He withdrew and thrust again, seating himself fully, then, obedient to her tugging, let his body down atop hers.
She caught his eye. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing you need to know.” He pressed a hand beneath her hip, tilted her up to meet his next thrust.
“I won’t pay attention until you tell me.”
He laughed. “Don’t tempt me.”
She tried to g
lare, but his next thrust, deeper, harder, wiped the impulse from her mind.
He shifted, rising slightly over her, moving more deeply than ever into her. “If you learn everything at once, there’ll be nothing left to teach you. I wouldn’t want you to grow bored.”
“I don’t think . . .” There’s any likelihood of that, not ever. Not in this lifetime. She left the words unsaid, closed her eyes. Tried to hold back the tide of urgent need that rose so powerfully, stoked by every deep penetration, by every rocking thrust of his body into hers.
Couldn’t. Let it sweep through her, catch her, buoy her, carry her.
On.
Into the sea in which they’d bathed often enough for her to relish the moments, to value them, savor them, appreciate all they were.
Intimate. Those precious moments were assuredly that, but also a great deal more, far more than the merely physical.
She felt it in her bones, wondered, in the distant part of her mind that still functioned, if he felt it, too.
Felt the power of what was growing between them. Felt how it linked them as their bodies relentlessly fused. Harder, faster, reaching for the pinnacle of ultimate bliss. Sure that they would reach it.
As inevitably they did, cresting, rising high on a wave of ecstasy, before tumbling, locked together, into a sea of pleasured satiation.
It had been easy. So very easy she wasn’t sure she could trust her intuition. Surely nothing so important could be this straightforward.
Was it really love? How could she tell?
It was certainly more than lust that bound them; inexperienced though she was, she was sure about that.
Quitting the breakfast table the next morning, praying no one had noticed her amazing appetite, Portia headed for the morning room and the terrace beyond. She needed to think, to reevaluate, to reassess where they now were, and where, together, it was possible they might go. She’d always thought best while walking, rambling, preferably outdoors.
But she couldn’t think at all with him prowling beside her.
Halting on the terrace, she faced him. “I want to think—I’m going for a walk.”
Hands in his pockets, he looked down at her. Inclined his head. “All right.”
“Alone.”
The change in his face was not due to her imagination; the planes really did harden, his jaw firmed, his eyes sharpened, narrowed.
“You can’t go wandering anywhere alone. Someone tried to murder you, remember?”
“That was days ago—they must have realized by now that I don’t know anything to the point.” She spread her hands. “I’m harmless.”
“You’re witless.” He scowled. “If he thinks you’ll remember whatever it is he imagines you know but have forgotten, he won’t stop—you heard Stokes. Until the murderer’s caught, you go nowhere without protection.”
She narrowed her eyes. “If you think I’m going to—”
“I don’t think—I know.”