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Maybe he had a point. Maybe there were other more important things to consider.
Like the way their bodies talked. And understood. And felt.
“Okay, during is fine,” she said, and he arched a brow, looking so sexy and cynical and utterly, preposterously hot that she floundered. “Are you laughing at me?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You’d better not be.”
“I’m fascinated by you,” he said simply. “So talk,” he instructed, as he eased her to her feet at the foot of his bed, stripping her blazer first and discarding it on a nearby chair, before turning his attention to the buttons of her blouse and unfastening them, one by one. She tried to catch the threads of her thoughts, but it was almost impossible, as his fingers brushed over her skin. He reached the last button, undid it, and slid the shirt down her arms, dropping it to the floor. She’d chosen a lace bra that morning and he let out a low whistle when he saw it.
“Very nice.”
She ground her teeth. “This is—,” she gestured from herself to him, “We need to agree what we’re doing, Marco. It’s important.”
“We’re having sex. Or we will be, soon.”
“I know. And that’s great. But I need rules around it. I need limits.”
“Limits to sex? Where’s the fun in that?” He asked, undoing her bra, dropping it so it crumpled on top of her shirt.
“I don’t mean—,” but he kissed her, swallowing the words, and derailing her train of thought so effectively and neatly that she was completely lost to him.
“Changed my mind,” he said gruffly. “Talk after. Okay?”
She nodded, sighing against him, her hands pushing at his shirt now, lifting it, reveling in the feeling of his skin, his closeness, reveling in everything about this, and she didn’t stop reveling. Not when he removed all her clothes and she got rid of his, not when he lifted her and placed her in his bed, nor when he donned protection then entered her. Then she reveled and surrendered in quick succession, riding wave after wave of pleasure and awareness, feeling all the things it was possible for someone to feel and know when their body was being expertly played and celebrated.
And hewascelebrating her.
That was exactly the right word for it. He was worshipping her, treating her as though she was special and fragile and unique and she’d never been made to feel that way, so as pleasure cracked over her like a wave hitting the shore, the sharp sting of tears in the back of her throat caught her by surprise, almost taking the edge off her euphoria, but she refused to let it! She blinked quickly, then closed her eyes, feeling only this, him, the moment, not overcomplicating it with memories of the past and what she’d almost given up by marrying Jack, nor letting herself think about what would happen after Marco, when she went back to life without him, and this.
It would never be the same as before, because sheknewthis side of herself now. She understood it.
Madness enveloped them, and then abated, calm returning, though the air still crackled and hummed with the electricity they generated when they were close.
“Okay.” He pushed up onto one elbow, his hand idly stroking her hair. “Now we can talk.”
She smiled, her lips curving of their own accord, relaxed and content, flooded with the relief that came from having enjoyed what she’d been thinking about since the moment she’d left his place last time.
Only, while Portia knew she needed to have this conversation, she was hungry, and thirsty, and thought it might be easier to speak once she had a glass of wine in hand.
“Do you have something to drink?”
“I’m pretty sure you’ve walked past my bar enough times to know the answer to that.”
She pushed at his chest. “I mean, can we have something to drink?”
“Sure.” He stood up, gloriously naked and uncaring, holding out a hand to Portia. She put hers in it, wondering at the trilling that danced up her spine.
“Give me a minute?” She asked.
He scanned her face then left the room without another word. A few moments later, Portia joined him in his palatial lounge. Marco had pulled on a pair of boxers but otherwise remained as he’d been in bed. He glanced up at her as he popped the top of a bottle of champagne, the label one she didn’t recognize.
“You have a bad habit of getting dressed,cara.”
Her lips pulled to the side. “You have a problem with that?”
“I have a problem if it’s a prelude to you leaving.”
