The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Knew the instant she noticed.

She stopped, staring at the candelabra, now with all candles burning. Then she looked around—at the window, the heavy winter curtains normally tied back through the warmer months fully drawn, then at the bed, bathed in the golden glow thrown by two six-armed candelabra perched on the angled bedside tables, a seven-armed cousin on the tallboy against the corridor wall, and a five-armed one standing on the chest against the opposite wall.

“What . . . ?” She looked at him across the warmly lit expanse.

He shook out the taper, adjusted the second six-armed candelabrum so its light fell on the massed pillows. Then he lifted his head. Met her gaze. “I want to see you, this time.”

She blushed. Not fierily but the wash of color was readily discernible under her alabaster skin.

He hid a wholly predatory smile. His gaze on her, gauging her reaction, he rounded the bed, walked to her side.

She was staring at the counterpane, a silky soft crimson sheening in the candlelight.

He reached for her, slid his hands around her slender form, and drew her into his arms. She came easily, but when she lifted her eyes to his, she was frowning.

“I’m not at all sure this is one of your better ideas.”

He ducked his head and kissed her, gently, persuasively.

“You’ll be able to see me, too.” He whispered the temptation across her lips, then took them again, made them—and her—cling.

Her body sank into his arms, his unreservedly, yet she drew back from the kiss, her hesitation clear in her eyes. He gathered her closer, molded her hips to his. “Trust me. You’ll enjoy it.”

He shifted suggestively against her.

Portia inwardly humphed, decided not to tell him that that was what she feared, that she would enjoy the wanton adventure, enjoy being drawn deeper and deeper into his web—one she knew he was deliberately weaving.

But she’d already accepted the challenge, decided on her path.

Holding his gaze, she slid her hands, until then braced between them, up, over his shoulders, twined her arms about his neck. Stretched up against him. “All right.” Just before their lips met, she hesitated. Long enough to feel the tension he reined back. Feel it build . . .

Her gaze on his lips, she murmured, deliberately sultry, “Show me, then.”

And offered her mouth.

He took—ravenously. Captured her senses, feasted on her, ripped her wits away.

Plunged them both straight into passion’s furnace, into the roaring flames of desire.

A desire they both let rage—his hands roved her body, powerfully possessive, every touch flagrantly evocative; she speared her fingers through his hair and clung, urging him on—then he reined the fire in. Held it back, seething, simmering, waiting to erupt. Shifted, and trapped her against the bed, his legs outside hers.

Broke from the kiss, waited, head bowed to hers until she lifted her heavy lids.

He trapped her gaze. “Tonight, we are not going to rush.”

The words were deep, gravelly—dictatorial. Fearless, she held his gaze, arched a brow. “I wasn’t aware we had previously.”

Consideration flashed behind his eyes, then he murmured, “I’ve a proposition. Let’s see how slow we can go.”

She had no idea what she was letting herself in for. Nevertheless she lightly shrugged. “If you wish.”

He bent his head. “I wish.”

He took her mouth again in a long, slow, achingly pleasurable, disturbingly arousing kiss. She was long past resisting in even a token way, long past trying to hold on to her wits, or her will. She let both slide as he drew her ever deeper into mesmerizing delight.

Didn’t even think of the revealing light as he unbuttoned her gown, eased it off her shoulders, then, when she obligingly freed her arms, peeled it down until it fell slack about her waist. With his lips on hers, his tongue dueling with hers, artfully promising, she barely registered the tugs as he unraveled the ribbon ties of her chemise.

But then he drew back from the kiss, looked down, and drew the fine silk down, exposing her breasts.