The Perfect Lover (30 page)

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.

She wanted—needed—more.

“You suggested a trial. Did you mean it?”

With her above him, he couldn’t see her eyes well enough to read them. He searched her face, hesitated, then said, “I meant we should behave as if we were married so you can see—convince yourself—that it’s possible. That being married to me won’t be the disaster you fear.”

“So you won’t dictate, decree?” She gestured with one hand. “Simply take charge, take control?”

“I’ll
try
not to.” His jaw firmed. “I’m willing to bend as much as I’m able, to accommodate you within reason, but I can’t—”

When he didn’t go on, she supplied, “Change your stripes?”

She felt him exhale.

“I can’t be someone I’m not, any more than you can accept being forced to be someone you’re not.” He held her eyes with his. “All we can do is try, and make of it what we can.”

The sincerity in his tone slid beneath her guard and touched her. It was enough for now—assurance enough, invitation enough to test him and see.

“Very well. Let’s try it, and see how far we get.”

His hands, large, powerful, strong, remained passive at her sides, not pushing, not pressing . . . waiting.

She smiled, bent and set her lips to his. Taunted, then, as she felt his hands tense, draw back. Froze him with a glance.

And set her fingers to his cravat. Drew the diamond pin free and slid it into his waistcoat’s edge, then settled to untie the knot, eventually dragging the long strip free. She paused with it dangling from her hand, the possibilities winging through her mind, then she smiled.

Took the long strip between both hands, flipped it to form a blindfold.

Caught his eyes over it. “Your turn.”

The look on his face was priceless, yet he couldn’t refuse to ease up from the bed, propped on his elbows, head bent forward while she secured the white band in place.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he muttered.

“I believe I’ll manage.”

With him blind, she could forget all need for guarding her expression, could focus completely on him, on securing what she wished from him.

Fingers on his shoulders, she pressed him back; he lay down again, stretched beneath her across the bed. The headboard and its pile of pillows lay to her right; from behind her left shoulder, the moon shone in, casting faint but sufficient light over him.

She set about creating the scene she had in mind, the stage on which tonight she would test him.

T
he idea was too intriguing to deny. Pushing the halves of his waistcoat wide, she eased it off his shoulders, then tugged him up enough to yank it away; she sent it flying to the floor.

He eased back to the bed; she pounced on the line of buttons closing his shirt. Fingers busy, she watched his face; blindfolded, he couldn’t see her watching, so was less vigilant in guarding his expression. From what she could see, he’d guessed at least some of her intention, and wasn’t entirely sure how he felt.

Her smile turned determined as she freed the last button, yanked the tails from his waistband, then wrenched his shirt open. He’d have to grin and bear it.

“Think of England,” she said. And spread her hands over him.

Greedily, fingers splayed, she filled her senses with the sculpted beauty of his chest, enthralled by the tactile bounty of firm, smooth skin overlayed by raspy, crinkly hair, feasted on the resilient muscles beneath, worshipped the width and inherent strength, gloried in its promise.

He shifted. “I’ll survive.”

Her smile turned wicked. She wrestled the shirt free and flung it away, then leaned low and touched the tip of her tongue to his collarbone. Surreptitiously, he sucked in a breath; the muscles of his abdomen tensed as he held it. Intent, she settled on his bare chest—settled to tease, to taunt, to torture.

To lick, lave, and rasp the tight buds of his nipples. With her teeth nip, here, there, then suck.

Until he shifted, until his hands, until then passive on her hips, started to tighten, until the muscles in his upper arms tensed.

With one last, long lick, she sat up.

Rose up on her knees, shifted back, pulling her skirts from under her, then sat straddling his hard thighs.

Leaning forward, she placed her hands again on his chest, then slowly, gradually, slid them down.

Over the corrugated muscles of his stomach. Down to his waist.

Beneath her palms, muscles shifted. Locked.

Satisfied, she sat back, waited. Watched as his anticipation eased. He drew in a breath.

She reached for his waistband.

Flicked the buttons free, laid open the flap, and closed her hands, both her hands, about him.

He went rigid, all of him, every muscle in his body seized; for the first minute, as she eased her hold, then tightened her grip again, then caressed, explored, fondled, he didn’t breathe.

Then he did, shallowly. “If I can make a suggestion?”

She considered, then invited in her sultriest tone, “Suggest away.”

He lifted his hands from where they’d fallen to the coverlet and closed them about hers.

Taught her exactly what she wished to know. How to touch him, how to pleasure him, how to press delight on him until his breath strangled in his throat.

Until he dragged in a huge breath, pulled her hands away and shifted beneath her, struggling to remove his trousers.

She rose and helped, wriggled back down his legs and stripped him.

Naked.

Flat on his back, with only the white band of his cravat over his eyes, with not a stitch to conceal him, he was a sight that took her breath away.

All this was hers.

If she dared claim it.

She licked her lips, then on her knees moved back up over his legs. Lifting and flicking out her skirts so they pooled around her, to the side and behind her, so that he could feel them against his bare skin—and feel the heat of her, of the place that ached and throbbed between her thighs, tantalizingly close as she again sat across his thighs, watching his face carefully all the while.

Gauging his state as she settled, hitching up her chemise so her bare skin met his—in the instant she closed her hands once more about his rigid erection.

The rush of impulses through him was strong as a tide; it broke against the wall of his will, straining under the pressure, but it refused to break. He clung on, his breathing increasingly harried.

She smiled; she wasn’t finished with him yet.

