Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(53)

Instead of feeling the apprehension she should, her stomach clenched in response. The place between her thighs throbbed. Her breathing grew labored.

Could that part of him make her feel as wonderful as his marvelous mouth had? Her eyes shot back up to his, heat flaming her face at her lurid thoughts.

“Oh, yes,” he muttered, as if he had the ability to read her thoughts. “Touch me,” he commanded.

His rough voice, combined with the desperate intensity of his gaze, would have her do anything he asked.

She reached out and touched the center of his chest with one finger. Smiling tentatively, she trailed that finger down his sternum, over the flat plane of his hard stomach, her nail slightly scraping the firm skin. His breathing grew harsh.

Her finger inched lower, hesitating a moment before arriving at his jutting manhood. She touched the head of him, intrigued at the tiny bead of moisture that rose to kiss her fingertip.

He groaned.



Emboldened, she closed her hand around his throbbing length and gently squeezed, both amazed and delighted at the soft texture of him—silk on steel in her palm.

“Portia, I can’t wait any longer.” His jaw clenched, the muscles knotting, demonstrating his hard-fought control. “Tell me you want this.”

Her smile deepened. It thrilled her to see her power over him, to know how badly he wanted her, to know that he held himself back, waiting for her to say the word. Despite the infernal curse hanging over him—a perpetual storm cloud that influenced his life’s every action—he couldn’t resist her. So much that he would put aside the fears and habits of a lifetime for her. All for her.

Her heart swelled.

Arching her spine, she rubbed her bare breasts against his chest.

“You mean you could stop?” she purred.

His hands clamped down on her hips, positioning her beneath him. The head of him probed her entrance and she sucked in a breath.

His breath caught in a hiss as he pushed inside her slowly, one inch at a time. Her muscles stretched to accommodate him.

His gaze, fathomless as a midnight sea, mesmerized her, lodging deep in her soul as he held himself still as stone over her.

“Heath,” she whimpered, her fingers digging into his tense forearms, urging him on, desperate for more, not understanding what more could be but knowing it hung there, elusive, just beyond her reach. “Please.”

“I don’t want to hurt—”

“Heath,” she moaned, instinctively opening her legs wider and angling her hips to take him in deeper.

A choked cry escaped him. “Portia,” he muttered, his breath fanning hotly against her throat.

“You don’t know—”

Portia shook her head from side to side on the rug, the throbbing burn in her core desperate to have all of him.

She let go of his arms and slid her hands down his back, skimming the smooth skin until she clutched his firm buttocks with both hands. Guided by instinct, she dragged him closer, impaling him deep in her womb.



Their cries mingled, filling the air: his exultant, hers shocked at the plea sure-pain of her rendered maidenhead—at the overwhelming feeling of completion, of never again being anything except a part of him.

His body pressed heavily upon her, comforting and thrilling in its weight.

“Portia?” he gasped in her ear, chest shuddering atop her. His arms came around her, holding her as if she were some gentle, precious creature that might vanish at any moment.

She didn’t answer, couldn’t. Could only move, writhe beneath him. Rotating her hips, she tightened her inner muscles and clenched him tightly, her body begging for more, for an end to the incredible fire that he had stoked within her.

“Oh, God,” he groaned and moved, withdrawing himself nearly out of her before thrusting back inside. Ripples of white-hot plea sure washed over her as he repeated the action, pumping in and out of her. The feel of his hardness hammering into her, the strong fingers digging into her hips, anchoring her for his amorous assault, drove her over the edge.

Her head came off the rug, a scream rising from deep in her throat, hovering on her lips. His frenzied stroking stoked her passions higher, created a maelstrom of desire that at last wrung an air-shattering shout from her lips.

He pumped several more times, the violent smacking sounds of their bodies coming together thrilling her in the deepest, primal way. With a brief shout, he pulled from her body, leaving her suddenly bereft.

Portia watched as he spilled his seed into his waiting hand. She looked from his cupped hand, a tightness gripping her chest as she studied his face. The heavy fall of his dark hair obscured his eyes, yet she longed to see them, longed to gauge his exact emotions and understand how he could even possess the foresight to withdraw his body from hers at the peak of passion.

Suddenly he looked up, flinging the hair back from his face, and she found herself pinned beneath his searing gaze. And there, in his eyes, she saw it. Everything that would forever keep them apart. Curse or no, he’d never let her have his heart. The Earl of Moreton refused to love.

Not her or any woman. She tormented herself to think otherwise.

She dipped her gaze, determined that he not read her pain—the inexplicable, unreasonable pain that clawed her heart.

Heath rose and walked away. Portia sat up and hugged her knees to her chest, resisting her sudden sense of desolation, fighting the desire to follow him with her eyes, her heart.