Her skin was unbelievably fine, so white it almost glowed, so delicate his fingertips tingled as they traced. Tightly puckered, her nipples beckoned; he took one in his mouth and suckled deeply, deeply, until she cried out, her fingers clenching tight on his skull.

Her breathing was rapid, fractured, when he lifted his head. Their lips met, brushed. From under heavy lids, their gazes met in a fleeting touch; their breaths mingled; heat lapped and wrapped about them.

“More.” Her whisper was like a waft of flame against his lips, through his mind.

His body was already tight, muscles rigid with desire, locked by his will against the all but overpowering need to seize, to take. To claim.

But not yet.

He didn’t bother asking if she was sure. Setting his lips to hers, he drew her back into his arms, sank back into the sofa, drawing her with him, across his lap. Her knees were curled alongside his thigh; lying back, holding her to their kiss, he sent one hand stroking down her back, over the swell of her hip, tracing down the long line of her legs.

Drew her down into the heated darkness, step by small step drawing her deeper into the realm where passion and primitive wants held sway. Where the need to be touched grew and swelled to a compulsion, where the compulsion to be intimately known became an overriding need.

When he drew her skirts up and slipped his hand beneath, the only murmur she made was one of encouragement. He fought the urge to send her wits spinning, to befuddle her until he had captured her; with her, he was following a different script, one designed to capture more than just her body. He wanted her mind and her soul as well.

So he kept their kiss light, enough for her to be aware, to know, not just what he was doing, but every touch, every caress, every intimate liberty. And to know he knew it, too.

She was wearing silk stockings. His fingertips traced her calf, then trailed upward; he cupped the back of her knee, then slowly stroked higher, finding her garter, circling it with his fingers.

He felt the shudder that went through her when he reached higher and touched her bare skin. Like her breasts, fine, delicate, warm with desire. He traced, and knew she was with him, that her awareness was focused on the shifting connection between his hand and her thigh.

The edge of her chemise trapped his fingers; he flicked them free, slid his hand beneath the fine silk, cruising over the bare skin of her hip, over her bare bottom, over skin that heated and dewed at his touch.

She shuddered and clung to the kiss, for one moment shaken; he soothed with his lips, with his tongue, with his hand slowly, possessively, stroking, then, when she eased, more explicitly exploring.

She shivered, but stayed with him-followed and felt as he wished. Experienced the thrills, both his and her own, as they took the next step into intimacy.

When they’d both had their fill, he traced forward, over her hip, splayed his fingers over her bare stomach. Felt again the shudder of pure awareness that racked her, sensed her sudden tensing.

Felt forced to breathe against her swollen lips, “You’re sure?”

She dragged in a breath, her breasts swelling against his chest. “Touch me-touch me there.”

He didn’t wait for further direction, needed no detailed instruction. Taking her lips again, taking her mouth, he waited only until he sensed her awareness join with his again before sliding his hand lower, tracing the sweet curve of her stomach down to the profusion of soft curls between her thighs.

Stroking slowly, deliberately, through them, he touched her, set his fingers to her softest flesh and traced, explored, learned. And still she was with him, sharing every sensual moment, every single tactile impression… never before had he been so aware of a woman beneath his hands.

The knowledge of what that would translate to once he had her beneath him, body to body, skin to naked skin, sent a shaft of pure heat to his groin. He was aching, had been since she’d walked so confidently into his arms; pure torment was only a heartbeat away.

Yet the moment held the power to command him-for once helped in holding the raging need at bay. This-she-was too important, this conquest above all others meant life and death to him.

Fingertips throbbing, acutely sensitive, he eased her thighs wider, parted her soft folds, traced, teased, tantalized, until she moved against his hand, deliberately, wantonly-with her usual decision demanding more.

Her fingers were lost in his hair, blindly clinging; he opened her and eased one finger into her scalding sheath. Her slickness burned him, seared through him, tempted beyond belief. He could barely breathe-couldn’t think beyond the all but blinding surge of passion, the welling need to bury himself in the sweet feminine flesh his fingers so artfully teased.

Grimly, he held on, held the primitive urge back, ruthlessly contained. It didn’t fade but simply hardened, solidified into a brutally painful reality that would not leave him.

It was enough to let him go on, to continue along the path he’d mapped unmindful of the price he would later pay.

Caught in the coils of passion, deeper than she’d imagined might be, Portia was only dimly aware of that fractional hiatus-the momentary shifting of his attention-before it returned, in full force, to her. To where he was touching her, caressing her, repetitively teasing in some way she didn’t understand.

Her body seemed to know, to recognize some pattern that was beyond her conscious mind. She had to let it lead her, had to follow mentally behind, learning, seeing, realizing.

Feeling. She’d never imagined that physical sensation could be this acute, this consuming. His lips never left hers, his arm around her supported her, the hard wall of his chest was close, reassuring in the face of the whirlpool of sensations swirling through her, buffeting her mind, dragging at her senses.

The fact that his hand lay between her thighs, that he’d eased them apart and was stroking her there, her flesh slick and wet, swollen and hot, should have overwhelmed her, but did not. She could sense the heat, the furnace her own body had become, the deeper heat that flared within when he probed, then opened her and penetrated more deeply.

