The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Yet presently, he was helpless. He was accustomed to being in control of his life, to being able to do something about anything that mattered. But in this—something that mattered more than anything else—until she came to him and gave him the chance, there was no action he could take.

His life, his future, were in her hands.

If she gave him few chances to persuade her, then decided against him, he would lose her, no matter that he was stronger than she in all ways that mattered. He could bring all society down on her head, and yet she would not bend. She would not yield. None knew that better than he.

Why he had fixed on a woman of indomitable will he didn’t know, but it was too late to change things.

Chest swelling, he drew in a breath. He’d laughed at his brothers-in-law, hoist years ago with their own petards. He wasn’t laughing now. He was in equally dire straits.

The latch clicked; he turned as the door opened.

Portia entered, turning to close the door behind her. He heard the lock snib before she turned and surveyed him, then, head rising, crossed the room to him.

He held perfectly still. Barely breathed.

Felt every inch the predator watching his prey innocently waltzing his way.

The faint moonlight reached her as she neared; he saw her expression, her level gaze, the determination in her face.

She walked directly to him, reached a hand to his nape, and drew his lips down to hers.

Kissed him.

The fire was still there, between them; it sprang to life as she parted her lips beneath his, as he instinctively responded.

Moving slowly, giving her plenty of time to break away if she would, he slid his hands about her waist, then, when she didn’t complain, slid them further, ultimately closing his arms about her and drawing her close.

She sank against him; something in him unlocked, unfroze, melted away. He kissed her back, wanting more, and she gave it. Unhesitatingly, unstintingly.

He didn’t know what she’d decided, what tack she was now on, knew only the inexplicable relief of having her in his arms. Of having her want him.

She did; she made that abundantly clear, stretching against him, pressing close. Her tongue tangled with his, sensuously sliding, taking the kiss deeper, step by step. Wanting more, taking more, giving more. Kissing him with her usual one hundred percent focus, her customary devotion to the moment.

He knew it was deliberate—that she’d made up her mind to go this way.

Equally deliberate, he set aside his arguments, his persuasions, and simply followed.

Wound his arms about her upper thighs and lifted her against him. She responded with an ardent murmur, twined her arms about his neck and, head bent to his, feasted on his mouth. He paused, distracted, momentarily lost as he fought to appease her demands, then he ravaged her mouth, took command again, and carried her to the bed.

He tumbled them onto it, across it, instinctively rolling to trap her beneath him. She gasped, then grabbed his hair, his shoulders, clung to the kiss and wriggled, wrestled, until he rolled back and let her have her way, let her sprawl atop him, unencumbered by his weight.

Remembered he was the supplicant now, knew she wouldn’t forget. Set himself to appease her, to enthrall and entice her all over again.

Devoted his mind, and his hands, lips, mouth, and tongue, to the task. To giving himself, body and soul, to her.

Felt, in the moment the thought registered, the moment he accepted it and let it stand, a welling rightness, the rising swell of some deeper sea. It infused his touch, flowed through his fingers as he caressed her nape, eased through his body as he settled beneath her.

Openly prepared to let her have her way.

She hesitated, suspicious, but then accepted the unvoiced invitation, rising above him to better savor his mouth. Spreading her hands, she grasped the sides of his face and held him captive as she let out a satisfied sigh, released his lips, and, dark eyes glinting beneath heavy lids, ran her fingers back, into his hair.

Taking that as a sign, he sent his hands stroking over her back, smoothing her gown, then set his fingers to the buttons down her back.

She made a sound of protest; bracing her hands on his chest she pushed up, wriggled until she was straddling his waist, then looked down into his face.

He had no idea what she could see, but he lay still, his hands passive at her sides, watched her study him, waited for her lead.

Portia looked down at him, at his face, lit by the strengthening moonlight pouring through the window. She could read his acquiescence, his willingness to, at least tonight, at least here, be whatever she wanted. Behave in whatever way she decreed.