Bedded by Blackmail

She knew, with a certainty that was like a knifeblade slicing through her, that what was happening to her was destroying her.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

She had become an addict, one who both craved and hated her addiction.

And her addiction was Diego Saez, who could take her to a paradise of the senses she had never known existed—and then abandon her.

She meant nothing to him. Nothing but a body.

Somewhere, very deep within her, a slow pulse throbbed. In her head the pressure swelled, seeking escape.

But there was no way out. No escape from what Diego Saez was doing to her.

She went on sipping her water, and staring out over the tropical plants of the central courtyard.

In the afternoon she went shopping, drifting through one mall after another along Orchard Street. She bought a few small items—some toiletries to keep her going, some underwear, a few more clothes, a handful of magazines and some books. She didn’t know how long Diego Saez would be staying here in Singapore, or where he would go afterwards.

Or how long he would keep her.

She knew only that she had made her choice, and that from that choice there was no going back.

She would have to see it through to the bitter, bitter end.

Whatever the price she was paying.

Diego lounged back against the pillows. A whisky glass was in his hand, and the sheet was half pulled up over him, riding low on his hips. In his lap, Portia’s head rested, her fine silken hair spread over the curve of his thigh, her body stretched out across the wide expanse of the bed. Though he was spent, the pressure of her head on his groin was faintly pleasurable.

Idly he stroked her hair.

He took a sip of his whisky.

He felt—replete.

This time had been the best yet.

It was, he knew, because this time he had stayed in total control the whole time. There had been no more disastrous going over the edge at her first orgasm.

He had had to adopt several methods stay in control, but they had brought their own rewards.

Not least the satisfaction of seeing just how far—and how fast—he could extend Portia Lanchester’s sexual repertoire.

And she was learning—oh, she was learning, all right. Learning just how infinite the pleasures of the flesh could be.

Tonight he had taught her just how much pleasure she could feel even without his possession of her.

She’d been reluctant at first, seeming to expect that he would want his own fulfilment, but he’d soon dissolved that away. It had not been long before she was giving those low little moans he liked to hear so much. He’d lain beside her, propped on one elbow, looking down at her, enjoying the way her nipples were like ripe red cherries. He’d brought them to fruition first, gently teasing and squeezing them, each upon each, until her breasts were a matched pair, each a swollen, rounded orb, their peaks suckled to ripeness.

Then he had let his hand glide further down, to tangle awhile in the tight curls at the clenched vee of her thighs, until, with another little moan, she had slackened and given him access. And there, touch by touch, stroke by stroke, he had teased her to pulsing, flooding readiness.

She had pleaded with him, gasping his name in her arousal as she never did otherwise, her breath shallow, her hands kneading supplicatingly into the sheets, eyes closed in inward focus on the sensations rippling exquisitely through her body. But he had ignored her pleas, only continuing with his task, his eyes half closed, merely dipping his head every now and then to suckle one breast or the other, keeping both at engorged ripeness.

He had felt the pressure rising in his own body, known that had he followed his own appetite he would have come down on her and taken his satiation. But he had resisted, letting his fingers and not his body arouse her, sometimes halting quite deliberately, so that her closed eyes had flown open, anguish in them, until he had laughed softly and continued. And with a long, sensual sigh her eyes had fluttered closed again and she had given herself to his caressing.

Only at the last, when the flush had already started to stain across her breasts, and his forefinger had poised over the quivering nub of her delicate aroused flesh, had he paused one final time.

Her eyes had flown open again, gazing up at him with imploring disbelief.

He had leant forward, kissing her languorously on the mouth.