The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

“For good reason.”

“You promised.”

“That you could look. Not taste.”

She narrowed her eyes as she complied with his wishes and, now on her knees, straddled his lap. Their faces again close, she frowned into his eyes. “Methinks you protest too much. You like it. A lot.”

He clamped his hands about her hips. “I like it too damned much.”

She opened her lips; he stopped her words in the most effective way he knew.

He slid into her, slowly, working his way steadily into her soft sheath, drawing her down, down, until she lost the last of her breath on a gasp, closed her hands about his face, framing it, holding it so she could kiss him.

As evocatively as any houri ever birthed.

He didn’t need any encouraging; he moved beneath her, into her, moving her on him to the same rhythm. She caught it, grabbed it, danced with him. On him. Clamping tight about him, then easing as he lifted her. He didn’t lift her far; she liked him deep, it seemed, and he was quite content to humor her, at least in that regard.

There was, to his mind, nothing more sensually satisfying than being sheathed to the hilt in hot, slick, voluptuous feminine flesh.

Especially hers.

With her, the satisfaction went much deeper than mere sex. Far deeper than sensual gratification. It went to the heart of him; like some heavenly elixir, it soothed, fed, eased, then became an addiction and incited.

He changed tempo, let the urgency build; she wrapped her arms about his shoulders and clung tight. To him, to their kiss.

To the building, growing, swelling need that rose through them, more primitive than lust, more powerful than passion.

Like a tide rushing in, it filled them; they rode it, faster, higher, deeper, harder.

Until she shattered. Her body tightened unforgivingly around him, then her tension imploded. She cried out, the sound smothered between them. He held her down, brutually forceful, keeping her immobile while her contractions rippled through her, about him, and faded.

All strength went from her, and she slumped against him.

Only then did he dare draw back from the kiss, draw breath, think. Of his next move.

Portia finally managed to drag in a shuddering breath. Realized he’d stopped, that he was still iron-hard, rigid inside her. His hands ran soothingly down her back, but his body was tense, locked—waiting.

Lifting her head, she looked into his eyes. Saw the beast prowling behind the bright blue.

“What now?”

He took a moment to answer; when he did, his voice was a bass growl. “Next act.”

He lifted her from him, gently pushed her toward the pillows piled at the bed’s head.

On her knees, she slumped that way.

Landed on her stomach. Waited for him to turn her over. When he didn’t, she came up on one elbow and looked back at him.

He was still sitting on his haunches, flagrantly erect; as she watched, his gaze rose from her bottom.

“What?” She glanced back, around.

He hesitated, then shook his head. “Nothing.” He reached for her legs. “Lie back.”

He flipped her over, spread her thighs wide, came over her and wedged his hips between, and entered her. With one powerful thrust that had her arching wildly, that nearly made her forget.

But not quite.