He scooped her up and carr
ied her to the bed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE low throb of the jet engines seemed to vibrate through every cell in Portia’s body. She shifted slightly in the wide leather seat.
It did no good.
Her whole body throbbed.
But not because of the vibration from the powerful engines.
She pressed her eyelids shut more tightly, trying to blot out memories as she blotted out vision.
But she could not.
Her body was one entire sensate memory. Every centimetre of her skin bore its imprint. Even the most intimate folds of her body.
Especially those.
Between her thighs the low, insistent throbbing was witness to her folly.
How could I? How could I have responded to him like that?
The rhetorical question mocked her. She knew exactly how—why—she had responded as she had. Because she had been taken somewhere she had not even known existed—an exquisite, ecstatic place of wonder, of enchantment and mystery, a revelation so intense it had transfigured her.
And the person who had taken her there, step by shivering step, had been Diego Saez.
He had lowered her down onto the bed, peeling away the rest of her clothes and then doing likewise with his own. Her eyes had been dazed in wonder when she’d seen his strong, planed body emerge from the dark veneer of his suit.
Geoffrey’s body had been slim, almost boyish. There was nothing boyish about Diego Saez’s body. Broad shoulders, powerful chest, muscles smooth and gleaming. She had wanted to graze her hands over them, feel their strength, their power. Her arms had reached up to him, touching almost with fear, with wonder, with the tentative tips of her fingers, the contours of his shoulders, his arms.
He had folded down on her, his weight so heavy that she had almost gasped, and then the gasp had turned to a moan, as with shock, with piercing pleasure, he had lowered his head to suckle her.
From that moment on she had been lost, utterly carried away on a tide so strong, so irresistible, she had been able to do nothing but be sucked into the white swirling maelstrom of sensation. No part of her body had been secret to him. He had explored, caressed, possessed every part of it. And she had lain beneath him, helpless, swept away by what he was doing to her. Time had lost all meaning. Reality had slid away. All that had been real was her body—and what he was doing to it.
It had been a revelation, a miracle. She had never known that she could feel like that, feel such hunger, such wonder—such gasping pleasure. Her body had been hers no longer. It had belonged to him, totally to him, the man who had consumed her, possessed her.
And she had been his. She had given herself to him without restraint, without caution—with a yearning, straining ardour that he had drawn from her with every caress, every skilled, arousing touch, until she had been a mesh of sensation.
And when he had possessed her fully, powerfully, surging within her with all his strength, she had gasped at the wonder, the pleasure of it all, exploding all through her, again and again.
But that was nothing—nothing to what she had gone on to feel as, stroke by powerful stroke, he had brought her inexorably, relentlessly to the topmost peak. And then out of nowhere, it seemed—for she had not known her body was capable of it—she had been convulsing around him, crying out, a tide of ecstasy engulfing her in wave after wave of pounding, threshing pleasure.
It had gone on, as if it would never stop, could never stop, as if she were one entire fusion of endless, endless bliss.
She had cried out his name, helpless with wanting, with wonder, then cried it out again, wrapping herself around him, holding him to her, because she would never let him go, never…
And then, as she had come down from her ecstasy, her eyes blind, her vision slowly clearing, she had gazed, weak, panting up at him.
He had been looking down at her, shock in his eyes.
She had reached a trembling hand to cup his face.
‘Diego…’
Her voice had been a whisper, a last caress.