Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

H IS 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."

She sat up, thankfully still having the presence of mind to want to remove her own jacket and shirt. The way he'd been kissing her a second ago, she suspected Marco might rip off the buttons if she let him take care of it. Besides, there was something ultra-empowered about being the one to strip for him. She moved with business-like efficiency, but when she reached her bra, he stilled her hands. "Stop."

Eyes huge, she looked at him.

"Let me."

He reached behind her, finding the clasp, but as he unhooked it, his lips dropped to the curve of her neck, and he kissed her there, his stubble dragging across her sensitive skin as his fingers trailed lightly across her back, removing the bra, guiding it down her arms, discarding it on the table top as he lifted his mouth to hers, kissed her, his hands seeking her breasts, fondling them gently at first and then with more insistence, so she arched her back and cried out, white hot fever spreading through her as pleasure threatened to burst like a wave over her entire body.

She couldn't think or speak or do anything but feel as a wave of so much desire exploded through her she felt the heat between her legs intensifying, moist need making her groan her desire for him.

He swore again as he unfastened her trousers, his mouth shifting to one of her breasts as he cupped her bottom, lifting her so he could remove the pants from her, taking her underwear with it, leaving her naked and exposed on the edge of the table, and far too turned on to care.

"Not at all prim," he muttered when he returned his mouth to her other breast, taking her nipple between his teeth and pressing down on it just hard enough to make her cry his name, to wriggle her hips. It was an invitation he didn't need to hear twice; his hand separated her thighs, his fingers brushing her sex lightly at first so she jumped, because it had been a long time since she'd been with a guy, and even with Jack, he hadn't touched her like this. It had always been a perfunctory, practiced coming together.

This was so different. Everything was different.

Marco kissed her hard, pressing her back against the table, before dragging his mouth down her body, between her breasts, over her flat stomach, to the apex of hair at the top of her legs, his tongue flicking her sex before sucking on the most sensitive cluster of nerves, making her whimper and cry out, making her groan, making her almost half-dead.

"Marco!"

"Come for me, cara ," he commanded, the invitation rolling through her, so she twisted from one side to the other as a passion fever tormented her, drove her totally wild, and his tongue lashed her, his fingers moved inside of her, his other reached up, twisted her nipple and then she was coming in a way she'd never experienced, so hard, fast, so completely, it was like drowning and being burned alive all at once, it was euphoric and excruciating.

She barely had time to catch her breath. He disappeared but she was still coming down off the high, the waves crashing around her as he left the room, and then returned with a strip of metallic squares, tearing one off and rolling the condom over his length.

"You want this to happen? You're sure?" He asked, eyes holding hers, his own cheeks slashed a deep purple.

She nodded, but somehow, out of somewhere, sanity asserted itself just for a moment. "No one can know," she said, pressing a hand to his chest. "My job…means everything to me." It's all I have left. "This never happened."

His eyes flicked across her face. "I'm not planning to sing it from the rooftops. My brother would kill me."

"Yeah. He would." When Jack had cheated, Dante was the only person outside her family she'd told. And despite having employed her most matter-of-fact tone of voice, Dante had seen past it, had understood her grief. He was protective of her, and Marco was most definitely the kind of big bad wolf he'd tell her to avoid like the plague.

"So it's our secret," he grinned.

If anything, that only made this hotter. She nodded quickly, parting her legs; his eyes dipped to her sex, clung there, so her whole body seemed to burn up, but then his hands were holding her where she was, his fingers digging into her hips as he drove into her, and she sobbed, because it was so perfect, so utterly masterful, so completely unlike anything she'd ever known. Sex had always been kind of basic for Portia. One thing led to another and another, and it was nice, and pleasant, and she knew it was somehow, supposedly, important, so it had made her feel closer to Jack, except it was nothing like this wild, animalistic sense of total abandon. This was overwhelming, a total grand slam of emotion and feeling all turning her brain into psychedelic mush so she couldn't think or speak or do anything but ride the wave of sensation and feeling and admit absolute defeat in the face of its brilliance. And she didn't even care. Portia Mason, who'd always been a bit of a control freak, was sublimely content to surrender all control to Marco, for just as long as he kept making her feel like this.

