Page 13 of Tempted to the Billionaire's Bed

Four

SHE WAS ALREADY REGRETTING IT. This was crossing a line that morphed them from one thing to another. She wasn’t here, at Marco’s, on the pretense of work. She hadn’t been sent by Dante to get something signed or to collect documents. This time, she’d come to his house at Marco’s command, his express invitation, for the purpose of sex, and once she accepted that, and walked through this door, they’d both know that something more was going on between them.

Sex once was one thing, but being here by prior arrangement meant they were shifting things between them.

Or maybe it didn’t.

Portia didn’t know. Before Jack, she’d only casually dated a few guys. Her experience with men was limited, and Marco had way more experience with relationships than Portia.

Maybe this was just how it went for him. Maybe they’d sleep together tonight and that would be the end of it.

She lifted her hand to knock then remembered his explicit invitation to use the key she possessed. She didn’t know why that appealed to her, but it did. With fingers that weren’t quite steady, she swiped the card and pushed at the door, stepping into his apartment with legs that were shaking.

It’s not too late to leave, a voice in the back of her head whispered, urging her to be sensible, to turn and run, because apart from anything, she didn’t want to do something that would jeopardise her job. She loved what she did, where she worked and who she worked for.

She moved through his apartment with more curiosity than she had before, because this time she was here by invitation, whereas in the past it had been at Dante’s request, and she’d known she was an unwelcome intruder, there to do a job and get out again.

But tonight, Marco had asked her, and so she went slower, taking in the details of his furnishings, the artwork, noting with interest the lack of family photos, despite the fact his family was large and close-knit.

The only sign that he was a person rather than a curator of beautiful objects d’art was a single large photograph of an Italian villa with rolling green hills behind it and pencil pines on either side of the winding drive that led to the estate. She knew—from Dante—that this was their family home, where they’d grown up, and where their parents still lived.

How interesting that Marco should have a photograph of it.

“Hello?” She called out, standing in the middle of the lounge, looking around.

“I’m in here.” His voice came from near the bedroom, but as she drew close, she realized the bathroom door was shut, the water running. She hesitated on the outside.

“Marco?”

“Come in.”

Heart in throat, stalling a few moments, she lifted a hand to the door handle, turned it slowly, holding her breath.

Marco was in the shower.

Naked, of course, and rock hard, one hand wrapped around his length, eyes fixed to her.

“Good, you’re here.” There was a challenge in his features, a look that spoke of the same raw need she’d been navigating for two long, desperate weeks. “Join me.”

The hoarse invitation didn’t need to be spoken twice.

When all was said and done, this was what Portia had come for. This was what she’d been thinking about non-stop since walking out of his place last time.

She unbuttoned her shirt slowly, not because she was aiming to be seductive but because her fingers wouldn’t quite work properly, then moved onto her pants, sliding them down her legs, standing in only her underwear.

He stroked his length, mesmerizing her with the action, so she could barely move for a few beats, and then she undressed all at once, as fast as she could, shucking her clothes and tossing them in the corner of the bathroom. When she stepped towards him, he barked another command: “Open that drawer; get a condom.”

She blinked, the desperation in his voice converting to pure machismo, and she didn’t care at all.

How much he wanted her was thrilling and empowering, a total balm to the wreckage of her shattered ego. Jack had made her feel worthless and undesirable. Even before he’d cheated, she realized, looking back on how little he initiated sex or physical intimacy of any kind. She’d come to presume she just wasn’t that sexual, and neither was he, but with Marco, it was like the earth between them was made purely of lava. She couldn’t do anything but get burned.

Holding a foil square, she stepped into the large, open plan shower, nervous suddenly to be so close to him, all naked, wet and hard. But Marco wasn’t willing to wait around. Or perhaps he felt they’d both done enough waiting? He grabbed her and pulled her against him, their bodies slamming together, wet, naked, the water splashing off them, dousing Portia’s head as he kissed her, his mouth ravaging hers, his hardness pressed to her belly, making her ache for him, wet and hot between her legs as his hands roamed her skin, touching, owning, teasing, possessing, his fingers digging into her hips and then her buttocks, lifting her, kissing her, his strength and dominance taking her breath away.

He opened the condom pack quickly, sheathed himself without breaking their kiss, then he lifted her easily, so easily it took her breath away, or maybe that was the way he drove into her as he pressed her back against the cold, wet tiles, so her body was overwhelmed by a multitude of conflicting sensations. One minute there was the heat and warmth of his touch, the next the strength and whole-ness of his possession of her, and then the cold press of tiles to her spine, but nothing undid the perfection of this. She cried out, loud, heaving with each breath as he took her, pulling her down on his shaft as he drove into her and she dug her ankles into his back for better purchase, moving herself as she needed. They were two desperate animals, wild and untamed, acting on instincts, need, totally abandoned to the biological imperatives that were driving them. His hands were rough on her body, possessive and urgent; there’d be marks, later, she was sure, and that certainty gave her a thrill of which she wondered if she should be ashamed? But she liked this. She liked being dominated by Marco, she liked feeling owned by him.

He dropped his mouth to her throat, kissed her there, sucked, thrusting into her as his mouth did crazy things to her pulse and the water doused them both, and then Portia was scraping her nails against his shoulders, her cries mingled with the sound of water, as she exploded with pleasure, every cell in her body rejoicing in the intensity of this release. Marco was right there with her, the squeezing of her muscles, the tightening spasms around his length eroding any of his willpower so he came right along with her, digging his face into her shoulder, stubble against her sensitive, water softened skin, their breathing mingled in harsh bursts as they fought their way back to calm normality after such a cataclysmic coming together.

Eventually, he eased Portia to the ground, eyes boring into hers, reading her, asking her something silently, but she didn’t know what he was looking for, nor how to respond, so she was still, watchful, uncertain herself.

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