Looking down, she admired the prize locked between her hands, then bent her head and set her lips to the hot, baby-soft skin.

He jerked; caught his breath.

Lovingly, she traced the head with her lips, then licked, around, down the long shaft . . . watched his face, watched his jaw lock, clenched tighter than she’d ever seen it . . .

Brazenly bold, she opened her lips and took him in.

He uttered a strangled sound. Reached for her, his fingers tangling in her long hair.

“No. Don’t.”

The words were barely understandable.

She released him, looked more closely at his face. “Why? You like it.”

From all she could see, taking him between her lips had been the most exquisite torture she’d yet devised.

“That’s not the point.” He drew in a shattered breath. “At least, not at the moment.”

“Hmm.” She liked the taste of him, liked the sensation of having him so much in thrall.

“For God’s sake, take pity.” His hands had fallen to her arms; he urged her forward. “Later—some other time.”

She grinned. “Promise?”

“Word of a Cynster.”

She laughed. Rising up on her knees, she came forward until she was straddling his hips, with nothing between his skin and hers, nothing bar inches of air separating his erection and the aching softness between her thighs.

He’d stopped tugging as soon as she’d moved; he seemed to be holding his breath.

She considered, then leaned down, and kissed him lovingly—unsurprised when he grabbed her head and ravaged her mouth, drank from her ravenously.

Coiling tension rose in the hard body rigidly supine beneath hers.

She drew back. He let her . . . waited, chest laboring . . .

When she didn’t move, he ground out, “You do know what you’re doing . . . ?”

She wasn’t that innocent, not when it came to this. There were a number of books in the library at Calverton Chase that her brother, Luc, had always insisted be placed on the top shelf. He’d refused to lift them down. Consequently, she and Penelope had, at the first opportunity, climbed up and fetched the restricted volumes down. Many had proved to be picture books—with quite eye-opening pictures. She had never completely forgotten what she’d seen.

“In a manner of speaking.” She edged back a fraction more. “I know it’s possible, but tell me.” Leaning forward from the hips, she drew her tongue slowly across one tight nipple, tasting the salt on his skin. Purred, “How exactly does this work?”

The laugh that racked him was harsh, abrupt—as if he were in pain. His chest swelled. “Simple.” He grasped her hips. “Like this.”

Even though he couldn’t see, he guided her expertly back and down, until his rigid staff prodded her entrance; he tilted his hips, nudged in, then obediently stopped before she ordered him to.

She smiled. “Now I assume I sit up . . .” Bracing her hands on his chest, she eased upright. “Like this . . .”

She needed no answer. The slow slide of his body into hers fractured her breathing, sent a long, sensual shudder down her spine. Her eyes closed as her body gave, sheathing the rigid strength of his, gradually taking him in, accepting him. Inch by inch, all under her control, she pressed down, shifting and taking him deeper, then deeper still. The sensations were mind-numbing, all-consuming—the heat, the pressure, the rock-solid reality. Exhaling, she spread her knees wider the better to sink lower yet, to take all of him, press him as high inside her as she could.

Then hold him tight.

“God!”
His fingers sank into her hips; he held her down. “For pity’s sake, hold still for a minute.”

His voice was beyond strained, almost breaking.

She looked down at his face, at the blankness passion had wrought in his expression, and gave him his minute, used it herself to absorb the feeling of him high inside her, of how he filled her, completed her, of how her body welcomed him in. Her senses were thrumming, heated and alive, ready and waiting for all that was to come.

Beneath her, Simon clung to sanity by his fingernails. He’d told her he’d survive . . . he was no longer so sure. To be sheathed in such a way in scalding feminine flesh, slicker than silk, while unable to see, knowing she was fully dressed, feeling the air cool against his naked skin, feeling her stockinged thighs gripping his flanks—knowing she intended to ride him to oblivion, but with no idea what she intended after that . . . if he hadn’t been lying down she would have brought him to his knees.

His time was apparently up; she grasped his wrists, eased his restraining hands from her hips—turned his hands, locked her fingers with his and leaned on his arms as slowly, muscles clinging and caressing him, she eased up.

Up.

Just before she lost him, she reversed direction.

And sank even more slowly, clingingly, down.

His jaw locked; his teeth clenched. She was still so damned tight it was a wonder he didn’t spontaneously combust simply from the friction. As it was, his hips involuntarily jerked as she sank the last inch down.

“Uh-huh. You are to lie still. Completely still.”

He bit back a caustic inquiry as to which army she planned to use to hold him down. Told himself he’d brought this on his own head and would simply have to endure it.

She experimented again, rising, then sinking down. Then her fingers, interdigitated with his, tightened; she started to ride him in earnest.

Her training had been exemplary, albeit in a different field. She’d ridden since she could walk, spent years riding wild across the Rutlandshire wolds. There was no chance she would tire soon.

His body rose to her challenge; he fought to remain as still as he could, to defer to her stated wishes. She held him, clasped him tightly, continued to ride steadily, transparently savoring him, only gradually moving faster and faster.

His breathing became labored, as was hers. She held tighter to his hands but didn’t break her stride. He could feel her tightening about him, feel the tension coiling through her, feel it start to coalesce, condense.

On a gasp, she released his hands, grabbed his wrists, and guided his fingers to her breasts. Breath hitching, he cupped the firm mounds, then kneaded evocatively, searched and found the tight peaks, closed his fingers and squeezed . . . until she gasped anew, clamped hard about him, swayed, then braced her hands on his chest, caught her rhythm again, and rode on.