Wife Number Seven (The Compound, #1)(59)

He nodded as a sigh left his mouth. He pressed his lips to mine, his hands still gripping the sides of my face. “God, I can’t get enough of you.”

Our kisses grew more urgent, his tongue stroking mine, his hands moving to the buttons of my dress. I brought up my hands to assist his and soon the dress and long underwear were tossed across the room. Porter hoisted my legs around his waist and backed me into the wall, the curtains blowing in the breeze. The slightly toxic smell of paint traveled through my sinuses and I flinched as the cool texture of the wall tickled the hot skin of my back. I linked my feet around Porter’s lower back as his lips traveled to the base of my neck, planting demanding kisses against my skin, sending me into a frenzy.

I craved him, all of him.

“I want to please you.” My hand cupped his hardness.

“What? No—” he started to protest.

I’d told Porter about my honeymoon, and because of that awful experience he hadn’t allowed me to pleasure him in that way. But today, I wasn’t taking no for an answer.

“I want to try . . . for you. Don’t say no,” I said boldly, pressing a finger to his lips.

He released me from his grip, slowly lowering me to the floor. We shifted our bodies, and I pressed his shoulders against the wall. Porter swallowed hard before releasing a sigh.

Ever so slowly, I unzipped his jeans, tugging them to the floor. My eyes locked with Porter’s as I removed his boxer shorts. He was ready for me. Completely ready. Before he could protest, I’d taken him into my mouth, teasing his tip with my tongue.

“Oh God . . .” Porter murmured.

My eyes never left his as I moved up and down on his length, savoring the feel of him inside my mouth. Unlike my experience three years ago, I enjoyed this. The pulsing of my private area continued, and moisture collected in my panties. I was ready for him.

Porter tugged at the base of my braid, pulling my mouth from him. “Not like this,” he said, his eyes dark.

“But I—”

“Shhh,” he whispered, pressing a finger to my lips and lifting me to my feet. “I need to be inside you.”

I cracked a smile, knowing just how much my body craved its own release. But instead of walking me to the bed, as we’d always done in the past, Porter turned me so that I faced the open window. He tugged at the curtains, giving us privacy.

“Hold on to the windowsill.”

I did as I was told. Instead of his directions intimidating me, as Lehi’s always had, they excited me. Adrenaline created pathways through my system as Porter yanked my panties to the floor. He walked away for just a moment, but returned with a condom. After opening the package and sliding it down his length, he entered me from behind. My body tensed slightly, having never experienced anything like this position in the past.

“I’ll go slow,” he assured me, gliding in and out of me in a gentle rhythm. “I’d never hurt you.”

“I know,” I responded in a hushed tone. “Don’t hold back.”

With that whispered invitation, Porter quickened his pace. He slipped one hand in front, his fingers circling my most sensitive spot as he pumped behind me, and I moaned at the touch of his fingertips. Pleasure built within me as I approached my release. Porter’s forehead pressed against my neck and the heat of his breath spurred my excitement.

My knuckles turned a ghostly shade of white as I gripped the window frame, my body preparing for the orgasm building within me.

“Come for me, Brin,” Porter moaned. “You’re so close, I can feel it.”

The gravelly tone of his voice, combined with the intoxicating strokes of his fingers pushed me over the edge. I seized around him in ecstasy, screaming his name out the open window before collapsing onto the ledge. Porter continued to thrust inside me before finding his release. He gripped my braid as he came, groaning through gritted teeth.

Together, we fell to the floor, the heat from our bodies cooled by the breeze that billowed the curtain.

“God, you’re amazing,” he said before kissing the top of my forehead. “Was that okay for you? Not scary or anything?”

“Not at all.” I shook my head. “I liked it.”

“Good.”

We lay in silence for several minutes before, at my request, Porter played the mix of CDs he’d created with me in mind. Bob Dylan belted out “Shelter from the Storm,” and without even realizing it, I began to sing along. I loved that I was learning the lyrics—they were heartfelt, loving, and full of passion.

They reminded me of Porter. He was my shelter from the storm that was my life.

“I know what to tell them,” I muttered, finally hearing the answer inside my head.

“What are you talking about?” Porter asked, obviously confused.

I’d noticed over the weeks we’d been physically intimate that after we’d made love, my brain was on high alert. It was sharp and keen, full of ideas. Porter said his head was “mush” after making love to me. So I was used to conversations like this—me having a sudden idea or revelation, and Porter confused by my burst of self-proclaimed genius.

“You wanted us to get away. For a weekend.”

“Oh, right. Of course, yes.” He stroked my arm so lightly that goose bumps rose.

“Jessa. I’ll tell them she needs me.”