The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

He dragged in a breath. “If it pleases you.”

She laughed. “Oh, it pleases me—even more because it pleases you.”

He was in pain, acute pain. The tenor of her voice, sultry, warm, and so oddly mature—so knowing of him and confident of herself—was the most potent siren’s call he’d ever heard. Her weight, warm and femininely alluring, across his thighs, only added to his torment.

Portia stroked, caressed, drank in the sheer delight of touching him, and knowing that, for at least these few minutes, she had him in her thrall. His skin was warm, almost hot, the steely resilience of the muscles beneath utterly fascinating. She was enthralled, but even more, she was thrilled to learn that she, with her touch, could pleasure him as he had her.

Only fair, as she’d said—fair to them both.

At last, he drew a deep, not quite steady breath, and reached for her. He didn’t push her hands away, but urged her to him. Leaving her hands spread on his chest, she eagerly leaned down and gave him her lips, her mouth, her tongue.

The kiss deepened into blatant intimacy, then extended into some arena they’d not before explored; her fingers sank into his flesh, and she pressed her burning palms to his bare skin.

She felt his hands on her back, his fingers busy with the line of buttons down her spine. He undid them all, all the way to where the gown’s opening ended in the small of her back.

The night air was warm; it lay heavy all around them, barely stirring as he urged her up, to sit up and let him draw her gown down.

A shiver, not of modesty but of sheer awareness, shook her. He’d caressed her bare breasts before, but her gown had been there, largely shielding all he’d touched from his sight. But now he drew her gown down and she let him, with only the slightest hesitation freed her arms from the sleeves. The gown collapsed about her waist. She looked at his face as, almost lazily, he reached for the ribbon straps of her chemise.

He didn’t ask permission, but simply tugged them free, perfectly sure he had the right.

She was very glad she could not see his expression; only the fact that they were cloaked in shadows allowed her to sit still and let him peel her chemise down.

The air was warm. Her skin felt hot, her nipples already tight and aching. She felt his gaze on her, roaming, cataloging; she thought his lips lifted, but it wasn’t in a smile.

Then he raised a hand and touched her. Her lids fell, suddenly heavy; she swayed. He closed both hands about her breasts, and she shuddered.

Closed her eyes and gave herself up to feeling, her senses focused on each caress, each knowing touch, the escalating torture. Her skin seemed even more sensitive than before, her nipples so tightly ruched they hurt. An odd hurt that, every time he squeezed, transmuted to heat, to washes of feeling that flooded through her, pooling low in her body.

She cracked open her lids enough to look at his face. Did he know what he was doing to her?

One glance was enough; of course he did. Had he planned the darkness so she’d be amenable? No—she’d been the one to lead him to the summerhouse, but he’d capitalized—was capitalizing—on her plan.

The notion pleased her; one made a move and the other took it further. That seemed right. Encouraging.

As was his touch, the way he kneaded her flesh. She caught her breath and glanced down—watched his hands, dark against the whiteness of her breasts, play, possess.

The heat within her swelled, grew.

“Do you want to go on to the next stage?”

She glanced at him. She didn’t know—couldn’t guess—what the next stage was. Didn’t care. “Yes.”

Simon heard the decision in her voice, could just detect a firming of her jawline. Enough to let out a small sigh of relief.

Forcing his fingers to leave her swollen flesh, he reached for his cravat. She blinked, watched as he smoothed the yard-long strip, folding it to a narrow band. Drawing it tight between his hands, he met her eyes over it. “A suggestion of mine.”

He’d gone along with her suggestion; she could hardly demur at his. She did, however, frown, yet . . . placing her hands on his chest, she leaned forward and let him tie the blindfold in place.

“Is this really necessary?”

“Not absolutely, but I think you’ll prefer it.”

Her silence screamed that she wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Cinching the knot at the back of her head, he grinned. He released it and she tensed to sit up.

“No.” He slid his palms over her naked back, felt something tighten deep within him in response. “Stay just as you are.” With one hand, he drew her lips to his. “You don’t need to do anything, other than feel.”

Their lips met; he drew her back into the heat, into the familiar intimacy. Her hands, braced on his chest, kept their bodies apart—just as well as this point. He drew her deeper, trapped her senses—seized the moment first to absorb the fact that she was naked to the waist, sitting, waiting, on his knee, then to set the final touches to his preparations.