The Perfect Lover (25 page)

It caught her, lifted her up, opened her senses wide. So the reality poured in—the hot wetness of his mouth as he suckled her, the hard heaviness of muscle and bone holding her down, the rampant ridge of his erection pressed to her hip, ready to claim her.

The promise—the certainty—of what was to come overwhelmed her—and she let it.

Stopped fighting. Let him teach her. Show her.

Simon knew when she acquiesced, when she stopped trying to judge—to think. To manage. Her body, nowhere near as strong as his yet with its own supple strength, eased beneath him. A sign he was too much a conqueror not to recognize and relish; he lifted his head, took her lips, her mouth—now his to savor as he wished—and shifted over her.

Let her feel his weight, let her know and learn, as she assuredly needed to. When she tugged, he released her hands, lowered his to her breasts, then slid them lower, tracing her curves, pushing between the sheets and her silken skin to close his hands over the globes of her bottom and angle her hips against him.

She murmured, deep in her throat; inwardly gloating, he caught her senses, dragged them deeper yet into the kiss.

When he released her lips and trailed his down her body, licking, laving, kissing his way to her breasts, she didn’t try to stop him. Her hands lay on his shoulders, fingers clenching then easing as he sampled her bounty; her breathing was ragged, her eyes, when he glanced at her face, were closed. A fine line of concentration lay between her brows.

He licked one tight nipple, curled his tongue about it and drew it into his mouth, then suckled, deep, deeper—until her concentration fractured and she gasped.

Shifting lower, he let his reins slide—knew better than to imagine he could control his baser instincts, not tonight, not with her. He’d wanted her—not just, he could now admit, for the days they’d spent here, but for much, much longer. Her body was a prize his rakish soul had long coveted, even if he hadn’t admitted it.

Tonight she would be his. More—tonight, she would give herself to him completely, without reservation. If they were to have a future, there was no point pretending he was not what he was, that he wouldn’t demand, and command that of her.

How she would react—that was something else, but he’d never known her courage to falter.

Deep in his heart, he knew he could ask of her everything, and she would—knowing and knowingly—give. It was, ultimately, impossible for him to hurt her. She knew that as well as he.

He sent his lips cruising the taut skin of her stomach, and she caught her breath, restlessly shifted. His hands closed, locking about her hips; he shifted lower, spreading her thighs, with his shoulders wedging them wide.

She guessed. Her fingers clenched in his hair. He felt her haul in a breath as he bent his head, and set his lips to her softness.

“Simon!”

She uttered his name on a fractured scream; the sound seared him to his very soul. He licked, probed, then settled to savor her, sucking lightly, then more explicitly tracing the swollen folds. Her slick honey flowed as he feasted; she tasted of pippins, tart yet sweet. He found the tight nubbin erect and swollen beneath its hood, and lightly sucked, his every sense locked on her, on her reactions.

Step by step, he pushed her on, until her fingers curled to claws, until her head pressed back and her hips tilted, wordlessly surrendering. He opened her, tauntingly probed her entrance, then slowly, deliberately, penetrated her with his tongue.

She fractured, broke apart; he gloried in her soft cry, savored her contractions, but the instant they eased, he rose over her. Spread her thighs even wider, sank his hands into the bed on either side of her, set his erection to her slick, swollen folds.

Found her entrance. Nudged in.

Then drove home.

She cried out, arching wildly beneath him. He didn’t stop, but drove deeper yet, fighting to absorb the sensations—of her heated sheath yielding, then encasing him, so tightly, of the firmness of her body, the cushioning feminine flesh, the succulent heat clamping about him. Battling desperately to savor all that, yet not let the moment sweep him away, not let his most primitive instincts have their way. He could—and would—plunder later, once she’d agreed, once she understood.

Trapped beneath him, she’d stilled. Head bowed, he could feel her panting breath close by his ear. Could feel, where they joined, where she’d clamped tight about him, the thudding tempo of her racing heart. Every muscle locked against the almost overpowering urge to ride her, he lifted his head and looked into her face.

From beneath heavy lids, from behind the black lace of her lashes, her eyes glinted—glittered—into his. Her lips, swollen, slightly parted, seemed to firm. He felt her draw breath.

“I thought you promised never to hurt me.”

Not quite an accusation—her lips twisted briefly in the lightest grimace; to his immense relief, her body was already easing beneath his, the defensive tension slowly seeping away.

He bent his head, brushed her lips with his, made them cling for an instant. “I think,” he murmured, shifting very slightly within her, “that you’ll find it’s not a lasting hurt.”

He lifted over her again; eyes locked with hers, he withdrew a fraction, then slid home once more.

She blinked. “Do that again.”

He would have grinned, but couldn’t; his features were locked, passion set. He did as she asked, letting out a little of the air locked in his lungs when neither her expression nor her body retensed.

Looking into his face, Portia struggled to assimilate the feeling of fullness, of being so full of him. Not in her wildest dreams . . . the sensations of intimacy, of having given herself to him, of having taken him into her body, were not only more powerful than she’d foreseen, but powerful in a different way.

