The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Their mouths melded, feeding the conflagration, stoking the flames. Their tongues taunted, teased, tormented.

Hands feasted, fingers spreading, caressing, kneading, probing.

Their urgency grew.

He lifted her. She wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him voraciously. Wrapped her long legs about his waist, sighed when he entered her, sheathed him lovingly as he pulled her hips down.

Impaled, she held him, speared her fingers through his hair, clenched them, drew his lips back to hers. Feasted as he savored her, filled her, withdrew, then filled her again.

She gave herself unstintingly, holding nothing back, asking for no reassurance.

And he took, claimed her body, yet wanted, yearned for, more.

Portia knew it, could sense in the locked muscles that held her, that flexed and gripped and moved her upon him, that there was a great deal more she had yet to learn, a great deal more he could give her.

If she would.

If she dared.

If she trusted enough . . .

Her skin was on fire, her body liquid flame, yet he was filling her only so far . . . not enough. She wanted to feel him deeper, harder, wanted to glory in the solid weight of him holding her down as he filled her.

She dragged her lips from his, realized she was panting. “Take me to the bed.”

Kissed him again as he did; when he bent to set her down on the pillows, she held on, tugged, and toppled him down with her. He swore, went to pull away, thinking he’d hurt her; she wrapped her hands over his buttocks, and hauled him nearer.

“More.”

She sank her nails in and he reacted as she wished, driving farther into her. He shifted, then lifted over her, arms braced, looking down as he thrust deeper, then deeper yet. Until he was there, full and hard and heavy inside her.

Simon looked down at her, and struggled to breathe. Struggled to cling to some semblance of sophistication, to hold back the powerful tide of need that threatened to consume him. And her.

She seemed to sense it, reached up, trailed her fingertips down his cheeks, over his shoulders, down his chest, then pressed her palms to his sides, and urged him down to her.

He bent his head and kissed her, gave her that much, but she wanted more—demanded more. He surrendered and let himself down atop her, degree by degree. Until his weight held her pinned beneath him. He expected her to panic, to wriggle; instead, her tongue thrusting against his, she lifted her legs a touch higher and locked them about his waist.

Eased beneath him, tilted her hips. Opened herself fully to his penetration.

Caught his lower lip between her teeth. Tugged, let go. “Now,” she breathed, her breath flame on his lips. “Show me.”

He met her gaze, eyes glittering under heavy lids.

And did.

Locked his eyes on hers as he drove into her, as she’d wished—harder, deeper. He wanted more than anything to see the color of her eyes, to watch them change, certain they’d be black when she climaxed.

Even as the flames dragged him down, even as he lost touch with reality as his world became only her, his senses caught in the wonder, the glory, the splendor of her body sheathing him, holding him, accepting him, as urgent as his in reaching for the peak, yet still he wanted.

Vowed he would have.

That he’d make love to her in daylight, so he could see her as he took her.

See her eyes, and more.

See her skin. So white and flawless it gleamed like purest pearl; in the shadows, the flush of desire was barely discernible. He wanted to see it, needed to see what he brought her.

Wanted to see the color of her ruched nipples, of her softly bruised lips, of the slick swollen folds between her thighs.