Wife Number Seven (The Compound, #1)(44)

I wanted the moments she cherished in her memories.

I wanted to act on my lust, my passion, and feel it reciprocated.

I needed to be desired.

I needed Porter.

Not Lehi, Porter.

I hoped so badly that he’d be home. On most work days, he woke before the sun and was home shortly after lunch. I just hoped I’d catch him at his apartment.

Porter’s eyes grew wide when he opened the door. Before he had a chance to greet me, I pounced, crushing my lips against his with urgency and need. He responded by wrapping his hand around my braid and pulling me close to him, then deepened the kiss immediately, his tongue stroking mine in delicious movements. My body was on fire as he tugged at my braid, forcing my head back so he could pepper my neck with kisses. I wrapped my arms around his back, clawing at his shirt, wishing I could remove it right there in the entryway of his apartment.

He pulled away long enough to say one word. “Bedroom.”

Porter pulled me into the apartment, slamming and locking the door behind us before dragging me behind him to his room. We passed Charlie and a few other guys who sat on the couch, staring off into space, and for a moment I hesitated, worried that Porter might be high. But I didn’t care. I wanted him, I needed him, and that was all that mattered. I wanted his skin on mine, his gravelly voice whispering into my ear, and the throbbing in my private area reminded me of my desire.

When he’d closed his door behind us, again locking the lock, he closed the space between us and ran a fingertip down my cheek. The sensation sent shivers up my spine—the kind of shivers you crave, that stir desire within you.

“Brin,” he whispered. “I want you.”

“Me too,” I replied, my heart pounding.

I was no virgin, this was true. But with Porter, everything was different than with Lehi. With Lehi, our time in the marital bed was a duty to be fulfilled, a purposeful union between a man seeking to impregnate his obedient wife. But with Porter it was lust, pure desire that demanded to be released.

And I was ready to release it.

“I want to make you come.” His fingers popped open the top buttons of my dress. “Will you let me?”

I had no words, but I wanted to know what he was talking about. I wanted to lose myself, to trust Porter with my body, with my soul.

The pressure of his lips scorched my neck as his fingers attacked the fastened buttons of my dress. Panting with anticipation, I could feel my panties growing damp. I didn’t understand the sensation or meaning of moisture there; it had never happened before. But as the swelling of my private area escalated, I began to understand his words. That demand of release.

I wanted to come. And I wanted Porter to do it to me.

“Yes.” My voice cracked and I looked up at the ceiling, lost in Porter’s touch. “Please, make me forget him and his touch. I want to feel you, just you.”

Porter cracked a satisfied smile as he walked me backward to his bed. “Lay down, Brin.”

“Here?” I asked, confused. Lehi had always preferred the other side of the bed. The covers would form a cocoon over us as he attempted to impregnate me each week.

Porter nodded, placing one finger on my lips, urging me to stop speaking.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, his eyes narrowed as if he wasn’t sure he knew the answer.

But I didn’t hesitate. “I trust you more than anyone else. Anyone at all.”

“Good.” He smoothed down my hair before unfastening the remaining buttons of my dress. It fell to the floor, but the mandatory long underwear remained, covering my body completely.

Porter shook his head. “Such beauty, covered like this. It’s a sacrilege.”

Within seconds, the long underwear fell in a heap beside my cotton dress, and Porter urged me to lie flat on the bed. I reached for him, expecting him to lie above me. But he shook his head, instead kneeling on the floor, and wrapped his hands around my thighs. He tugged my body gently, pulled me closer to the edge of the bed, then removed my underpants.

My heart raced and I started to panic. I had no idea what he was doing. Or what he planned to do to me. “Porter, wha—”

“Shh,” he said. “Just lie back. I told you I was going to make you come, Brin. Just relax and trust me, all right?”

I swallowed hard, lowering myself to lie flat on the bed, once again looking up at the ceiling of Porter’s bedroom. His lips touched the inner skin of my thighs and I jumped slightly. The sensation tickled.

“Try to relax, Brin.” His whisper was so soft, I almost didn’t hear him.

I exhaled loudly, trying desperately to follow his directions. I didn’t want to disappoint him, to make him think I didn’t trust him.

What he did next was almost indescribable. He placed feathery kisses from my thighs all the way to my private area, where his tongue pressed into me, into the ache that had been building since he first touched me. Again and again he pressed his lips, his tongue, his mouth over me, and I writhed beneath him. My hands balled into fists, grasping the cotton sheets tightly as the ache continued to grow and build and expand. My body climbed higher and higher until the desire to burst became painful. My entire mind focused on the ache and his tongue and the burning desire—no, need—for him to go deeper.

“Don’t stop. Please, Porter. Don’t stop.”

“Tell me,” he murmured. “Tell me what you want, Brin.”