The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

His jaw locked; his teeth clenched. She was still so damned tight it was a wonder he didn’t spontaneously combust simply from the friction. As it was, his hips involuntarily jerked as she sank the last inch down.

“Uh-huh. You are to lie still. Completely still.”

He bit back a caustic inquiry as to which army she planned to use to hold him down. Told himself he’d brought this on his own head and would simply have to endure it.

She experimented again, rising, then sinking down. Then her fingers, interdigitated with his, tightened; she started to ride him in earnest.

Her training had been exemplary, albeit in a different field. She’d ridden since she could walk, spent years riding wild across the Rutlandshire wolds. There was no chance she would tire soon.

His body rose to her challenge; he fought to remain as still as he could, to defer to her stated wishes. She held him, clasped him tightly, continued to ride steadily, transparently savoring him, only gradually moving faster and faster.

His breathing became labored, as was hers. She held tighter to his hands but didn’t break her stride. He could feel her tightening about him, feel the tension coiling through her, feel it start to coalesce, condense.

On a gasp, she released his hands, grabbed his wrists, and guided his fingers to her breasts. Breath hitching, he cupped the firm mounds, then kneaded evocatively, searched and found the tight peaks, closed his fingers and squeezed . . . until she gasped anew, clamped hard about him, swayed, then braced her hands on his chest, caught her rhythm again, and rode on.

Rode him. Harder, faster, sliding her knees wider still to take him ever deeper. The fight to remain passive nearly ruptured his heart. His pulse thundered, galloping with her, caught in the escalating heat, trapped in the relentless driving rhythm. Running with her. Urging her on.

Her breasts filled his hands, swollen and tight; she moaned when he kneaded, gasped when he squeezed.

She leaned forward, pressing her breasts into his palms. Hoarsely instructed, “Touch me.”

He didn’t need to ask where. Releasing her breasts, pushing aside her frothing skirts, he reached beneath, closed his hands about her flexing thighs, then followed them up. Slid one hand around to grip her hip. With the other stroked her damp curls once, heard her breath hitch, felt her body constrict almost painfully about him.

Set one fingertip to her pearl.

Knowingly caressed.

Paused. Heard her earnest, breathless entreaty.

Pressed.

And she imploded.

With a soft cry, she climaxed about him, her body contracting powerfully, her hands clenching tight on his chest.

His body reacted.

The surge of primitive need, of fueled lust, desire, and so much more, nearly shattered his control. Head back, he gasped, dragging air into his locked lungs; fingers gripping her hips, sinking in, he held her down, impaled to the hilt, held her still, fought to hold on to the reins of his demons, aroused, teased, taunted, and now slavering, fully expecting, now, to be released—to be allowed to feast on her soft, feminine, satiated body.

Jaw locked, teeth clenched, breath bated, he waited . . .

She slumped on his chest. Then reached up, guided his lips to hers, and kissed him.

Invitingly—or so he hoped. Prayed.

The tension thrumming just beneath his skin, the rigidity of his body, reached her. He felt her hesitate, then she reached up again—and tugged the blindfold from his eyes.

Watched him blink, then met his gaze. Held it as she stretched luxuriously against him—smiled as his hands locked on her hips, keeping her precisely where she was, fully sheathing him.

Her expression that of a cat who’d had her fill of cream, she held his gaze, and tossed the blindfold away. Lowered her arm and traced his cheek.

Whispered softly, “Take me, then.”

His senses leapt; reflexively, so did the rest of him, before he slammed his control back into place and locked every muscle again. Her eyes widened, but the tenor of the smile curving her lips—knowingly wanton—didn’t fade.

He met her eyes, dark, dreamy with spent passion, yet very much awake. Watching, waiting, for what he would do . . .

Their breaths mingled, his still tense and labored, hers softer in the aftermath of climax.