Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(41)

It couldn’t be the man himself who held such power over her.



Swallowing, she flexed her fingers against the soft lawn of his shirt, her hands overflowing with the hard sensation of him. His chest muscles danced beneath her palms and her belly fluttered.

She gasped when his hands came down on her thighs, sliding her skirts to her hips. With a rough yank, he untied her garters and pushed her stockings below her knees. Cool air rushed over her knees.

She fought to control her breathing. Impossible when his large hands covered her bare thighs, squeezing, fondling, his calluses rasping her tender flesh. His thumbs descended, inching closer and closer to the center of her that ached.

His hard chest pushed against her breasts and the peaks tightened, pebbled. Mortified, she prayed he did not notice, did not feel the evidence of her desire.

He dragged his coat from her shoulders; it dropped behind her in a whisper of sound. His breath fanned her ear a moment before his lips closed on the lobe, biting gently, sending her pulse into a fury.

Releasing her lobe, he shifted his head so that the warmth of his cheek scratched hers.

Meanwhile, his big hands roamed. Over her shoulders. Down her back. His fingers skimmed her spine, and she squirmed, detesting the thin barrier of muslin.

The suffocating darkness magnified his touch. The anticipation of where he would touch next tightening every nerve into singing alertness. She felt the hot fan of his breath against her lips and leaned forward, hungry for his lips. Ravenous for another taste of last night’s kiss.

His tongue flicked over her bottom lip. Once. Twice. She moaned and parted her mouth even more. He seized her lips, thrusting his tongue inside. His hands gripped her thighs. The dig of his fingers in her soft flesh filled her with a deep, primal thrill and she pressed closer, desperate for more, desperate for him.

As his hands clung to her thighs, his tongue parried with hers. The bulge of his manhood pressed against the burning center of her, prodding her through bunched skirts. She pushed against his hardness, frantic to assuage the ache.

“Heath?” a voice suddenly called, its peevish quality a cold douse of water.

He wrenched free and Portia moaned, bereft from the sudden loss of his lips, his nearness—his hard body rocking against hers.

“Heath?” the voice called again.

A soft glow of light invaded their sanctuary. Reality had arrived, nosing its way into her passion-clouded head. Heath rose, hauling her with him. Portia blinked and looked about, her head fuzzy as wool.



Feet pounded down the steps and she turned to watch Constance halt at the bottom step. Portia’s stockings slipped past her knees and she squeezed her legs together to keep them from sliding to her ankles.

Constance held her candle aloft and surveyed them suspiciously. “Sorry to interrupt your little tête-à-tête.”

“Constance,” Heath replied, his voice surprisingly steady, all things considered. “Good of you to unlock the door for us.”

His sister snorted. “Grandmother is furious with me.”

“I’ll deal with her,” Heath vowed with quiet assurance.

Portia slid him an uneasy glance. The hard set of his mouth almost had her feeling sorry for Lady Moreton.

“Come along, then,” Constance said, turning on the step.

“We need a moment,” he stated, holding out his hand. “The candle, if you will.”

Constance frowned. “Heath—”

“Thank you. That will be all, Constance.” His voice rang flat, final. Not to be contested.

Still frowning, Constance stepped down and handed him the candle. With a quick glare for Portia, she turned on her heels. Her lavender skirts swished noisily as she took the steps forcefully, each jarring step reverberating on the air.

Portia faced Heath. “She doesn’t much care for me.”

Without a response, he dropped, squatting at her feet.

“What—aaaah,” she squealed as he shoved up her skirts. She staggered, grabbing his broad shoulders for support.

“Hold your skirts,” he commanded, his muscles bunching beneath his fingers.

Finding her balance, she released him to grab fistfuls of skirt. She dipped her head to watch him.

One warm hand closed around her left knee, circling it until his fingers teased the sensitive back.

Her gaze snapped up, staring straight ahead even though the sight of that hand on her knee burned its image on her mind.

Her throat tightened. She swallowed fiercely, trying to open her airway. That hand slid up, taking her stocking with it. He lifted his head and locked gazes with her burning stare, searching into her very soul. His fingers trailed a flaming path along the inside of her thigh. Up, up, up…



Moisture gathered between legs and her face flamed, scandalized, certain that he knew his touch made her throb, ache.

With her heart hammering wildly in her chest, he deftly retied the garter before moving on to her other leg and repeating the same bone-melting process. He took his time, toying with her, torturing her with his tantalizing touch. His dark head dipped, pressing a moist, open-mouthed kiss on the inside of her thigh. A small squeak of plea sure escaped her at the teasing swipe of his tongue.

Then his mouth vanished. Back on his feet, he looked at her with eyes more black than gray. The intimacy of his action, the familiarity, left her shaken, speechless, achingly aroused.