Planet Portia - Portia Da Costa's online world

Starr fell back against the mat, his breathing heavy and his near-naked body streaming with sweat. How many sit-ups had he done? He couldn't remember. He only knew that no amount of hard physical exercise could purge his mind this time.

He lay there for a moment, centering himself, then rose quickly and reached for the bottle of mineral water on the tallboy. Drinking deep, he attempted to focus on his body and gauge his levels of energy and fitness, but all he could really think about was Hettie and what she might be doing with—and saying to—the Italian.

"You're jealous, man," he whispered to himself, then smiled grimly at the enormity of the understatement. He'd seen the way his adored Hettie had looked at di Angeli. And while he'd told himself ferociously that it was not his place to even have an opinion on the matter, he couldn't suppress the gouging surge of sexual envy he experienced each time he'd seen Hettie cast an interested glance at her new houseguest.

He took another long drag at the water bottle, then put it aside and peeled off the thin, perspiration-soaked jersey trunks he'd been working out in.

In his tiny bathroom, he spun the showerhead and bared his teeth as he stepped beneath the punishing, brutally ice-cold flow. The water should have dowsed his turbulent emotions and calmed his wayward body, as it so often had before when his longing for Hettie had become unmanageable. But this time the regime was ineffective. His mind and his heart whirled, and despite the confusion of his thoughts and the freezing shower, his cock grew rigid.

"Fuck!" he growled, then spun the dial to a more comfortable temperature. Why suffer when the prescription wasn't working? Why suffer any more than he already was? Than he always did.

In his fantasy, the woman he loved, the woman he would do anything for, endure anything for, give anything for, stepped into the cubicle and drew close to him. The now-warm water streamed over her lush but slender body and plastered her lovely mane of gold-brown hair against her skull. Starr groaned like a martyr in torment as a hand closed around his penis. In his dream it was her hand but in reality it was his own.

He had loved Henrietta Miller from the instant he'd first set eyes on her, but if he were to remain an honorable man and worthy of the trust that Piers Miller had placed in him, he could never claim her. He was sworn to protect Hettie and to take care of her—even service her libido when it was required of him—but no more than that. He was her servant and she was his mistress. He knew that his rigid adherence to his role might seem archaic in the twenty-first century, but he'd made a pledge to himself. A pledge in honor of the man who had raised him from the gutter—and from the easy slide into petty, then more serious crime—which he could not break.

The vow was that he would never take advantage of what he and Hettie shared. Never pressure her for more. He wanted and needed her love. It was a glittering prize that shimmered constantly in his imagination. But to pursue it so soon after the death of Piers Miller was to insult his mentor's memory and exploit Hettie's confused emotions and her grief at the loss of her husband. She'd loved Piers deeply, and still loved him. She'd been faithful to him emotionally, even while she'd shared her body with Starr. And that was why he could not claim her.

And yet there was a primitive, territorial part of him that raged to make her his in every way. Heart and soul as well as body. His ancient brain, where instinct held sway, told him that she was his woman and he must imprint himself on every part of her.

He still felt guilt at giving in to his needs the other night. But the urge to show her some physical tenderness after the long months of their mutual celibacy had become too great. And it had finally driven him back to her bed.

His fingers stilled for a moment on his cock at the recollection. He'd barely been able to contain the bittersweet joy he'd experienced when she'd welcomed him. He'd hidden it scrupulously, but as he'd entered her exquisite body, his heart had been singing.

Yes, he was proud of his iron self-discipline, and it never failed him. He couldn't allow it to. Except at private moments like these, when there was nobody but himself and his aching cock to witness his internal agony.

His voice was a ragged, falling cry of longing as her phantom hand rode smoothly back and forth along his engorged rod. His heart twisted as he imagined—remembered—her delicate yet intoxicating touch on his flesh and the way she always and unerringly found the sweetest and most responsive spots. Time after time he'd had to pry her warm fingers off him for fear that he might come in selfishness and not pleasure her at the same time. He'd made yet another oath to himself that his agenda in bed would always be to focus solely on her experience, her satisfaction and her orgasms, even at the expense of his own. If he came in the process, it was a treasured by-product, not the object of the exercise.

But here in this secret zone where wishes could be real, he allowed himself what he denied elsewhere. Here in his imagination, his naked, adorable mistress sank to her knees beneath the cascading water and took his heavy flesh between her moist, caressing lips. Here, it was all right to give in to his every desire and urge and grasp her head, fingers digging into her sensuously coiling hair as he thrust unrestrainedly into the welcoming heat and wetness of her mouth. Here, it was all right to fuck that beautiful mouth, possess that loving, accommodating cavern and then empty his silky load of semen right down her throat.

"Oh Hettie," he cried again, the words a sound of worship, of desperation and of resignation as his creamy tribute hit the shower wall and mingled with the water trickling down it.

LESSONS AND LOVERS - excerpt two