The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Portia stifled a disgusted humph. An oppressive sense of impending social doom seemed to be spreading outward from Kitty. She, for one, had definitely had enough—and she absolutely had to find some time, and some better place, to think.

“If you’ll excuse me?” With a nod, she stepped back from the three girls and walked to the French doors open to terrace.

Without a single glance right or left, she glided through—into the sweet coolness of the night.

Beyond the light cast through the doors, she stopped and dragged in a huge breath; it tasted delicious, as if it was the first truly free breath she’d managed in hours. All frustration fell from her, slid like a cloak from her shoulders. Lips lifting, she strolled along the terrace, then descended the steps and set out across the lawns.

Toward the lake. She wouldn’t go down to it, not alone, but the new moon rode high, and the lawns themselves were bathed in silvery light. Safe enough for her to wander; it wasn’t that late.

She needed to think about all she’d learned, of what she could make of things thus far. Her hours spent alone with Simon had certainly opened her eyes; what she was seeing was both more and surprisingly different from what she’d expected. She’d assumed the attraction, the physical connection, that occurred between a man and woman would be something akin to chocolate—a taste pleasant enough to wish to indulge in whenever it was offered, but hardly a compulsive craving.

What she’d thus far shared with Simon . . .

She shivered even though the air was warm and balmy. Walking on, her gaze fixed on the clipped grass five feet ahead of her, she tried to find words to describe what she felt. Was this desire—this urge to do it again? More, to go further? Far further.

Possibly, but she knew herself—at least some of herself—well enough to recognize that mixed in with the purely sensual compulsion there was a healthy vein of curiosity, of her usual determination to know.

Along with the desire, that, too, had grown.

She knew what she wanted to know, what, now she knew it existed, she would not be able to leave be until she’d examined it fully and understood.

There was something—something totally unexpected—between her and Simon.

Walking slowly down the lawns, she considered that conclusion and could not fault it. Even though in this sphere she was untried and inexperienced, she trusted her innate abilities. If her faculties were convinced there was something there to be pursued, then there was.

What it was, however . . .

She didn’t know; she couldn’t even hazard a guess. Courtesy of her heretofore sheltered life, she didn’t even know if it was normal.

It certainly wasn’t normal for her.

But was it normal for him? Something that occurred with every lady.

She didn’t think so. She was sufficiently familiar with him to sense his moods; toward the end of their interlude lolling on the daybed, when she’d sensed that curious shift between them, he’d been as taken aback as she.

Rack her brains though she did, she couldn’t recall anything specific that had caused the moment—it was as if they’d suddenly simultaneously opened their eyes and realized they’d reached a place they hadn’t expected to find themselves in. They’d both been, not to put too fine a point on it, enjoying themselves—neither ha

d been paying attention, neither had been steering their play . . .

It was something special because he hadn’t expected it to happen.

She was definitely going to find out more. Discover, uncover, whatever it took. The obvious place to start was to return to the same place, the same spot—that same odd plane of feeling.

Luckily, she had an inkling how to get there. They’d been totally focused on the physical delight, engrossed as only two people who knew each other so well could be. Neither had been watching the other in the sense of gauging the other’s honesty or character; if he’d wanted to say or do anything, she trusted absolutely that he would have said or done it. He viewed her in the same light; she knew that without thinking.

That was the key—they hadn’t been thinking. With each other, they didn’t need to bother; they’d concentrated completely on the doing.

The sharing.

She’d reached the end of the lawns above the lake. It lay ahead and below, dark and fathomless, inky black in its hollow.

No matter how hard she stretched her imagination, she couldn’t—could not—imagine sharing those moments with any other man.

Like a touch, she sensed his presence, felt his gaze. Turning, she watched him come down the lawn toward her, hands in his pockets, shoulders wide, his gaze fixed on her.

Halting beside her, he looked out over the lake, then returned his gaze to her face. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

She met his eyes. “I’m not.”