The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Their lips parted, yet they remained close. Their gazes touched. Lifting one hand, she traced his chiseled cheek. Put their thoughts into words. “Next time.”

He drew breath, chest swelling. Then he gripped her waist and eased her back. “If you wish it.”

If you wish it.

The hardest words he’d ever had to say, yet he’d had to say them.

His hand locked about hers, they walked back to the house; a short discussion over whether or not he needed to escort her back to her room—a discussion he’d won—had helped get them back onto something resembling their normal footing.

Not that that was the same as it had been a week ago.

All well and good, but the desire now riding him had spurs a foot long. Never before had the need for a woman, let alone a particular woman, been so consuming; never before had he had to mask, to mute his natural inclinations to this extent.

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Having to let her go tonight, to let her escape him, wasn’t a script of which his inclinations, his warrior instincts, approved. Having to battle them, having to keep a cool head while his body went up in flames, did not please his temper at all.

A fact of which she was well aware; she’d been shooting quick glances at him ever since they’d left the summerhouse. His face, set and hard, bore witness to his feelings—feelings she knew him well enough to guess.

She knew, but he seriously doubted she understood. For all her talk of learning about sex and trust and marriage, he very much doubted that it had occurred to her yet just where they were—what the next stage encompassed, what destiny she was flirting with.

It would. Which was why he had to play a long game. To get what he wanted, to secure all he wanted, he needed her absolute, unqualified trust.

And the only way to get that was to earn it.

No shortcuts, no sleight of hand.

No pressure. Of any kind.

He felt like growling.

If you wish it.

When she stopped and thought about what that “it” encompassed, he was going to have problems enough. Their past wasn’t going to make her smile fondly and forge ahead without long and earnest consideration; her temper, and his, weren’t going to make her decision to embark on the final stage any easier.

As for her intelligence, her willfulness, and even worse, her independence . . . stacked against the panaply of his most fundamental characteristics, with which she was extremely familiar, convincing her to risk giving herself to him was going to be an uphill battle. He needed every advantage he could gain.

He trudged on through the balmy night. She kept pace with him easily, her stride long and free.

One consolation—she’d never been a chatterer. She spoke when she wished to; with him, she never seemed to feel the need, as so many other females did, to fill the silences. They lay between them, not awkward but comfortable, like well-worn shoes.

Familiarity, and her mind; two aspects from which, if he was cunning, he could wrest some advantage. She was, always had been, far more inclined to logical thinking than any other woman he’d known. He had some chance, therefore, of guessing her thoughts, predicting her tack, and by judicious prodding, herding her in the direction he wished.

Just as long as she didn’t guess his ulterior motive.

If she did . . .

What pernicious fate had decreed he should set his sights on taking to wife the one woman he knew beyond all doubt he would never be able safely to manipulate?

Stifling a sigh, he looked up. Just as Portia stiffened.

He looked ahead, his hand tightening about hers, and saw the young gardener, once again watching the private wing of the house.

Portia tugged; he nodded, and they moved on, slipping through the shadows to the garden hall.

The house lay in darkness; no one else was about. They passed the candle left burning at the bottom of the stairs and he saw she was frowning.

“What?”