The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

The darkness she’d handed him was an unexpected boon, the blindfold an added benefit; it would have assuredly taken him longer, otherwise, to find a way, a suitable setting, in which to introduce her to this, the next stage, without risking evoking an instinctive reaction, a wariness, a deep-seated reluctance to be in any man’s control—an instinct with which he knew her to be very well endowed. She’d handed him herself on a platter; of course, he was going to feast.

He eased her up, sitting up himself, his hands sliding over her smooth skin, glorying on their way to cup her breasts anew. The intensity of the kiss increased, pouring heat and fire through them both. He was happy to let it happen, knowing what was to come. When her kisses turned urgent, when her breasts where heated and tight again, he broke the kiss, nudged her head back, set his lips to cruise the long line of her throat.

Her hands slid up, one locking on his shoulder, beneath his shirt. The other slid to his nape, stroking, then spearing into his hair as he bent and laved the pulse point at the base of her throat, then set his lips to it.

Head back, she caught her breath on a soft gasp.

Drawing his lips from her skin, he cupped one breast, lifting the ruched peak—bent his head and took it into his mouth.

The sound she made was a shattered cry of delight; it streaked through him and urged him on. He drew the tortured peak deep, suckled and laved, until she cried out again. He paused only to transfer his attentions to her other breast. He feasted like a conqueror with her his slave, offered up to him. As she was. Not once did she draw back—if anything, she urged him on, wordless in her entreaties, effective nonetheless. He knew every nuance, could interpret and understand every little gasp, every soft moan.

Her fingers sank into his shoulder, clutched tight on his skull. She held him to her, begged him to take. And give.

He did. He fed the conflagration mercilessly—let her sense, know, learn all she wished—but then ruthlessly, determinedly, even against her wishes reined them back, both of them, drew them back from the brink of the furnace, from the scorching flames of desire.

That time was not yet.

They were breathing raggedly when he finally slumped back, and she followed, collapsing on his chest. She murmured, then shifted, sinuously abrading her brutually sensitized breasts against the roughness of his chest. He let her, drew her lips to his, and kissed her, but softly. Let her ease back in her own way.

Finally accepting, she sighed, and sank into his arms, then reached up and pulled off the blindfold.

She looked up at him. Even in the dimness, he would have sworn her eyes glittered. She looked at his lips, licked hers, then met his eyes.

“More.”

Not a question—a demand.

“No.” It hurt to say it. He drew breath, felt desire’s vise locked about his chest. “Be patient.”

Foolish words. He knew that the instant he uttered them, saw a definite flash in her eyes—and reacted instantly, before she could.

He kissed her. Shifted her in his arms, then ravaged her mouth. Simultaneously, deliberately, slid his hands down, over the long planes of her back, down, sliding beneath the back of her gown, down over her flushed skin, over the curves, tracing, learning. Mapping what, one day soon, would be his.

She murmured deep in her throat—not a protest but pure encouragement. He ignored it, but could not draw his hands away, not yet. Not until he’d satisfied some undeniable inner craving to know that much, at least, of her. To know, absolutely, that she would be his—sometime.

Soon.

When he finally raised his head, she opened her eyes, and met his. Fearlessly, without guile or gui

lt.

She was lying in his arms, bare to the hips, her naked breasts pressed to his bare chest, his hands caressing her bare bottom, her skin dewed with desire.

Desire itself lay naked between them.

Both of them recognized it.

It was an effort to draw breath, but he did.

“We have to go back.”

She studied his face, understood what he meant. Eventually inclined her head.

Going back took time. Letting their senses settle, righting themselves, rearranging their clothes. He didn’t bother retying his cravat but left it about his neck, trusting they’d encounter no one while returning to the house.

They set off, her hand locked in his, walking through the deepening shadows. The moon had sunk low; the gardens were dark.

The house loomed ahead. Portia frowned. “The lights—I would have expected most would still be downstairs. It can’t be that late.”