Heard a smothered giggle.
He proceeded to dry her hair; it held enough water to soak a bed. She let him, ducked and turned as she used the first towel to mop her curves, dry her long limbs.
Then she dropped the towel, wrestled the other from him, and dropped that, too. Nearly stopped his heart by stepping into his arms, arms he was helpless to stop closing about her.
She draped hers about his neck and lifted her face for a kiss.
He obliged without thought, took her lips and her mouth as she offered them, felt his control quake when she blatantly pressed nearer, setting her body to his.
She met his eyes when he lifted his head, determination clear in her gaze. “I want to celebrate.” Her gaze dropped to his lips; stretching up, she brushed them lingeringly with hers. “Now.”
“On the bed.” She was going to be the death of him—he was increasingly sure of that.
As if hearing something of his thoughts in his tone, she tilted her head, studied him. Then smiled. A smile that held too much knowledge, far too much resolution for his liking.
“On one condition.” Her tone had descended to that sultry purr that sent heat shooting straight to his loins. “This time, I want it all.”
He felt something inside him quake. “All?”
“Hmm-mmm.” Her eyes remained locked on his. “All—including whatever it is you hold back.”
For the first time in his life he felt dizzy from sheer lust. He gritted his teeth, spoke gratingly through them. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
One dark brow arched, haughty—deliberately challenging. “Don’t I?”
Her tone was beyond teasing.
Before he could respond, smooth as any houri, she turned in his arms, fitted herself back against him, looked over her shoulder, capturing his stunned gaze as she provocatively shifted her bare bottom against his aching erection. Waited for a heartbeat before asking, “Are you sure?”
She did know—it was there in her eyes, a blue so intense it was almost black. He wanted to ask how the devil she knew, but couldn’t think enough to form the sentence.
Couldn’t think beyond the fact she somehow did know his deepest, most primitive desire. And was willing to grant it. Accede to it.
That last was clear as she reached one hand up and, leaning her head back, drew his lips to hers. Took him in, drew him in, took his tongue, caressed it with hers. Urged him to feast. When he did, her hand drifted away; she found both his hands with hers, lifted them to her breasts.
Caught her breath on a soft gasp when he captured the firm mounds.
The sound, half-smothered by their kiss, shot fire through him. He released her lips, his hands full of her bounty, breathed, “Are you sure?”
Her lids flickered as he kneaded, blatantly possessive, then she lifted them. Her eyes were brilliant as she looked into his.
“I’m yours.” The words were certain, assured. “Take me as you wish, however you wish.” She held his gaze steadily. “I want to know all of you—all your wants, all your needs. All your desires.”
The last shackle fell, shattered. Passion roared through him, immeasurely stronger than anything he’d felt before. He released her, turned her, caught her in his arms, locked her to him as he bent his head, captured her mouth—and devoured.
What rode him was not lust, not desire, not even passion, but something that grew from all three, yet was fueled by something more. By a desperate, primitive need—something buried so deep beneath his civilized exterior that few women would ever guess it was there.
Let alone tempt it.
Invite it.
Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her; she clung to him, as greedily desperate as he, as wantonly hungry.
His legs hit the end of the four-poster bed. Gathering his strength, he eased her from him, broke the kiss, juggled her and tossed her onto the brilliant crimson coverlet.
“Wait.”
Portia lay as she’d fallen, on one hip, half over on her stomach, knew she wouldn’t have long to wait. She watched as he stripped off his clothes, let her gaze rest on his face, drank in the austere lines as he flung his waistcoat aside. His features looked harder, more set and angular, than she’d ever seen them. The strength in his body, that invested every movement, was somehow clearer, more intense. Less veiled.