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She was trapped. She could walk away, refuse to sign the damned envelope, and never know what it felt like to be kissed by someone else, still live in a world where Jack’s were the last hands to touch her, the last lips to possess hers. Or she could succumb, let Marco kiss her, work out if she did have some kind of sensual spark after all.
It was an experiment, pure and simple.
With a mutinous glare, she took the pen. “Fine. But I’m ripping it up afterwards.”
“That defeats the purpose,” he pointed out.
“And what’s that?” Her hand hovered over the page.
“Insurance.”
It wasn’t stupid of him. He didn’t know her, didn’t know her ethics and moral fiber, but if in six months something happened and she got fired, what was to say she couldn’t go to HR and make a complaint. She admired his level-headedness in the midst of whatever madness was circling them. Then again, maybe it was just proof that he wasn’t as caught up in this as she was. Marco flirted like he breathed.
“Fine,” she signed her name. “Go on. Show me what all the fuss is about,” she snapped, crossing her arms over her breasts, and standing still, refusing to show how much she wanted this.
His smile was indolent as he closed the distance between them, his breath warm on her temple as he reached out and deliberately uncrossed her arms, holding them at her sides.
“Prim so far,” he murmured, appraising her carefully. Then, he moved her hands behind her back, using just one of his hands to hold her wrists, trapping them so she couldn’t move, and her breasts were thrust forwards, moving rapidly with each tortured breath that came from her body.
His other hand curved around her hip, super-heating her skin through the fabric of her suit. He reached for the middle button of her jacket, unfastened it, revealing the blouse underneath, the buttons of which were straining across her breasts.
“Perhaps not so prim, despite the way you dress,” he mused, eyes on her breasts so even though he wasn’t touching her she felt as though he was, and her nipples hardened, straining against the lace of her bra.
“Marco,” she groaned his name, then tried to be rational and in command. “I don’t have all day,” she reminded him. “Your brother’s waiting on those papers.”
Something flickered in his eyes, a look that was halfway to a dark emotion, but then he covered it with a sensual grin.
“Impatient,” he murmured, moving closer, so the word was whispered against her ear. Her body trembled. “But this should never be rushed. A good kiss is like wine, to be savored, enjoyed, each moment tasted and reflected upon.”
Even the way he spoke lit little fires through her bloodstream.
“I thought you were more into beer than wine.”
“You don’t know me,” he said, simply, and while it was true, it was also not true, because she’d seen him enough times to have formed a pretty good understanding of Marco and his lifestyle. “But that’s okay. You don’t need to know me to enjoy this.”
Then, he kissed her, and the whole bottom fell completely out of Portia’s world.
Two
HIS LIPS PARTED HERS gently at first, curiously, as though he was tasting her, just like he’d said, as one might sample a wine, his tongue flicking against hers lazily, questioningly. It was a kiss that cracked something open in her belly, causing her whole body to tremble and chasm. She ached to touch him but still he held her hands behind her back, so she was completely his captive, and that only added to the sensual heat assaulting her body.
“Marco,” she said his name with urgency and in lieu of being able to touch him with her hands, she lifted one of her legs, her heel brushing his calf, then lifting higher, to the back of his knee, so her sex was pressed against his and she felt his burgeoning arousal so tantalizingly close and cried out against his mouth. The kiss, which had started so languidly, suddenly changed gears, urgency and desperation in Marco’s every movement, as his tongue began to lash hers and his mouth pressed hard, and the hand holding her wrists broke free, to come up to the back of her head and tangle in her hair, holding her, pressing her forward, against him, his whole body somehow seeming to wrap around hers and command her, demand from her. She could no longer see. There was black in her field of vision and also blinding white; she was acting on instinct alone and every single instinct was telling her she needed Marco: more of him, all of him.
She said his name again and again, interspersed with the word ‘please’, as he lifted her easily and sat her on the edge of the table, standing between her legs, kissing her as he pushed her backwards, his body heavy on hers, his hands roaming all over as his tongue continued to dominate and demand.
“Not prim,” he said with a shake of his head, pushing up and meeting her eyes, a grin on his face tugging at something low in her gut. He’d gotten his answer, but she didn’t want him to stop. Not for anything.
Her own hands found the zip of his jeans and pushed it down, her eyes unknowingly haunted as she revealed his nakedness to herself for the first time it was intended for her.
“Portia,” there was a warning in his voice, a seriousness that went against his usual playboy persona. “We didn’t agree to this,” he lifted the envelope.
“I’ll change it later,” she muttered, cheeks flushed dark.
He stilled, eyes on hers. “You’re sure?”
“You were right about me. I’ve only ever had sex in a bedroom,” she said, trying to make a joke, but it fell flat. “I’m sure,” she said quietly, with determination. She wanted to erase Jack from her, but she also wanted Marco completely, utterly, desperately, and she didn’t dare let logic enter the fray. This wasn’t sensible or rational and she was pretty sure she’d want to disappear afterwards, but these were all contemplations she couldn’t give any weight to in this moment.
He swore. “This is definitely worth being woken up for.”
