He was only a foot away; she suddenly wanted him closer, could sense some primal tug.
So could he. He shifted fractionally nearer, then froze; his face remained in shadow, his eyes unreadable.
“If it had been Charlie who brought you here, what would you have sought to learn?”
It took a moment to form an answer; she had to moisten her lips before she could say, “You know him much better than I—what do you think, given this moment, given this setting, I might have learned?”
Time stretched; her heartbeat made it seem forever. His eyes remained locked on hers, then he shifted, closed the distance. Slowly lowered his head.
One hand rose to touch her face, long fingers tracing, then cradling, her jaw, tipping her face up.
So his lips could settle, warm and strong, on hers.
Her lids fell; her lungs seized. Her senses swam as her body came to sensual life.
She had nothing to compare it with, that first precious kiss. No man before had dared to step this close, to take such a liberty. If any had, she’d have boxed his ears.
Simon’s lips moved on hers, warm and pliant, seeking; her fingers gripped the stone behind her, tight.
All her senses condensed until the gentle, beguiling pressure was all she knew, all she cared about. Her lips throbbed. Her head spun, and it wasn’t from the champagne.
She’d forgotten to breathe, even now didn’t care. She kissed him back, hesitant, not knowing . . .
He shifted, not away but closer yet. The fingers about her jaw firmed; the pressure of those beguiling lips increased.
She parted her own as he seemed to want her to; his tongue slid between—her knees quaked. He seemed to know—how she couldn’t guess; the caresses slowed, slowed, until each touch seemed drenched with languor, with unhurried appreciation, with simple shared pleasure. The dizzying shock of the novel intimacy faded.
The certain knowledge that she’d never been kissed before rocked Simon; the powerful urge to seize that raced through him in response shocked him to his core. He shackled it, refused to let it show—not in his lips, not through his fingers, not through the slow, mesmerizing play of his tongue.
She tasted of nectar, of warm peaches and honey. Of summer and goodness, fresh and untouched. He could have happily kissed her for hours, yet . . . he didn’t want to stop at just a kiss.
He’d backed her against the wall; he leaned one forearm on the cool stone, muscles bunching, fist clenching as he fought the urge to take advantage. To step closer yet, to press against her, to feel her silk-clad curves against him.
She was tall, long-legged; the impulse to confirm how well they would fit, the driving desire to soothe his aroused body with at least the touch of hers burned hot and strong. Along with an urgent need to fill his palms with her breasts, to duck his head and with his lips follow the tantalizing trail of her pearls to their end.
But this was Portia. Not even in the heady instant when he tried to break the kiss and she straightened, following his lips with hers, wanting more, and he sank back into her mouth, now freely—unreservedly—offered, did he forget who she was.
The conundrum was there, from the very first clear in his mind, mocking, jeering at the desire that rose so swiftly for her.
Every minute he indulged—indulged her, indulged himself—sent the price he would pay for ending the interlude soaring.
But end it he must. They’d been gone from the ballroom too long.
And this was Portia.
The effort to end the kiss and lift his head left him reeling. He lowered his hand from her face, lowered his arm, simply stood, waiting for the desire thundering through his veins to subside to a safe level. Watched her face as her lids fluttered, and rose.
Her eyes glittered darkly; a flush tinged her pale cheeks—it wasn’t a blush. She blinked, searched his eyes, his expression.
He knew she would read nothing—nothing she would know to recognize—in the graven lines of his face. In contrast, he could see the thoughts tumbling through her mind, mirrored in her expression.
No shock—he hadn’t expected it; surprise, curiosity, a thirst to know more. An awakened, intrigued awareness.
He drew a deep breath, waited a moment more until he was sure she was steady on her feet. “Come—we have to get back.”
Taking her hand, he turned and drew her with him, back around the corner, onto the main terrace.
There were two couples at the far end, but otherwise the terrace was deserted. He set her hand on his arm; they continued toward the ballroom in silence.