The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)
She was waiting in the dimness. In the shadows, her face was a pale oval; he had no hope of reading her eyes. Nor she his.
He halted before her. She raised a hand to his cheek, lifted her face, guided his lips to hers. Kissed him in flagrant invitation. Locking his hands about her waist, glorying in the feel of her supple, slender form anchored between his palms, he accepted and took. Without quarter.
When he finally raised his head, she sighed. Then asked, perfectly equably, “What’s next?”
He’d had the last half hour to formulate the right answer. He smiled; in the darkness, she couldn’t see it.
“Something a little different.” He walked forward, step by slow, deliberate step backing her.
He sensed the skittery excitement that flashed through her. She tensed to glance around, to see where he was steering her, but inherent caution overcame her—she didn’t take her gaze from his face.
The backs of her legs hit the arm of one of the deep chairs. She stopped. He released her, caught her hand, stepped past and around her and sat, reaching for her, pulling her down, perching her on his knees, more or less facing him.
He could feel her surprise. They were now in dense shadow; the moonlight didn’t reach this far.
But she was quick to adjust; he didn’t need to draw her to him. Unbidden, she leaned close, and kissed him.
Invitingly. He was deep in the exchange, caught, captured, before he realized. Not a kitten, not a coquette, but she could, it seemed, when the mood was on her, be a temptress of a different sort.
One infinitely more attractive to him.
He could feel his hunger rise; he fervently prayed she never realized how easily she could conjure it. Call it, lure it, like some beast of prey coming to her hand.
Ready to feast.
His hands, until then spread over her back, over the fine silk of her evening gown, slid forward. She sat up—he assumed to give him better access to her breasts. Instead, she broke the kiss, raised her head.
“I have a suggestion.”
Wariness flooded him, not least because her voice had changed. The tone was lower, richer, as sultry as the night that wrapped about them and screened her eyes, her expression. He could read neither, had to gauge their play—her state—from other things.
Far
less accurate things.
“What?”
He saw her lips lift. She set her forearms on his upper chest, leaned in and kissed him lightly. “An addendum to our last lesson.”
What on earth was she about? “Explain.”
She laughed softly; the sound sank into him. “I’d rather show you.” She caught his gaze. “It’s all perfectly reasonable—and only fair.”
It was then he realized she’d undone his waistcoat; his coat had already been open. Before he could react, she shifted on his chest and set nimble fingers to his cravat.
“Portia.”
“Hmm?”
Arguing would get him nowhere; he lifted his hands and helped her untie his cravat. In a gesture of triumph she sat up and drew it free, went to fling it away. A sudden vision flashed across his brain; he caught the cravat and laid it on the chair arm.
She’d already lost interest—hers had focused on the buttons closing his shirt. He shifted, letting her draw the front free of his trousers, then she had it fully open, spread the halves wide—and stopped, staring down at what she’d uncovered.
He would have given an arm to see her face clearly. As it was, he drank in her stillness, her absorption, the sense of fascination that held her as she slowly released the shirt, spread her fingers, and touched.
For a full minute, she simply traced, explored—learned. Then she glanced at his face, registered his reaction, the fact he’d stopped breathing. Her hands stopped for a moment, then touched more boldly.
“You like this.” She moved her hands slowly, sensuously caressing across the wide muscles banding his chest, then down, fingers lightly touching, only to return to spear through the crinkly thatch of brown hair.