The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,65

if the sweet sheath clamping down on his cock was meant to welcome him.

And he rode her like a madman, seeking only wild pleasure for them both.

She gave it back to him, hurling herself up at him, sinking her fingers into his shoulders and rubbing her legs over him.

It was too much—and he came far too soon, shouting her name like a teenage boy. His seed bolted out of his loins as if the only safe haven was her body, wrenching him apart in a series of long paroxysms. He hung suspended, somewhere in midair, ecstatic—and appalled that Portia Townsend could tear his world apart.

He barely had wits enough to fondle her pearl and ensure she too would find rapture.

Holding onto her afterward felt like grasping the greatest risk of his life.

He panted, sweat congealing on his skin like glue to bind them together. He began to count the seconds until he could speak soberly again.

Her slender fingers slipped up his chest in a trail of fire to unbutton his shirt.

And his mindless cock promptly swelled against her thigh, as if it hadn’t shattered every tenet he’d laid for conducting his life.

But why the hell not? They’d only be married for a week or two at the most.

He tilted her chin up and refused to consider the starved hunger which went into his kiss.

Chapter Twenty-seven

“Thank you, Gareth.” Portia sat down in the carriage and tried to keep her words polite. Years of striving to achieve perfection as an always disciplined British countess was no help at all when faced with the man who’d made her body ache in so many wonderful ways. She’d never realized she could be stiff and want to become even more so.

Or look at the cause—and hunger to touch more of the man under the fine clothing. Such as his big hands, which had so easily lifted her for his thrusts last night and eased her onto the quay this morning.

Gareth sat down beside her and sent the high-strung vehicle rocking. She flung her hand out for balance and it landed on his leg—his big, muscular thigh which had so wonderfully propelled her into ecstasy only a few hours earlier.

She hastily snatched her hand back and silently cursed her fingers’ lamentable tendency to linger. A quick tug on both of her short kid gloves hopefully discouraged any further tendencies toward impetuosity.

Fondling Gareth in any manner whatsoever would be dreadfully embarrassing, since Kerem Ali Pasha’s son Adem now sat directly opposite them, ready to assume his duties as guide.

He’d leaped at the opportunity to escape his mother’s fond clucking. He undoubtedly saw this simple bit of sightseeing as an opportunity to show his superior officers he was ready to return to duty. He could have served as an artist’s model for a dangerous young commander, even if their destination was the royal palace.

The clear blue sky hung lazy and welcoming overhead, as if nobody could ever wish ill to this country or want to attack stealthily. The Bosporus flowed steadily south, its waves shifting quietly as desert sand dunes. The Old City glowed under the great mosques’ minarets and domes, like a set of treasure boxes—or scorpion nests. Gareth had flatly refused to take her there, calling it too dangerous.

Their carriage stood on the eastern side, on the great road running north beside the ocean. Forests of Judas trees, vibrant with pink flowers, flowed up the hillsides behind them.

Portia leaned to see where Kerem Ali Pasha’s yali lay to the west, on the Asian side. Her breast brushed against Gareth’s arm like an arpeggio’s completion.

Even through her severe, dark blue dress, a jolt ran through her, stronger and sweeter than a lightning strike.

She shivered and tried to pull away. But Gareth captured her hand, trapping her against him.

“Do you see the yali?” he asked, in that deep, infinitely seductive drawl.

“Yes, of course,” she answered and tried to yank her fingers free. “It’s the pink one, a little northeast of us.”

“It was a gift to my grandfather from the old Sultan,” Adem volunteered. “He was the Chief Secretary, in the days when Topkapi was still the Sultan’s palace.”

“If you look south, toward Hagia Sophia and the harbor, Topkapi Palace is on the promontory.” Gareth was watching her face more than the sights.

Portia eagerly swiveled in her seat, trying to overlook the warm hand holding onto her.

“It’s spectacular.” She turned a little farther, her attention caught by the ships riding at anchor. Dozens of rowboats filled the waters like