Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(52)

He had always preferred his women buxom, voluptuous like Della. Yet Portia’s coltlike slimness possessed its own beauty. Achingly feminine, soft and graceful as a willow bending in the wind, her body demanded worship, praise from his mouth and hands. There was no fighting it, no strength left in him to resist.



Releasing her wrists, he grasped the smooth and supple outside swell of one hip. His breath hitched and he slid his hand around, cupping the fullness of one cheek. Her gasp reached his ears, different than any sound he’d ever heard, ripped from some place deep in her throat where plea sure hid.

His fingers flexed, digging into the roundness of her bottom, forcing her closer, until her legs unfurled, opening her like a flower to him. He pressed his full length against her, moaning at her softness, her silken limbs, her warm body.

Her wide eyes locked with his, the luminescent blue glowing like precious gems in the firelight.

“What are you—”

He silenced her with a violent shake of his head.

No time for words. For logic. Logic had clearly fled if he would come to this woman. If he would take her in his arms, clutch her lissom figure against his as if he had some kind of claim on her.

Closing his eyes, he curled his fingers and trailed the backs along the sleek flesh of her back, over each tiny bump of her spine. Delicate, tantalizing—he wanted to skim his mouth over each and every one.

His hands continued their exploration, roaming every inch of her. The tender hollow of her navel. The delicate shape of each rib. The soft curve of her belly that quivered under his fingertips. His hands grazed the underside of each breast, testing their slight weight. He brushed open palms over her hard nipples. Her breathing grew harsh, arousing him nearly as much as the silky feel of her.

Unable to stop himself, he closed a hand over each breast, gripping the firm, petite mounds, squeezing, kneading, rolling the distended peaks. Her desperate keening filled the air, knifing through him, making him burn, banishing any lingering reservations. A strangled laugh rose up in his throat. Not that he had any notion of stopping.

Her hands grabbed his forearms, her nails cutting his flesh in a pain that bordered plea sure.

“Heath,” she whimpered, begging, pleading.

Releasing her breasts, he delved one hand between her thighs, brushing feather-soft curls damp with need. He tested her readiness, stroking the folds of her sex, already slick for him.

Her fingers dug like talons into his arms and she leaned forward, resting her damp forehead against his chest as he worked his fingers feverishly along those folds, back and forth, back and forth, each time brushing nearer and nearer to that tiny little nub. Finally, he touched it, rubbed his fingers over the pearl in fast, little circles. Her body tensed and she released a shuddering cry.



He drank in her rapturous expression, branding that look in his mind, never wanting to forget it.

Then, as the waves of her climax were still washing over her, he parted her legs and put his mouth to that exquisite plea sure point and sucked, tasting her passion.

Arching her back, she came up off the rug releasing a cry as sweet as any songbird. His eyes devoured the breasts quivering above him, golden in the firelight as her climax tore through her.

She collapsed back on the lambskin, her sinuous body panting and humming from her release.

He never took his eyes off her as he stood to shuck off his clothes, his movements as eager and clumsy as a lad.

Her eyes lifted, searching his. “Heath?” she asked, her voice a hoarse rasp.

He shook his head, one boot hitting the floor, then the next. Naked, he stood over her. Her eyes flitted over him, flaring wide. He held her wide gaze, daring her to object.

“This has been coming from the start,” he muttered, determined that nothing veer him from this course, determined that common sense not rear itself and put a stop to the very thing he had wanted to do since first laying eyes on her. “Since we met on that muddy road. There’s no going back now.”

He was past reasoning, past caring about all the reasons he couldn’t do this, why she was the last woman on earth he had any business taking to his bed.

He’d finally descended into the abyss.





Chapter 20


There’s no going back now.

Portia heard the words, heard their challenge and knew a part of her should be annoyed, perhaps even afraid of the naked giant looming over her. The very man who had accused her of trying to trap him into marriage was now bent on ravishment.

Yet when she looked into his eyes and saw the question in his feverish gaze, the desperate need, she knew he waited, knew he wanted her to decide…in spite of his bold proclamation.

His arms, taut bands of steel braced on each side of her, trembled with restraint. She marveled that someone as formidable and powerful as he could waver in his strength. And the greatest shock of all was that she did that to him. Beyond finding herself naked in a man’s arms, she was the object of his desire. She had never considered herself capable of producing such a visceral reaction in a man. Not her—a woman who had passed five Seasons without an offer of matrimony. And not with him—a man with every reason to avoid entanglements with gently bred females.

She drank in the sight of him, the shadows pooling in the hollows of his face, the play of his sculpted muscles. Her gaze fell lower, eyeing his manhood springing from between his legs, daunting in its size. The hard length pulsed before her very eyes, seeming to summon her touch.