startled her. But she said, “I was quite fine.”

He growled. A low, dangerous sound. “You were meant to be mine, angel. All mine.”

Those words—they set her utterly aflame.

“That’s very lovely, but—”

Then he had her pressed to the wall. His legs were spread, bracketing hers. His chest pushed against her bosom. His mouth—

Oh Lord, his mouth was on her neck.

On sensitive skin that loved the touch of his lips. He skimmed his mouth up to her earlobe and she almost slithered down the wall. Heat trailed and she wanted this, wanted his kisses. His warm breath caressed her ear and she moaned.

“Do you want this? Do you want me to pleasure you?”

She was lost. Wanting all the pleasure he’d given her, wanting the searing, fiery, tumultuous explosion of pleasure she’d known on the night they’d gotten engaged.

Your heart will be broken.

She didn’t care.

She nodded, jerkily.

Sinclair lowered to his knees in front of her. She knew what he would do, and she began to draw up her skirts. Tugged at the fabric hurriedly. Grinning, he helped her pull them up. She gazed down at the dark slashes of his brows, his high cheekbones, full lips, the curl of his long lashes. And then—

Ooooh.

Slowly, he teased her with his tongue. She pressed back hard against the wall. Clinging to his shoulders, she closed her eyes. Savored. This—this was delicious. Just slow and tantalizing and perfect. She wanted more and she wanted it just like this.

She was supposed to be good. A paragon. The only time she’d tumbled was when she’d fallen in love with Sinclair before—and she’d paid the price. For years, she’d told herself that.

But now, she thought: Why is it so wrong to want pleasure? To be physically loved?

No one was being hurt. They were surrounded by murder—by true evil.

This was not wrong.

She knew it now.

She threaded her fingers in his silky brown hair, massaging his head through the thick strands. Gently, she stoked him, while she saw fireworks and stars—with her eyes shut.

Portia felt too shy to look.

Bother it! Cracking her eyes open, she looked down. Entranced by how his mouth moved over her.

He drew her away from the wall and she took an unsteady step. With his strong hands, he cupped her bottom and lifted her.

Oh my heavens, he’d lifted her off her feet. Putting her cunny entirely, heavily, on top of his mouth. He couldn’t breathe, she was sure.

Then she realized—

She couldn’t escape.

Balanced over his mouth, she couldn’t move away. Even though she was on top of him, she was entirely at his command. Her skirts fell down, plopping on his head, spilling down over her bottom and legs. But still his tongue teased her, sawing across her.

She began to move on him, her hips rocking to drive his mouth harder against her. She must be suffocating him . . . it was terrible of her . . . she couldn’t stop....

She clutched. Moaned. Had to shut her eyes once more.

She was coming. Falling.

He held her and they were both falling backward to the grassy ground. She flopped down, straddling his face. Bracing her arms on the wet grass, she rode out her pleasure on him. Limp, spent, she could barely move, except she knew she must.

Pulling at her skirts, she lifted off him, so wet she hardly cared that she was curled up on the wet grass. “Goodness, are you all right? I was so scared you couldn’t breathe.”

He rolled on his side, stained with mud, and he grinned at that. “A small price to pay to hear you come, angel. You make the most erotic sounds.”

“You must have heard lots of sounds that women make.”

“True, but many are exaggerated. More performance than genuine. I like yours, because they are real. Honest moans and cries and adorable squeaks.”

“I squeak?” She had no idea. Then remembered—she did make high-pitched sounds.

She stroked along his arm, feeling the bulge of muscle. “I realized I could lose you. I could be killed and never know pleasure—”

But Sinclair got to his feet. “You won’t be killed. I promise you.”

“But I’d like to pleasure you. I want to—” Could she do it? Without marriage? It would go against everything she believed, everything she advised to young girls. But she had the terrible sense she was running out of time.