Driven By Fate(37)

Hoping to distract himself, he focused on the pictures lining the hallway. Francesca was in most of them—younger versions of her with missing teeth, a more recent one of her leaning against a cab, arms crossed, while a man, presumably her uncle, ruffled her hair. Possessiveness tore at him just seeing it. Mine. Don’t touch what’s mine.

He found her watching him from the top step. “I’ve never had a boy in my room before.”

“You’re not getting a sodding boy, Francesca. You’re getting a man.”

She wet her lips as he reached her, neck craning to look up at him. “Yes, I know.”

“Would you like to know my plan if you let me into your good books again?”

A momentary hesitation. “Yes.”

Triumph growled in his throat. He backed her across the small landing until her body met the wall, just beside a partially open door. Holding her gaze, he placed his palms flat on the wall above her head. “I’m going to work my lust out on your body. I’m going to bend you, spread you, and treat you like a plaything. Are we clear? I need anyone who walks in this door for the next hundred years to feel my presence. To know I was here, coming hard and deep between your legs. Inside the lady of the house.” When she drooped, he used his body to hold her up. “I had you bare-assed and bent over for me to f*ck. I’ve not recovered from the sight. But I made a grave error. So you can walk around in nothing but panties all night and I won’t make a damn move. Not until you allow it. Please appreciate how hard it is for a man like me to relinquish that much power. I assure you, I’ve never done it for anyone in this lifetime.”

“Really? Not until I say…” Francesca murmured. She bowed her head and he could feel that silver gaze on his tented pants. His cock swelled further in response. “How strong is your willpower, my lord?”

“Weak as hell where you’re concerned, but the alternative of losing you is worse.”

Surprise gave way to the mischievous look that entered her eye. “You know, you’ve just given me a green light to make you suffer. I might never get this chance again.”

“I’ve been suffering since you walked into my room at Serve.”

She shook her head and a lock of dark hair got caught on her mouth. “But we’ve…you know. Twice.”

“And yet.”

A beat passed wherein she seemed to take his measure. “Well. I can’t let this chance go uncelebrated.” Giving him a seductive look, she peeled her tank top over her head, letting it drop on the ground. Jesus, her nipples were hard points, surrounded by golden skin. Perky, sweet. His. “I’ll be in the shower. Make yourself comfortable.”

His jaw clenched as she ducked beneath his arm and sauntered toward the bathroom. “I don’t like knowing you weren’t wearing a bra around all those boys, Francesca.”

She paused on the threshold to the bathroom. “Exactly. Just boys.”

Porter considered following her, watching her shower while he stroked his edge off. But no. He’d let her play this game. It seemed to make her happy. Perhaps it would even justify her forgiving him. And God above knew one thing for certain. For every second of torture she inflicted on him, he would give it back tenfold—in a far more pleasurable manner.

Furthermore, no one ever said he couldn’t speed up the process.

He unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off. Correctly guessing which door led to Francesca’s bedroom, he went to wait for her with a smile on his face.





Chapter Thirteen


Frankie wrapped a towel around her body and left the bathroom, only to stop short when she saw Porter’s dress shirt hanging on the doorknob of her bedroom. She should have known his handing over the reins was too good to be true. Before she even pushed the door open, she somehow sensed she’d find him shirtless and sprawled on her twin bed. And yup…there he lay in all his sexy, sex panther glory. Oh lord. His hands were propped beneath his head, flexing the grapefruit-sized biceps in his arms, highlighting the ridges of his stomach, the impossible-to-ignore bulge in his pants.

“A twin bed, Francesca?” He propped himself up on one elbow and grinned, like some kind of Playgirl centerfold. “You’re an adult.”

The way he said ah-dult shouldn’t have made him hotter, but it did. Still, this was her show. She hadn’t taken a razor to every inch of her body only to give in before the steam even cleared in the bathroom. Although she suspected that’s exactly what he wanted. So if that was how he wanted to play it, she’d break out the big guns.

She turned her back on him to root through her dresser drawer, spying the short, white nightgown immediately. “It’s a tight squeeze, but you seem to fit just fine,” she purred. And let the towel drop. The bed creaked behind her. She cast a look over her shoulder to find him sitting up, hands digging into the edge of the bed. A single word from her and he would pounce. She wanted that. Needed it. But she wouldn’t call off the stalemate just yet for two reasons. One, he deserved to suffer a little. Two, she wanted to take this opportunity to learn more about him. This mysterious Brit who’d charged into her life and commandeered it.

Feeling his gaze warm every inch of her skin, she drew the thin nightgown over her still-damp body and turned, memorizing his look of appreciation, his desire for the body beneath. She’d purchased the garment one afternoon while taking a lunch break next door to a Victoria’s Secret. It had remained stuffed in the back of her drawer for months until one night when she’d needed to feel feminine. Sexy. Even if it was just for herself.