The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

To him, to his sight, to the burning blue of his eyes.

The look on his face made her lungs lock; he raised a hand, ran the backs of his fingers from her collarbone down over the upper swell of one breast, then turned his hand and cupped the firm weight, a conqueror assessing an offered prize. Then he closed his hand. And sanity rocked.

She couldn’t breathe, could only watch, caught, trapped, ruthlessly held by a sensual spell as he visually feasted, examining, caressing, fondling—unhurriedly, almost languidly.

Then he flicked her a glance from under his lashes, caught her gaze, then shifted before her and slowly bent his head. Set his lips to one tightly puckered nipple, sucked lightly. At her indrawn breath, he released her, traced and kissed, licked, savored . . . eventually moved to her other breast while his fingers closed over the heated peak and continued its torture.

Until he returned, opened his mouth and drew it in. Suckled fiercely. Fingers spasming on his skull, clenching tight, she cried out, let her head arch back as she held him to her, spine lightly bowed.

Tried to focus on the pattern of the tapestry lining the bed’s canopy. Couldn’t.

Closed her eyes as he suckled again, wondered how long her legs would hold her.

As if he’d heard the thought, his hands slid down, around, and gripped her bottom, hard, possessively.

On a gasp, she forced her lids up, looked down, watched him feast. He caught her gaze, watched her watching as he rolled one aching nipple over his tongue, then rasped it.

She shuddered and closed her eyes again.

Felt him straighten—let her hands slide down to his chest as his fingers slowly unclenched and released her; she opened her eyes regardless of the effort.

She had to see this—his face as he eased her gown and chemise down, as he pushed the fabric over the swell of her hips, then down until, with a soft swoosh, both garments fell to pool on the floor.

He stepped back a fraction, but his eyes didn’t follow the material; they stopped, locked, on the dark curls at the apex of her thighs.

She tried to imagine what he was thinking; couldn’t. Wasn’t even sure, looking at the hard-edged planes of his face, that he was thinking at all.

Then his hands, which had risen to her waist, feathered down, thumbs tracing the slight curve of her stomach, down to the crease between thigh and torso. Head rising, he stepped closer—something she glimpsed in his face made her breath catch. She braced her hands on his chest; held him back.

“No—your clothes.” Their gazes locked; she licked her lips. “I get to see you, too.”

“Oh, you will.” His hands closed about her waist and he bent his head to kiss her. “But not yet. We’re not rushing, tonight. We’ve time to savor it all—each step, each experience.”

He invested the last word with enough promise to distract her, to let him capture her lips, her mouth, then her wits, and send them spinning.

He drew her against him and her breathing fractured. He was still fully dressed; her skin came alive, prickling with awareness as the fabric of his coat and trousers brushed, then pressed against her, increasingly as he gathered her closer, blatantly molding her soft curves to his hard frame, to the rigid column of his erection, emphasizing the fact she was naked and he still clothed.

That she was in his power. His to do with as he pleased.

At least as far as she permitted it.

That last was still clear in her mind, a point so much a given she didn’t hesitate, didn’t think to protest when he lifted her and set her on her knees on the bed before him, facing him. Hands on his shoulders for balance, fingers sinking, gripping as he ravaged her mouth, he kept her trapped in the kiss as his hands roamed. Over her breasts, over her sides, her back, sweeping down to close, then evocatively knead her bottom, finally sliding down, caressing the backs of her thighs, slipping around, fingers trailing upward, following the taut muscles, then sliding inward to trace the quivering inner faces.

All the way up to where she was hot and wet and swollen.

Her lungs slowly locked as he traced, teased, circled the tight bud of her desire, then parted her folds, fingers sliding easily as her slickness welcomed him. He found her entrance, probed until she stopped breathing, until her fingers sank into his shoulders, then he slid inside, first one finger, languidly stroking, then two, making her shudder.

Simon let her break from the kiss, let her lift her head high. One hand on her hip, he held her steady before him, slowly, rhythmically, rigidly controlled, working his hand between her thighs, feeling her scalding sheath close tight about his fingers.

Watched her as he slowly, deliberately pushed her onward.

Watched the blush of desire color her fine skin, changing it from alabaster to the faintest rose. Her face was soft, passion blank, the determination that was usually so much a part of her expression in abeyance as she gave herself up, to his touch, to him, to what he wished to do, to her, with her. Her lips parted, her breathing increasingly ragged as she tried to follow his lead, tried to stay with him, tried not to rush ahead.

Beneath her lashes, her dark eyes glinted, the deep sapphire so intense it was almost black.

As she watched him watching her. Visually savoring her as he brought her slowly, steadily, inexorably to climax.