The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

One dark brow rose fractionally; her dark blue eyes remained steady on his. He had absolutely no doubt she was willing.

He smiled, insensibly relieved; lifting a hand to her face, he drew it to his. “Now we play.”

They did—he couldn’t for the life of him remember any interlude like it. Whether it was the simple word or the sunshine warming them, or the silence of the deserted rooms around them, even the anonymity of the shrouded furniture surrounding them, that infused those first moments with a giddy, reckless pleasure he couldn’t tell, but they were both susceptible, both quickly infected with a heady lightheartedness that freed them from the world, left them both focused, not on propriety but on needs—he on hers, she, it seemed, on his.

Within seconds of their lips meeting, she’d relaxed into the kiss, yet her body remained, not stiff, but tensed, like a deer not yet sure of its safety, poised to retreat. He drew her deeper into the kiss and she came readily, offering her mouth, eagerly responding when he took, claimed; he did nothing more, simply waited, let her learn for herself, come to her own conclusion.

He had long ago learned that this particular configuration was most useful for easing a skittish lover; with her in his arms, protected yet not threatened by his weight, by his strength, the illusion of being in control rather than being controlled applied. As with others before, it worked; gradually that telltale tension flowed away, and she sank, warm, supple, vibrantly alive, against him.

His hands on her back stroked, soothed; it was she who shifted back, gave him access to her breasts, flagrantly encouraged him to fondle.

To gradually, inch by inch, wind her tight.

As before, she ultimately broke from the kiss, lifting her head, dragging in a breath, her breasts swelling under his hands. This time, he didn’t stop, let his hands and fingers continue their artful torture.

She opened her eyes and looked down, sucked in another breath as she watched him pander to her senses. Then she lifted her heavy lids and, with her usual directness, met his eyes. “What’s next?”

He held her gaze, tightened his fingers about her nipples, watched her concentration fade . . . her lids droop. “Are you sure you want to know?”

She opened her eyes; the look she pinned him with would have been imperious, but for the curve of her lips. “Quite sure.” She tried to straighten her lips and failed; she couldn’t have been kittenish if she tried, nor yet played the coquette—she simply didn’t have it in her—but he sensed—could almost feel—the gaiety welling within her, the thrill, the excitement, the anticipation.

It was as if they were exploring something, some unknown landscape between them, all on a personal dare. She had not an ounce of fear in her; she was eager and sure of him, sharing the moment even though she didn’t know what would come . . .

She trusted him.

The knowledge crashed through him—not just the realization that she did, but all that it—so totally unexpectedly—meant to him.

How he felt.

He drew in a deep breath, fighting the constriction locked about his chest. She’d glanced down, watching his hands knead the tight, heated mounds of her breasts; when she glanced up at him, raising her brows, he had to clear his throat, and surreptitiously shift beneath her.

“If you’re sure . . . ?”

The look she threw him told him to get on with it; he found it impossible not to smile. Her bodice was closed with a row of tiny buttons from neckline to waist; releasing her breasts, he set to work easing the tiny nubs free of their holes.

She blinked, but made not the slightest move to stop him. However, as his hands pressed between them and her bodice gaped, a frown gathered in her eyes; light color rose in her cheeks.

The instant the last button slipped free, he reached for her face, curled one hand about her nape and drew her back down. Caught her gaze in the instant before her lids fell. “Stop thinking.”

He kis

sed her, long, deeply, claiming her senses in truth for the first time, something he’d been careful, previously, to avoid. She hadn’t needed to know he could kiss her witless, yet if he didn’t deprive her of her considerable wits now, just for a few minutes, she might well draw back . . .

He was not in the mood to cajole, let alone argue; he no longer possessed sufficient coolheadedness, not where she was concerned, to ease her trepidation with words. And it was that—trepidation, not fear. Simply a hesitation on the brink of the unknown.

Ruthlessly, with the gentlest of touches, he drew her over the edge, over the threshold of her—their—next discovery.

When he let her surface, his hand cupped her breast, skin to silken skin. Their lips parted, but she didn’t draw back; their eyes met briefly from under lowered lids. He continued to touch, trace, felt her shiver. Felt something within him shudder in response.

He was hard, aching; he wanted her with an urgency that stole his breath. He lifted his lips, closing the half inch that separated hers from his, wanting, needing, succor.

She gave it; how she knew, he didn’t know but she kissed him, framed his face, angled hers and pressed deep, then invited, incited—dared him to take. As ravenously as he wished. She met him, matched him, followed, then led.

Eventually drew back as the brief flare between them faded. She made no demur when he pressed her bodice wider, so he could fill both hands and touch, caress, knead. Her breath caught, hitched, then came again, faster. Beneath his palms, her skin burned.

Portia felt giddy—with delight, with a sense of illicit awareness so sharp she could barely breathe. His touch was pure pleasure, more golden than the sunshine that played over them, warmer, more real.

Infinitely more intimate.