Marco didn't stop to think. Hell, he was pretty sure he was more than half-drunk, having only gone to bed thirty minutes or so before Portia's arrival, but nothing sobered him up quicker than the prospect of sex, and sex with his brother's tantalizingly uptight, off-limits assistant was definitely something he'd fantasized about enough times to make the reality impossible to say no to.

Still, even in his wildest fantasies, he hadn't conjured up anything like this.

She blew his mind.

She was so responsive, so beautiful, so loud, so passionate, so shocked by what she was feeling, so genuinely delighted in the pleasure he was giving her that Marco was addicted to just watching her face as she fell apart, studying her features as she cried out his name, wanting to hear more and more of her, wanting her to never stop.

Her muscles tightened around him almost painfully, spasming, her release sharp and swift, so he stilled, watched her, waited for her to ride the wave and come slowly back to the shoreline of normality before he moved again, this time allowing himself to be caught on the wave with her, his hands roaming her body, feeling every inch, flicking her, squeezing, committing to memory as his movements grew more frantic and her legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him deeper and he plunged as far into her as he could, stayed there, holding her hips, releasing a guttural cry of his own as her muscles tightened again; and this time, they came together, loudly, a combination of breaths, cries, the sound of skin meeting, slapping, the air heavy with their passion and release, the world spinning so fast, gravity seemed to take on a different quality.

And then it slowed down.

Right down.

Things gradually shifted back to normal.

Portia's breathing slowed.

Marco watched her, waiting for the moment of panic. Of regret.

Because surely she would regret this.

Portia Mason was not someone Marco knew well. She was his brother's sentinel, the guard to his business sanctuary, stationed outside his office, she let only those she deemed acceptable past. An appointment was absolutely necessary. She sat in on meetings to take any notes Dante needed, but never revealed a hint of feeling, a shadow of her own opinion. She was immaculate, always.

So surely she would push him away any moment, tell him this had been a mistake, remind him not to mention it. And she'd be right.

Marco had definitely let the however-many-beers he'd had the night before and into the morning call a few of the shots here. No matter how fascinating he found her untouchability, if he'd been stone cold sober, he would never have acted on it.

He braced his palms on either side of her head, watching, waiting.

Her slow, steady smile was the last thing he expected.

"That was…really good."

As far as praise went, it was pretty average, yet his chest swelled and something like pleasure spun low in his gut. It wasn't what she'd said, but how she'd said it, with her whole body, the words breathed out from deep in her belly.

"I'm glad you approve." His words emerged as a rumble.

"That's not what I said." And there it was. The hint of worry in the depths of her eyes.

Regret?

Portia lifted a hand, pressing it to his chest. "I need to get back to the office."

He knew better than to suggest she stay. Portia wasn't an heiress with all the time in the world to waste in Marco's bed. She wasn't a model, an out of work actress or a wealthy interior designer floating around between jobs. She worked her ass off for Dante, and no doubt Marco's imperious brother was already sweating on her return.

He pulled away from her, turning his back and striding to the kitchen to dispose of his condom. By the time he'd returned, she'd pulled on her underpants and bra. Naked, she'd been breathtaking, but seeing her like this, in only her underwear, made his stomach loop uncomfortably.

He reclined against the door frame with the appearance of lazy indolence, watching as she dressed, even when her cheeks turned bright pink and she sent him a barbed look.

"You have two pages left to sign," she murmured, cool as a cucumber once more, flicking the papers and indicating where he needed to add his name.

"So I do." He strolled towards, taking the pen and adding his scrawl to the first page, then flicking over a few and signing once more.

She expelled a long breath. Of relief?

"Thank you." She put a hand on his arm, surprising him. "I—needed that." And she smiled again, the worry gone from her eyes.

