The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

When he released her lips and trailed his down her body, licking, laving, kissing his way to her breasts, she didn’t try to stop him. Her hands lay on his shoulders, fingers clenching then easing as he sampled her bounty; her breathing was ragged, her eyes, when he glanced at her face, were closed. A fine line of concentration lay between her brows.

He licked one tight nipple, curled his tongue about it and drew it into his mouth, then suckled, deep, deeper—until her concentration fractured and she gasped.

Shifting lower, he let his reins slide—knew better than to imagine he could control his baser instincts, not tonight, not with her. He’d wanted her—not just, he could now admit, for the days they’d spent here, but for much, much longer. Her body was a prize his rakish soul had long coveted, even if he hadn’t admitted it.

Tonight she would be his. More—tonight, she would give herself to him completely, without reservation. If they were to have a future, there was no point pretending he was not what he was, that he wouldn’t demand, and command that of her.

How she would react—that was something else, but he’d never known her courage to falter.

Deep in his heart, he knew he could ask of her everything, and she would—knowing and knowingly—give. It was, ultimately, impossible for him to hurt her. She knew that as well as he.

He sent his lips cruising the taut skin of her stomach, and she caught her breath, restlessly shifted. His hands closed, locking about her hips; he shifted lower, spreading her thighs, with his shoulders wedging them wide.

She guessed. Her fingers clenched in his hair. He felt her haul in a breath as he bent his head, and set his lips to her softness.

“Simon!”

She uttered his name on a fractured scream; the sound seared him to his very soul. He licked, probed, then settled to savor her, sucking lightly, then more explicitly tracing the swollen folds. Her slick honey flowed as he feasted; she tasted of pippins, tart yet sweet. He found the tight nubbin erect and swollen beneath its hood, and lightly sucked, his every sense locked on her, on her reactions.

Step by step, he pushed her on, until her fingers curled to claws, until her head pressed back and her hips tilted, wordlessly surrendering. He opened her, tauntingly probed her entrance, then slowly, deliberately, penetrated her with his tongue.

She fractured, broke apart; he gloried in her soft cry, savored her contractions, but the instant they eased, he rose over her. Spread her thighs even wider, sank his hands into the bed on either side of her, set his erection to her slick, swollen folds.

Found her entrance. Nudged in.

Then drove home.

She cried out, arching wildly beneath him. He didn’t stop, but drove deeper yet, fighting to absorb the sensations—of her heated sheath yielding, then encasing him, so tightly, of the firmness of her body, the cushioning feminine flesh, the succulent heat clamping about him. Battling desperately to savor all that, yet not let the moment sweep him away, not let his most primitive instincts have their way. He could—and would—plunder later, once she’d agreed, once she understood.

Trapped beneath him, she’d stilled. Head bowed, he could feel her panting breath close by his ear. Could feel, where they joined, where she’d clamped tight about him, the thudding tempo of her racing heart. Every muscle locked against the almost overpowering urge to ride her, he lifted his head and looked into her face.

From beneath heavy lids, from behind the black lace of her lashes, her eyes glinted—glittered—into his. Her lips, swollen, slightly parted, seemed to firm. He felt her draw breath.

“I thought you promised never to hurt me.”

Not quite an accusation—her lips twisted briefly in the lightest grimace; to his immense relief, her body was already easing beneath his, the defensive tension slowly seeping away.

He bent his head, brushed her lips with his, made them cling for an instant. “I think,” he murmured, shifting very slightly within her, “that you’ll find it’s not a lasting hurt.”

He lifted over her again; eyes locked with hers, he withdrew a fraction, then slid home once more.

She blinked. “Do that again.”

He would have grinned, but couldn’t; his features were locked, passion set. He did as she asked, letting out a little of the air locked in his lungs when neither her expression nor her body retensed.

Looking into his face, Portia struggled to assimilate the feeling of fullness, of being so full of him. Not in her wildest dreams . . . the sensations of intimacy, of having given herself to him, of having taken him into her body, were not only more powerful than she’d foreseen, but powerful in a different way.

A more fundamental, earth-shattering, soul-shaking way.

But she couldn’t stop and examine that now—neither her body nor his would permit it. Both were primed, coiled, ready. For what, she had only the vaguest idea.

Her hands had dropped from his shoulders to close, viselike, on his upper arms; releasing one, she raised her hand to his cheek, brushed back the fall of his silken hair. Drew his face, slowly, down to hers.

Opened her mouth beneath his, urged him on, invited him to take her—teach her more—in the only way she knew.

His lips closed over hers, his tongue filled her mouth, tangled with hers, thrust deep—withdrew as his body did, then echoed the surge as he filled her anew.

A surge repeated again and again until it caught her, drew her up, had her riding the wave of sensation again, with him, this time, as he rode her. Her body, no longer hers to command, following instinct, following him, rose to his until flames flared, until fire danced under her skin, until her bones were molten, her body a furnace into which his plunged, like a burning brand, deeper, harder, rhythmically, repeatedly stoking the flames.