Felt her cling as he shuddered, knew when she joined him.
Felt ecstasy flow through them, melding their bodies.
Felt it thunder through their veins a
nd fuse their hearts.
Portia lay back, high on the pillows where Simon had lifted her once the tumult had passed.
Passed, but it hadn’t yet died. The aftermath still held them, heat slowly dissipating, languor weighting their limbs.
She could grow used to this; this sense of intimate closeness, the sharing, the fury. The bliss.
One arm draped over the pillows behind her head, with the other, she idly sifted his hair, the fine texture a sensual delight. He lay slumped half beside her, half over her, one arm beneath her, his head pillowed against her breast, his other hand splayed possessively over her stomach.
He was heavy, hot, and oh so real. He’d withdrawn from her only moments before; her body was slowly returning to itself, to being hers, not his, not filled with him. She felt curiously alive, senses still bright with the lingering glory, her flesh still swollen, hot, still throbbing, her pulse still racing.
In the icehouse, Kitty lay cold, beyond all such feeling.
For long moments, Portia thought of all she and Simon had already shared, and of all they might yet find between them.
And silently vowed not to make Kitty’s mistakes.
She would value trust and devotion, see love for what it was, accept whence it sprang, and with whom.
And make sure—absolutely sure—he did, too.
If what lay between them was love, she wasn’t fool enough to fight it. On the contrary; if it was love, it was worth fighting for.
She glanced down, feathered her fingers through his soft, burnished brown locks, silkier than many a woman’s.
He lifted his head, met her gaze.
She held his, then said, “I’m not going to marry you unless I want to.”
“I know.”
She wondered, wished she could see his eyes more clearly, but the moonlight had faded, cloaking them in shadows.
He exhaled, lifted from her, shifted higher in the bed and settled on his back, drawing her into his arms. The bonelessness of satiation still infusing her, she rested her head on his chest, in the hollow below his shoulder. “I want to learn more, need to learn more, but don’t read it as any degree of agreement.”
After a moment, he lifted his head and pressed a kiss to her hair. Lay back. “Go to sleep.”
The words were gentle enough; his thoughts, she suspected, were anything but. He wasn’t an intrinsically gentle man; he wasn’t the sort to resign from a fight, to ride away from the field at the first reverse. He would rally—and drive relentlessly, ruthlessly on toward his goal.
Much good would it do him; she wasn’t going to bend.
But she’d warned him—and he’d warned her. A truce of sorts, complex and conditional but enough to allow them to go on. Not just in exploring what lay between them, but in facing what the next days would bring. The “gentleman from Bow Street” and the inevitable unmasking of Kitty’s murderer. Whatever came, they would face it shoulder to shoulder, bound by an understanding so fundamental it didn’t require stating.
The day had been long; its events had wrought untold upheaval.
Minutes ticked by; the heavy thud of Simon’s heart just beneath her ear soothed and comforted.
Closing her eyes, she surrendered to the night.
Simon woke her as she’d wished to be woken the morning before.
She was a sound sleeper; her body responded to his practiced ministrations even while she slumbered. Spreading her thighs, he settled between and eased into her.