A Duke by Default (Reluctant Royals #2)(70)
“Well begging your pardon, but most of my blood isn’t in my brain right now. You’ll deal.”
She giggled. “I’ll deal.” She stepped forward, her right thigh notching between both of his as she pressed against him. The weight of her breasts pushed against his torso, her stomach grazed over his erection, and that delicate scent of hers mixed in with the salty air off the firth. “One and done?” she asked, mischief and lust pushing away the shyness she’d displayed a moment ago.
He wasn’t sure if she was declaring that to be the arrangement or asking whether it was even possible between them, but he didn’t clarify because she was close and desire danced in her eyes and he needed to taste her again.
He caressed her face once, twice, and then molded his lips over hers. He kissed with his eyes open because he wanted to see that freckled nose wrinkle in concentration—and so he could start navigating them back to the armory and not into the firth, though even a dunk in the cold sea wouldn’t cool him down now.
Portia had thrown down a challenge that had nothing to do with class or etiquette or fake posh shite. He didn’t suppose there were rules in Debrett’s for what they were about to do, but all the better. A wild, passionate energy was flowing between them, and Tavish doubted either of them planned on being polite.
Chapter 19
Having sex with Tav hadn’t been in her plans—in fact, she’d had specific rules against this very situation—but then again, neither had revealing him to be a duke. Plans changed, she reasoned, and it wasn’t like this was impulsive. It was inevitable, it seemed. She’d felt the urge to jump him upon their first meeting, which was mid-macing, and had been fighting her attraction ever since. This, whatever was happening between them, was kind of a foregone conclusion. She’d regret detonating this foundational pillar of Project: New Portia later; for now, she’d glory in the explosion.
They crept up to her room instead of his office. Jamie and Cheryl were out at a pub quiz night—he could be the one risking bumping into them afterward.
They’d kept their hands to themselves on the way back to the armory—after all, she didn’t need Mary or any of the other neighborhood familiars catching Tav’s hand up her shirt. Both of them had been on the verge of breaking out into a trot and had kept giving each other heated looks, their intent likely clear to anyone who paid attention, but none of that mattered once she closed the door to her room and shoved Tav up against it.
“That was the longest walk of my life,” he groaned as his hands came to her hips and tugged her close against him. The blunt tips of his fingers pressed into her hips and she swallowed a soft moan. She loved how strong his hands were—strength that came from grinding and fighting, from artistry and dedication. Each time he held her it sent a possessive thrill through her.
“Not gonna lie—I scoped out a few dark corners on the way in case we couldn’t make it,” she said.
Laughter rumbled through his chest. “I’d be amenable to testing out dark corners sometime.”
Sometime.
I like you.
No. Taking his words seriously was asking for trouble. She would operate as she always had; no catching feelings, no getting hurt. She was a damned expert at that. She ignored what he was insinuating and focused on his mouth, his firm lips, his hands sliding into the waistband of her pants in search of the hidden clasp that would release them.
“How are these secured?” he growled, tugging at the waistband. “Magic? Are these chastity trousers?”
She grinned against his mouth. “Mmm, yes, they’re enchanted. Only the chosen one can get into them. Pantscalibur, or as they were known in Middle Welsh, Pantsvich—”
“Very funny. Oh, what’s this?” His fingers found the eyelet hook along the side of the pants just then and deftly unhooked it, then grasped at the pull of the zipper and tugged slowly. He kissed her again as his fingers worked. The pants were too tight to fall to the ground, but now there was room for his hands to slip inside, for his palms to glide over her silk underwear and his hands to cup her ass.
She shuddered and moaned into his mouth.
“It appears I’m the chosen one,” he said, his mouth moving from her lips to press hungry kisses along her jawline and down her neck as his hands held her firmly in place. “Yay, me.”
“I’m trying to come up with a dirty sword in the stone double entendre but fuck your hands feel amazing,” she said, and maybe that was even better than a joke because he exhaled harshly against her neck and the tightened his grip on her, the combination rapidly unraveling her control.
No.
Her hand went to his belt again, this time to tug it open, and her other hand slid up under his shirt, following the trail of hair from the taper at the waist of his pants to where it spread over his chest. She kissed at his neck as she undid his belt and his aggravating button fly jeans. Finally, finally, her fingers encircled his thick, warm cock and he groaned and . . . it was in that moment that Portia realized she had no idea what she was doing. Well, she knew what she was doing, but she was usually loosened up by a drink or two while doing it. When was the last time she’d given a hand job totally sober?
Without the inhibition-loosening effects of alcohol, little annoying thoughts started to eat away at the lust and frenzy that had propelled her through the streets of Bodotria and toward her bed.