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Besides, Marco didn’t do strong. He didn’t do demanding, or overbearing.
“I’ll think about it,” she said. He didn’t push.
Two of them had been in the shower, two of them had felt what he did. There was no way Portia wouldn’t be craving him by Friday, just like he’d be craving her.
Time would work its magic and then he’d have the pleasure of her body again. He just had to wait it out…
Five
SHE HALFWAY HATED HERSELF for going back Friday, but his invitation had been going around and around her head on repeat since she’d left, and her body had become her own worst enemy, reminding her every second of every day what she’d experienced with Marco.
She felt as though she’d been offered a buffet in the midst of the desert.
Like she’d spent her twenties without any idea what sex could be, and now, suddenly, she’d had the most insanely powerful awakening and the knowledge Marco had stirred in her was driving her to fever pitch, making her powerless to resist everything he offered.
Which was…what, exactly? That had been rolling around in her mind, too.
She didn’t know what Marco was offering, only that desire for him was powerful and sort of beyond her control now.
Yet she had to maintain control. If she let herself go, if she let herself fully sink into this thing, she just knew she’d get hurt all over again. He was the last kind of man she could trust to look after her.
Oh, he was clearly a one hundred per cent bonafide sex-god.
That was indisputable.
But she’d seen for herself how quickly he went through women and Portia wasn’t under any illusions that she was different. In another couple of weeks, at the most, he’d have moved on, and she’d be forgotten about, until he happened to walk into the office and see her. Then, he might briefly recall a time when he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind, but soon after, he’d get on with his life: no harm, no foul.
So it had to be that way for Portia, too.
She had to know that at the end of this, she’d be okay.
Which meant boundaries.
Clear, defined, agreed-on-in-writing boundaries.
Tonight, rather than using the key she’d had since Dante had first sent her to Marco’s penthouse, she knocked on the door, and waited dutifully for him to answer.
It didn’t take long.
He pulled it inwards wearing jeans and a shirt, feet bare, hair scruffy, and her insides clenched with the unmistakable thrill of desire.
Without saying a word, he stepped back, holding the door wide, gesturing for her to enter.
Trepidation gave birth to a kaleidoscope of butterflies in her tummy, but she moved into the foyer of his penthouse, the Degas just across from them. There was no time to admire it though. Marco swooped forward, lifted Portia up, kicked the door shut as he carried her through the luxurious apartment, towards his bedroom.
“Wait, wait,” she said huskily, pressing a hand to his chest.
His nostrils flared. “I’ve been waiting,” he reminded her gruffly.
The desperation in his voice pulled at something in her chest.
“We need to talk.”
“Can we talk while I remove your clothes?”
“Yes, but maybe not as coherently,” she said with a soft laugh.
“Coherence is overrated.”
