Bedded by Blackmail

‘Tell me, Portia, would you like me to stop?’

A smile had played about his mouth.

Her expression had been worth every word of scorn and derision she had ever thrown at him.

She had been beyond speech. Only a low, agonised moan in her throat, and her hips straining upwards to try and catch his touch again.

‘Well?’

There had been the merest exhalation of breath. He’d had to strain to hear it. But it had been enough.

‘Please… Diego….’

He had smiled again.

‘My pleasure, Portia. Or rather, yours…’

His finger had lowered to her, vibrating, and he had watched her spill, the tide of her orgasm flowing out from that one supremely sensate point of her being.

It had taken her a long, long time to come down from it.

He had made sure of that.

And then, and only then, had he sheathed himself and taken his own enjoyment.

He lay back now, supremely relaxed, still stroking her hair. The second time, just now, had been even more pleasurable—and had shocked her even more.

Until, of course, she’d given herself to it and experienced, he was sure, a sensual banquet surpassing every other.

He smiled reminiscently, taking another sip of whisky. The complex fiery flavour overlaid quite a different taste. Portia—the very heart of her.

His fingers trickled softly along the tender line of her neck and he felt her move minutely in response. The movement altered the pressure on his groin, and he felt himself start to tighten.

After feasting on

her he had given her subsequent orgasms in the traditional way—and himself. But now… He moved his hips a fraction and felt his arousal quicken. Now he felt in the mood for what he had given her.

He set down his whisky. He stroked her hair one more time, then brought both hands to cradle her head, turning it gently inwards. She resisted a second, as if she did not know what he was doing, or why. Then, as he murmured to her, at the same time sliding back the sheet, she finally seemed to realise his intent. Drawing up a little, to rest her weight across his now bare thighs, she dipped her head again.

Diego sighed pleasurably, and relaxed back more deeply into the pillows.

Her hair fell like a veil around him. Her lips were like velvet.

Portia took one more mouthful of the duck, and then set down her chopsticks. The plate seemed very far away. So did the gleaming white linen tablecloth, and the people around the table.

Everything seemed far away. Remote.

Unreal.

‘The duck is not to your taste? It is a speciality of the house, but we can easily order something different for you if you prefer.’

The speaker, a petite, elegantly dressed Singaporean woman, sounded concerned. Portia gave a slight shake of her head.

‘No, thank you. It’s delicious. But I’m not very hungry, I’m afraid.’

Dark eyes narrowed at her from across the table. She looked down at her plate, where the almost untouched duck lay.

‘Perhaps it is the heat,’ said the woman. ‘It takes a little while to acclimatise—especially the English. Your…partner…’ She hesitated fractionally, then went on, ‘He is more fortunate. You must be more used to higher temperatures. Señor Saez?’