The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

She knew better than to question that. Her expression remained haughty, but her lips eased, her gaze softened . . . she was considering his proposition . . .

He held his breath, knew her far too well to make the slightest move to press her—battled the compulsion—

She nodded, once, decisively. “All right.”

Facing him fully, she held out her hand.

He looked at it, glanced briefly at her face, then grasped her hand, turned and towed her deeper into the summerhouse.

“What . . . ?”

He stopped a few feet before one of the columns. Looked back at her and raised a brow. “I assumed you’d want to progress to the next stage?”

She blinked. “Yes, but—”

“We can’t do that by the arch, in full view of anyone who might wander by the lake.”

Her lips formed an O as he drew her past him, twirling her to face him. Freeing her hand, he lifted both his to frame her face, tipping it up as he stepped closer and lowered his head.

He kissed her, waited only until the steel went from her spine and she surrendered her mouth, then he backed her, slowly, step by deliberate step, until the column was at her back. She stiffened with surprise, but when he didn’t press her against the wood, she relaxed, bit by bit, gradually let herself become engrossed in the kiss.

For long moments, he did nothing more—simply kissed her and let her kiss him back. Sank into the softness of her mouth, with lips and tongue caressed, enticed, then let her play. Let her sense and grow accustomed to the give and take, to a slower, less overwhelming rhythm.

To the simple familiar pleasure.

She was taller than the average, a fact he appreciated; he didn’t need to tip her face so far back, could stand with her comfortably. The column behind her merely delineated their space, providing something she could later lean back against . . . assuming she agreed to their next stage.

The thought sent heat sliding insidiously through him. He angled his head, pressed the kiss deeper, made her cling to the exchange. Releasing her face, he reached for her waist, spanned it with his hands, then slid them around, over the fine muslin, feeling the silky shift of her chemise between the gown and her skin.

She made a soft sound and pressed nearer; he met her lips, met her tongue—and eased her back, gently, until she stood against the column. She relaxed against it; her hands, previously resting passively on his shoulders, shifted, slid up, back, around. Spreading her fingers, she speared them slowly through his hair, let it fall.

Then she twined her arms about his neck and stretched up against him, meeting his lips with increasing ardor, her lithe body bowing.

Inwardly, he smiled, let his hands slide over her back, tracing the long line of the muscles framing her spine, up, then down. He kissed her deeply, sensed the heat rising beneath her skin, felt the soft mounds of her breasts, pressed to his chest, firm.

Her perfume rose and wreathed through his mind, teased his senses. He held to the kiss, letting his hands do no more than caress the firm planes of her back, over and over.

And waited.

More. Portia knew she wanted more than this. Kisses were all very well, exceedingly pleasant, heady and intoxicating, sending warmth sliding through her, bringing her senses alive. And the feel of his hands, cool and hard, and the unstated promise in their steady, deliberate stroking, sent shivers of anticipatory delight down her spine. But now expectation crawled along her nerves; her senses were avidly agog. Waiting. Ready.

For the next stage.

He’d said he’d show her. She wanted to know, to learn of it. Now.

She drew back from the kiss, found it required real effort; when their lips finally, reluctantly, parted, she didn’t move back, only lifted her suddenly heavy lids enough to meet his gaze from beneath her lashes.

“What’s the next stage?”

His eyes met hers; his seemed darker, a more intense blue. Then he answered. “This.”

His hands shifted, leaving her back to slide forward to her sides. His thumbs cruised, brushing the sides of her breasts.

Sensation streaked through her; her senses abruptly focused—followed, hungrily, greedily, as he stroked deliberately again. Her knees quaked; she suddenly found a use for the column behind her, leaned back against it. He followed her lips with his, brushed them as his wicked thumbs circled lightly, tantalizingly—just enough for her to understand . . .

He lifted his head, met her eyes. “Yes? Or no?”

His thumbs circled again, too lightly . . . if she’d had the strength she’d have told him what a stupid question it was. “Yes,” she breathed. Before he could ask if she was sure, she drew his lips back to hers, certain she would need that much anchor to the world.