Page 20 of At His Lady’s Command

“I can’t bear it,” she gasped, between long, searing kisses, as her clumsy hands tore at his cravat and tried to peel his jacket off. “I need you so. Randall.”

“Portia…” he said hoarsely, turning her around, his mouth a dream on her neck as he unfastened the gown buttons and eased the cord of her stays so she could wriggle free and place the garments, and her petticoat, over a chair. Too impatient to either get into bed or remove her chemise, shoes, and stockings, Portia leaned forward and rested her elbows on a small desk before bunching her chemise at the waist.

“Fuck me.”

Randall’s hands were reverent as they caressed her hips and backside, and she shuddered in an agony of anticipation, so wet that juices from her aching quim were trickling down her inner thighs. Yet he didn’t stuff her full with his cock. Instead, there was a soft thud as he dropped to his knees…a brief puff of warm air on her labia…and then his tongue, oh God, his tongue fluttering over her clitoris, lapping up her wetness and circling her back entrance, making her moan with a need so acute it left her trembling.

“You’re soaked,” he said. “And delicious.”

“D-Don’t tease. Fuck me. At once.”

He laughed unsteadily, and she quivered as his next movement was to rise and curve himself over her, spread her thighs further with his, and rub the engorged head of his cock against her slick quim. “Sorry, my lady. It’s been too long since I had the taste of your sweet cunt in my mouth.”

Then he thrust inside her. The pleasure was blinding and absolute as her inner walls melted around his thick length, attempting to keep him within but failing as he withdrew and returned, withdrew and returned, deeper and harder each time. Portia bucked in bliss, hips tilting and head thrashing as her body surrendered, climaxing in a rush of feverish ecstasy that only intensified as he pulled out to come on her back with a guttural roar, his hot seed lashing her sensitive skin like a whip.

As it was with Randall…utterly unforgettable.

* * *

If he’d been able to move, Randall might have shaken his head at what they’d just done. Behaved like a pair of star-crossed, lusty seventeen-year-olds who had thumbed their nose at their parents and run away for a forbidden tryst. They’d not even made it to the bed to risk breaking it. Lady Portia, the daughter and sister of a marquess, bent over a desk in her chemise, shoes, and stockings, and him behind her with his trousers around his knees…

She still hadn’t said a word, though. Had he hurt her? Been too rough?

“Lady Portia?” he asked uncertainly, easing away and taking a clean handkerchief from his jacket to mop her back.

“You called me just Portia before. I prefer that from you. Randall and Portia. Yes, that sounds right.”

Relief swamped him as she pushed herself up from the desk, flexed her arms, and turned to grin at him. A soft, sated, impish grin that wound its way around his heart like an embrace.

“Could I interest you in bed?” he rasped, his throat still scratchy from the force of his climax. Fortunately the walls were sturdy in the Dare townhouse, otherwise everyone in Manchester Square might have heard them.

“Always,” she said, taking his hand and leading them both in a comical wobbly-legged, clothing-impeded shuffle over to the enticing-looking bed.

After exchanging amused glances at their state of disrepute, they undressed fully, and crawled under the crisp sheets. Almost instantly Portia settled herself half-atop him, her head on his chest, one arm flung over his waist and one leg crossing his. Her unashamed queenly possessiveness warmed him to the soul—it seemed she would never willingly discard or leave him behind.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked curiously, tilting her head to look up at him.

Randall hesitated, the truth too raw. “Er…how bloody ridiculous it is that two full-grown, unmarried adults had to run to their friends’ house to be naked for a stolen hour.”

“Bloody ridiculous is far too mild a term. And all because my father failed to leave me my own portion. I am quite sure my stepmother’s influence is to blame for that, but Fairfield said he wasn’t impressed with my father’s decisions, and I must say I concur.”

No. Do not speak of him. Please.

Randall tried to remain calm, to suppress the dark, crushing emotions that accompanied any thought of the duke. But his entire body went rigid. “You must not let His Grace get under your skin. That is…stay away. He…he uses and discards without a qualm.”

“I think,” Portia said, as she held him a little tighter, “you need to tell me why you feel the way you do about the Duke of Fairfield. I know I am not entitled to such information, but I want to understand why you refused his invitation. For it seems he has some hold over you that hurts you, and I do not like it.”

“Because I belong to you?” he replied, only half in jest.

She didn’t smile. “Yes. You’re my captain.”

Randall tried to form the words. But his mouth felt as dry as a desert, and the rules of a lifetime were hard to break. “He…I…”

Portia stroked his arm. “Was he your employer, perhaps? A landlord?”

“Nothing that simple,” he said bitterly.

“Tell me. Please.”