She was fascinating.

But Marco had never spent much time thinking about the women he slept with, and he was sure Portia would be no different. Once she'd left, he'd go back to bed, fall asleep, and tonight, he'd see where the world took him.

He lifted her chin, tilting her face to meet his. "My pleasure," his grin was slow, sensual. She reached for the documents then the envelope in which she'd brought them, only to realise they'd decorated it in a way that was definitely not-safe-for-work.

"I don't suppose you have another one of those somewhere here?"

He laughed softly. "No."

"It doesn't matter. I'll carry them like this." She stood where she was, looking at him, waiting for something? Marco studied her face, the flicker of light in her eyes, the expression in her features, and wondered what she was thinking, but before he could do something quite so out of character as ask, she turned and began to walk confidently away from him, towards the entrance foyer.

She paused at a Degas, stared at it with her lips parted. "Is this real?"

"Yes."

She shook her head a little, looked back at him with yet another expression he didn't understand but somehow knew he didn't like, then forced a smile. "Goodbye, Marco."

" Ciao, cara. "

He watched her go, then took himself back to bed, to sleep, and dream of his brother's sexy, uptight, but definitely not too prim to enjoy good sex, assistant.

Portia's heart was racing faster than if she'd run a marathon. She all but threw herself into the backseat of the cab, giving the directions to her office with a voice that was almost unrecognizable, contracts clasped in her hands, staring straight ahead.

Holy heck.

What had just happened?

What had she just let happen?

Her whole body felt alive and different, stirred to a fever pitch in a way she didn't dislike at all, and shards of memories of the way he'd touched her, kissed her, possessed her, kept spearing through her, memories vivid, his touch still searing her skin.

It had been an exorcism, she thought with satisfaction, as the cab paused at an intersection, waiting to turn left. Six months ago, Jack had pulled the bottom out from under her world. It had been devastating. Not just to realise that he'd been lying to her, that their wedding wouldn't happen, that all the dreams she'd carefully put in place of her future, family, the things she most wanted, would never come to pass. But to realise that she hadn't been enough for Jack. That the life they'd built together hadn't meant enough to keep him faithful. That he'd strayed, possibly more than once. Logically, she knew it wasn't about her, that there was some deficiency in Jack that had made him cheat, but her heart and soul had been bruised and it was easier to believe that she'd been missing something important.

But not with Marco.

Portia lifted her fingertips to her lips, remembering the way his kiss had seemed to burn her from the start, the way her body had instantly responded, as though he'd opened a door she couldn't help but run through. No wonder he liked sex so much. If it was like that for him every time, it was no wonder he wanted more, more, more.

Like Portia did, she realized, as the cab began to move again. She frowned, staring down at the documents, the complications of her unusually impetuous actions slamming into her now.

There was nothing wrong with having a one-night stand. Or a one-morning-stand, as the case may be. She was a free agent, not to mention, she was twenty-six years old. No problems there. But wasn't there an expression about not fouling your own nest? She'd slept with her boss's brother, a man who, from time to time, came into the office. Who she would most definitely have to see again, for as long as she was working for Santoro Enterprises.

And while a one-night stand was fine, she didn't want to get her head around expecting—or needing—anything more from Marco. He wasn't the kind of guy you built a fantasy around. He was a one-time thing, meaning she had to draw a line in the sand under what had just happened and go back to things being completely normal. To pretending he didn't really exist to her, except as an occasional thorn in her side.

The taxi pulled to a stop at the bottom of the impressive Santoro building with its stunning views across the Thames and Portia paid the fare, slipped out, documents clasped firmly in hand. As she moved, her eyes dropped to his signature and her heart lurched.

It hadn't been a mistake, but it had definitely not been wise either.

Luckily, Portia had six months' practice of concealing her inner-most thoughts, and as she strode through the glass revolving doors and moved towards the executive, private security counter to be checked in, no one in the foyer would have been able to guess the turmoil Portia was in, nor the pleasure she'd just enjoyed.