The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

His shirt followed the waistcoat; she twisted back a little to get a better view of the wide expanse of his chest, the hard ridges across his abdomen rippling as he shifted, then bunching as he bent to pull off his boots.

Trousers and stockings went in seconds. And then he stood naked, flagrantly aroused. His gaze locked on her, traveled slowly up her body as he walked to the bed.

He reached out. Traced his palm up the back of her leg, curved his hand about her bottom as he set one knee on the crimson silk.

Lifted his eyes to hers. “You can call a halt at any time.”

She met his gaze, dark and burning—couldn’t quite smile. “You know I won’t.”

He searched her eyes one last time, then he closed his hand and shifted her.

Onto her stomach.

She felt the bed bow as he knelt on either side of her legs. Felt the heat of his body run like fire over the backs of her thighs, over the dewed skin of her bottom as he leaned down, close—and pressed his lips to the base of her spine, just above the cleft of her bottom.

Closed his hands about her hips, held her steady as he worked his way upward, following her spine, planting hot, openmouthed kisses as he went, as if he in truth meant to devour her.

The rough hair of his chest brushed her skin; the heat of him poured over her yet he didn’t lean on her, hovered just an inch above her, taking his weight on his hands as he moved steadily higher, over her, surrounding her—a potent masculine animal who had captured her and was now intent on possessing her.

She couldn’t stop a reactive shiver; closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the wave of heat rising over her, steadily engulfing her, glanced over her shoulder as, pushing her hair aside, he neared her nape.

He lifted his head; for one instant, his blue eyes locked on hers, then he drew back a fraction, straddling her thighs, set his hands to her hips, swept both hard palms slowly up her body, tracing the indentation of her waist, rising up her sides, fingers boldly caressing the sensitive sides of her breasts before sliding down the backs of her arms to grip her elbows.

“Stretch your arms up, above your head.”

He pushed them up and she let him; without their support, she slumped onto the bed, her breasts, nipples already tight, pressing into the crimson silk.

Placing her wrists among the pillows, he released them. “Leave them there—don’t draw your arms down again.”

A command, gravelly and absolute. Her heart thudded, her senses leapt as he reversed the direction of his slow, possessive stroking. She could feel him close, but other than the occasional brush of raspy hair across her skin, he’d touched her only with his hands and lips.

And his gaze. She could feel that, another sort of flame, following his hands as he traced the long lines of her back, down, past her waist, until his thumbs caressed the shallow indentations below her hips.

Her skin prickled; anticipation welled and rushed through her.

To her surprise, he shifted back, shuffling down the bed, his knees on either side of her legs . . . then his hands closed about her hips; smoothly, he lifted them and drew them back.

Until she was curled on her knees before him.

She started to lift her shoulders from the bed—

“Leave your arms as I told you.”

The tenor of the words sent a flash of expectation sheering through her, wound her nerves even tighter. She’d obeyed before she’d thought—without the use of her arms, she slumped over her knees. Helpless.

Even before she’d fully assimilated the total submission inherent in the pose, one hand settled heavily on her back, just above her waist.

Holding her down.

In the instant she realized, his other hand spread over her bottom, boldly caressed until her skin was damp, then reached farther, to the slick, swollen flesh between her thighs, in this position readily accessible to his probing fingers.

He held her down, ruthlessly touched, stroked, teased—caressed but never penetrated, never gave her greedy, wanting senses the slightest succor, instead stoked her fire until her skin was aflame, until her breaths came in ragged pants.

Until she moaned.

The wanton, abandoned sound shocked her, but it was quickly followed by more. Held immobile, she could gain no surcease from the unrelenting stimulation, from the need that was flaring inside her—burgeoning, building, rising high.

Eyes closed, her hair fanning about her with the restless motion of her head—the only part of her free to move—she bit her lip, tried to hold back the sound welling in her throat.