The last button slid from its mooring, and he peeled her sleeves down her arms, helping her to shed the shielding garment. She shivered when his gaze found her pebbled nipples, poking through the fine linen of her simple night rail.
He cupped her breast, rubbing his thumb over the aching tip. “Beautiful.”
His praise made her feel beautiful. Portia arched into his hand as he caressed her with agonizing leisure, as if they had all night to devour each other and a hundred more nights after this. But they did not. All they had was this one. She had reconciled herself to that fact. If Granville discovered she had a lover, he would take Edwin from her care. There was no doubt. And she could not risk the loss of her precious son.
“Will you take this off?” he asked quietly, his hungry stare burning into hers as he caught the fabric of her night rail between his thumb and forefinger. “I want to see you.”
She was suddenly painfully aware of all the parts of her body she had failed to consider, first as a wife and later as a widow. The much fuller curves of her hips, the larger waist and full bottom. When she had been a debutante, she had been thin as a reed. But when she had been heavy with child, her body had altered, and the changes which had been wrought had never entirely been undone. She had not shown herself to a man—entirely nude—ever. Not even Landringham.
But she would not think of him now. Her son’s father was a coldhearted scoundrel who had bedded her until her love had become an inconvenience, and she had no wish to compare the furtive couplings they had shared to what she was experiencing now with Wolf.
As if reading her thoughts, Wolf kissed her shoulder, then her breast. “You needn’t be shy with me, love. But if you’ll be wanting to leave it on, I understand.”
How compassionate he was. She had never expected to find a man of such mysterious depths when she had summoned her bravado and marched into The Sinner’s Palace.
“I want to see you first,” she said.
The grin he gave her melted more of that stern ice she had thought impenetrable.
This night is all we shall have.
She tamped down a painful surge of disappointment at the reminder.
Any lingering disagreeable feelings were promptly dashed away as Wolf went to work on removing his coat and waistcoat. They fell to the floor in a sinful whisper of sound, leaving him looming over her in nothing more than his shirt and trousers. But once he had begun his task, Wolf proved determined. With the hasty flick of his long fingers, three buttons came undone, and then he caught the white fabric in his fists and hauled it over his head, revealing the mouthwatering expanse of his upper body to her feasting gaze.
His belly was taut, all lean, corded muscle. And his chest was broad, a sprinkling of dark hair adorning it, along with something else that drew her interest. It appeared as if it were a drawing made in ink, etched into his skin.
Portia leaned forward, her hand stealing out to touch him of its own accord as she marveled at the inking of a dragon with its wings unfurled, as if in flight. Her fingers traced over the tail, which curled below his nipple. The heat of his skin, along with the light dusting of chest hair, pleased her fingertips, bringing the flames inside her even higher.
“You have a tattoo,” she said, a silly observation because surely he knew what was upon his own body.
And what a lovely body it was.
“I forgot about her,” he said ruefully, glancing down at his chest. “I’ve had her for a few years.” Idly, he rubbed the dragon’s head and wings. “Hopefully I ain’t too frightening.”
“Frightening? Heavens, no.” Intrigued, she traced over the dragon, following the dark curves from her tail, back to her wings. “You are beautiful.”
The urge to feel him beneath her lips rose, and before she could deny herself, she pressed her mouth to his lean belly, kissing him there, feeling the skin contract, his muscles tense beneath her.
“This old hide of mine ain’t beautiful,” he rasped, relinquishing the dragon painted on his chest in favor of sifting his hands through her hair. “Now this—you—are true beauty, Countess.”
Strangely, when he called her by her title, she did not find it as loathsome as she once had. But then, to others, she had always been Lady Blakewell. Few had ever called her Countess. And in his deep, melodic voice it sounded like a term of endearment. Highest praise.
She was suddenly glad she had unbound her hair and been brushing it out when she had thought she heard a telltale creak in the halls before conducting her final evening’s pass through the house, and had gone to investigate. The glide of Wolf’s fingers through her long hair was nothing short of luxurious. She kissed his belly again to show him her enjoyment, and inhaled the musky, male scent of him. Her mouth traveled lower as his fingers grazed her scalp in delicious ministrations. She bowed her head and followed the dark trail of hair that led to the waistband of his trousers. The thick length of him stood in proud relief against the falls, and she cupped him in her palm, gratified when he groaned and jerked his hips, filling her hand with his rigid cock.
He wanted her.
How pleased the knowledge made her feel.
Pleased and proud and not just a little wicked. A great deal wicked. Powerful, too. She stroked him through his trousers, and he caught a handful of her hair, tugging her head back with gentle insistence so their gazes met and held.
“Christ, woman. You make me want to break every vow I’ve ever made.”
His low, husky confession also pleased her. She stroked again, grasping him as best as she could manage through the fabric separating her from what she wanted. Her only other lover had been far more experienced than she. A rake who had masterfully wooed her and persuaded her to give him everything he had wanted. She liked that Wolf was the opposite. Not a jaded libertine but a man who had somehow, impossibly, chosen her alone.
But this was not enough. Now that she had him half-naked and hard, her hands on him, and his on her, she had to have more. Because this was her last chance. Had to be her last chance. Tonight’s folly could never again be repeated.
“I want you in my mouth,” she whispered, still holding his stare.
He clenched his jaw. “You don’t need to do that, love. That ain’t why I stayed.”
She knew he had not remained with expectations of her instinctively, just the way she knew this man would never raise a hand to her. He would never hurt her. Though his size far surpassed Granville’s, there was nothing to fear from Wolf. Neither his East End roots nor his name nor the dragon emblazoned on his chest shook her. She wanted to bring him pleasure. Wanted to forget, for these few, stolen hours, that her life was not her own and this man could never be hers.
“Has a woman ever done that for you before?” she dared to ask, for while he had never shared a woman’s bed, it was entirely possible he had some experience. His skilled touches and smoldering kisses certainly suggested so.
She could not resist caressing his cock again, loving the heat and the thickness of him against her palm. Her inner muscles clenched as she imagined what it would feel like to have him inside her.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, a flush staining his cheekbones. “No.”