The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

A tense moment passed, then he said, voice sinking low, “Trust me. That’s all I ask. Just trust me.”

She didn’t answer; it was still too soon. And his “all” encompassed a lifetime.

When she remained mute, he reached for her, turned and drew her fully to him. Bent his head. “When you make your decision, remember this.”

She lifted her arms, wound them about his neck, offered her lips, and her mouth—his, as he wished. In this arena, she was already that, every bit as much as his conqueror’s soul might crave.

He took, accepted, wrapped his arms around her and sank into her mouth, then flagrantly molded her body to his, explicitly foreshadowing all that was to come.

She didn’t draw back, held nothing back—in this sphere, between them, all the barriers had come down.

At least, all hers.

Even as she let him sweep her into his arms and carry her to the bed, let him strip away her gown and chemise, stockings and slippers, and lay her naked on his sheets, even as she watched him strip and, naked, join her, set his hands and his lips, his mouth and his tongue to her skin, her body, pressing pleasure and delight on her, even as he parted her thighs and she cradled him as he joined with her, as they rode through the now familiar landscape of passion, through the valley of sensual desire and on, deeper into intimacy, until their skins were slick and heated, their breaths were ragged gasps and their bodies plunged desperately toward ultimate bliss, even then she knew, with an intuition she didn’t question, that he yet held something back, kept some small part of him, some deeper need, screened from her.

He’d asked her to trust him; in this sphere she did. But he didn’t yet fully trust her—not enough to reveal that last little part of him.

Someday, he would.

In the moment that, locked together, they reached the bright peak and tumbled headlong into the void, she realized she’d reached her decision, already committed herself to learning that last fact, gaining that last piece of the jigsaw that was him.

To do it, she would have to become his in all the ways he wished, in all the ways he wanted, and, perhaps, needed.

That was the price of knowing, of being made privy to every last corner of his soul.

As she eased beneath him and they slumped together in the bed, she spread her hands on his back and held him to her, marveling at his weight, at the solid muscle and bone that pressed her into the mattress, yet at the same time protected her, left her feeling safe, cherished, guarded like some treasure.

Running her hands upward, she slid them into his hair, ruffling the silky locks, then smoothing them. She glanced at his face, shadowed in the gloom. Wished he’d lit the candles again, for she loved to see him like this, sated, deeply satisfied, having found his release in her.

There was power, a delicious power, in knowing she had brought him to this.

Shifting her head, she brushed her lips to his temple. “I haven’t thanked you for saving me.”

He humphed. After a moment added, “Later.”

She smiled, lay back, knew that while they lay there together, neither fear nor the murderer could impinge on her world. That the only currency there was what lay between them.

The emotional connection, the shared physical joy—the ephemeral bliss.

The love.

It had been there all the time, waiting for them to see it, understand it, and claim it.

She glanced at him. Realized he was watching her.

Realized she didn’t need to tell him—he knew.

She rolled toward him, let their lips meet in a kiss that said it all. His hand was cradling her head when it ended.

Again their gazes met, locked, then he ran his hand down, over her shoulder, down her back, gathered her against him, let his hand rest on her hip. Closed his eyes. Settled to sleep.

An utterly simple gesture of acceptance.

She closed her eyes and accepted, too.

“We have a problem.” Stokes stood in the middle of the summerhouse, facing Portia, Simon, and Charlie. They’d just quit the breakfast table, this morning all but deserted, when he’d met them in the hall and requested a meeting. “Mr. Archer and Mr. Buckstead have asked to take their families and leave. I can delay them for a day or so, but not more. That, however, isn’t the real problem.”

He paused, as if debating with himself, then said, “The truth is, we’ve no evidence, and very little likelihood of catching this murderer.” He held up a hand when Charlie would have spoken. “Yes, I know that’s going to be black for the Glossups, but it’s actually worse than that.”