Her breath caught, her nerves, until then sensitized and alive, started to curl. Tight. Then tighter. Her muscles started to tense, but in some new and novel way.

Lungs locked, she gasped through their kiss, clung to him as between her thighs, deep inside her, sensation built.

He was stoking it deliberately; she knew that much. Knew this was what she’d asked for, what she needed to know, wanted to know.

She let go, let slide the last vestiges of inhibition, and let the tide welling inside sweep her up. Sweep her on.

Into a landscape of sensation. Up to some pinnacle of cataclysmic feeling.

Her senses expanded until they filled her mind; her body felt aflame. He reached deeper within her; a rush of rapture flowed down her veins, under her skin, tightening her nerves, driving her senses…

Until they fractured. Shattered.

Sharp, almost biting delight gripped her, held her in a vise, poured radiant pleasure through her.

The wave swept on, past, through her, leaving in its wake a sense of earthly bliss. A sense of floating in tactile glory, lapped by waves of delight.

Gradually, the waves subsided; sensation diminished, the feelings ebbed. His hand left her.

To her surprise, she felt empty. Incomplete.

Unfulfilled.

As her wits returned fully, she made the connection. Realized this was a two-act play and he’d stopped at the intermission.

And had no intention of going any further.

She knew without asking; his decision was there, solid and real in his heavily locked muscles, in the brutual tension riding him.

In confirmation, like a curtain falling, he flipped down her skirts and locked his hand over her hip.

She had absolute confidence in his self-mastery. Drawing back from the kiss, she boldly reached between them, traced the hard line of his erection, the solid weight she could feel riding against her thigh.

Closed her hand as well as she could; felt him shift, heard the hiss of his indrawn breath.

Leaned close and whispered against his lips. “You want me.”

The sound he made was guttural, a strangled laugh. “You can hardly doubt it.”

She couldn’t, not with the evidence burning her palm, yet the degree of that want, the sheer power of his desire was a surprise-a shock.

Even more a temptation.

Yet the realization-the physical fact, an ephemeral knowledge brought to life, translated to flesh and blood-sent a shiver of pure caution, an elemental sensing of danger coursing through her.

He drew in a tight breath; eyes closed, he pressed his hand between them, closed it over hers. Tightened her grip on him.

Then, slowly, drew her hand away.

He breathed out; she couldn’t truly see his face in the darkness, but would have sworn the harsh planes had grown even more hard-edged.

Against his lips, she breathed, “Why?”

She didn’t need to be more specific. He would know even better than she that he could have taken her if he’d wished.

His gaze touched her face, traveled it, then he lifted his hand and traced a finger across her lips. She scented, and tasted, her essence. Then he leaned close and kissed her, kissed it from her lips.

“Are you ready for that?”

His words drifted through her mind, not really a question.

She drew back, looked into his eyes, dark, shadowed, unreadable. Could still feel his desire, the powerful need that was riding him. Answered truthfully. “No. But-”

He kissed her; stopped her words. She hesitated for an instant, the understanding that he did not wish her to utter them, didn’t wish to hear what she would have said-what he’d known she’d been about to say-sweeping through her. Then she returned the kiss. Gratefully.

Sensed the heat slowly dying between them. Let it fade. Ebb. Until…

Their lips parted, yet they remained close. Their gazes touched. Lifting one hand, she traced his chiseled cheek. Put their thoughts into words. “Next time.”

He drew breath, chest swelling. Then he gripped her waist and eased her back. “If you wish it.”

If you wish it.

The hardest words he’d ever had to say, yet he’d had to say them.

His hand locked about hers, they walked back to the house; a short discussion over whether or not he needed to escort her back to her room-a discussion he’d won-had helped get them back onto something resembling their normal footing.

Not that that was the same as it had been a week ago.

All well and good, but the desire now riding him had spurs a foot long. Never before had the need for a woman, let alone a particular woman, been so consuming; never before had he had to mask, to mute his natural inclinations to this extent.

Having to let her go tonight, to let her escape him, wasn’t a script of which his inclinations, his warrior instincts, approved. Having to battle them, having to keep a cool head while his body went up in flames, did not please his temper at all.

A fact of which she was well aware; she’d been shooting quick glances at him ever since they’d left the summerhouse. His face, set and hard, bore witness to his feelings-feelings she knew him well enough to guess.

She knew, but he seriously doubted she understood. For all her talk of learning about sex and trust and marriage, he very much doubted that it had occurred to her yet just where they were-what the next stage encompassed, what destiny she was flirting with.

It would. Which was why he had to play a long game. To get what he wanted, to secure all he wanted, he needed her absolute, unqualified trust.

And the only way to get that was to earn it.

No shortcuts, no sleight of hand.

No pressure. Of any kind.

He felt like growling.

If you wish it.

When she stopped and thought about what that “it” encompassed, he was going to have problems enough. Their past wasn’t going to make her smile fondly and forge ahead without long and earnest consideration; her temper, and his, weren’t going to make her decision to embark on the final stage any easier.

As for her intelligence, her willfulness, and even worse, her independence… stacked against the panaply of his most fundamental characteristics, with which she was extremely familiar, convincing her to risk giving herself to him was going to be an uphill battle. He needed every advantage he could gain.

He trudged on through the balmy night. She kept pace with him easily, her stride long and free.