A more fundamental, earth-shattering, soul-shaking way.

But she couldn’t stop and examine that now—neither her body nor his would permit it. Both were primed, coiled, ready. For what, she had only the vaguest idea.

Her hands had dropped from his shoulders to close, viselike, on his upper arms; releasing one, she raised her hand to his cheek, brushed back the fall of his silken hair. Drew his face, slowly, down to hers.

Opened her mouth beneath his, urged him on, invited him to take her—teach her more—in the only way she knew.

His lips closed over hers, his tongue filled her mouth, tangled with hers, thrust deep—withdrew as his body did, then echoed the surge as he filled her anew.

A surge repeated again and again until it caught her, drew her up, had her riding the wave of sensation again, with him, this time, as he rode her. Her body, no longer hers to command, following instinct, following him, rose to his until flames flared, until fire danced under her skin, until her bones were molten, her body a furnace into which his plunged, like a burning brand, deeper, harder, rhythmically, repeatedly stoking the flames.

Her senses were caught, locked in the moment; never had she felt so alive. So aware of herself, and of him. Of their bodies merging, giving and taking, of their skins, slick and hot, rubbing and sliding, touching, brushing, caressing. Of their breaths mingling, their hearts thundering in unison, their bodies striving, their wills as one.

Diving into the flames, bathing in the passion, in the hot furnace of mutual desire. Clinging, gasping, then stoking the flames to new heights.

Until they erupted in a towering wall of heat that fell on them and consumed them, that cindered all remnants of rational thought, poured in molten sensation down every nerve as wildfire flashed across their skins.

Desperate, they danced on, breaths fractured, hearts racing, fingers sinking deep.

He lifted his head, dragged in a gigantic breath—as did she. Their gazes met.

“Do something for me.”

She could barely make out the words. “What?”

“Wrap your legs about my hips.”

She wanted to ask why but didn’t, instead simply did as he asked—and learned the answer.

He drove into her—deeper, harder, faster—drove, it seemed, straight to her heart. She arched beneath him, gripped tight with her thighs, heard herself cry as her senses fractured—not as before but infinitely more intensely, shattering into shards, bright, sharp, gilded with glory.

She felt him hold still, buried deep within her, then he was with her, caught, trapped, swept up and away in the pure energy swirling around them, through them, that battered them, buoyed them. Ultimately fused them.

Fused their bodies, heated and damp—then imploded in a sunburst powerful enough to fuse their very souls.

She’d wondered what would happen after; no amount of wondering had prepared her for this.

For the sheer weight of him, slumped on top of her, for the thundering of their hearts, for the glory still coursing through their veins, the heat still pulsing under their skins.

Over. The raging storm had swept past and left them washed up, exhausted, tossed up by the waves on some deserted island.

Only they were real. In that moment, the rest of the world did not exist.

Boneless, she lay beneath him, stunned, yet at peace. He turned his head. Their breaths mingled, then, blindly, their lips met. Clung. Held.

“Thank you.”

His words feathered her cheek. Lifting a hand, she brushed back his hair, then stroked down, over the powerful lines of his torso, the long muscles of his back.

“No—thank you.”

For teaching her, for letting her see . . . possibly more than he’d intended.

She’d been right; there was something special between them, something worth fighting for. But there was also so much she’d yet to learn . . .

His lips cruised over hers, then he drew in a breath, and eased from her. The change was dramatic—the difference in sensations, in how her body felt when he was there, joined with her, and when he was not.

He lifted from her, then slumped on the bed beside her. One heavy arm reached across, settling her against his side, locking her there.

“Go to sleep. We’ll have to get you back to your room before dawn—I’ll wake you before then.”

She smiled. Refrained from telling him she was looking forward to it—to having him wake her up. Turning onto her side, she snuggled down, snuggled her back against him.

She’d never slept with a man before, but sleeping with him seemed perfectly natural. Perfectly normal.

Perfectly meant to be.

Dawn came too soon.

She was dimly, dreamily aware when Simon left her side, when his weight left the bed. She grumbled, turned over, grabbing the tangled sheets and comforter to her to hold in his warmth, and slid back into bliss-filled slumber.

She was floating, boneless and content on some warm and gentle sea when a hard hand closed on her shoulder and shook.

“Come on—wake up. It’s getting light.”

Cracking open an eye took serious effort; squinting up, she saw Simon, fully dressed, leaning over her. It was light enough to see that his eyes were blue, his expression concerned.

She smiled, closed her eye, reached up and curled her fingers in his lapel. “No one else will be up for hours.” She tugged. “Come back in here.” Her lips curved as the memories washed over her. “I want to learn more.”

He sighed. Heavily. Then the hand that had risen to close about hers locked about her hand and wrist—and he straightened, yanking her unceremoniously from her warm cocoon.

Her eyes snapped open. “
Wha
—?”

He caught both her arms and half lifted, half wrestled her to her knees. “We have to get you dressed and back in your room
before
the servants are everywhere.”

Before she could say a word, he dropped her chemise over her head. She struggled to get her arms up through the delicate armholes, then tugged the fabric down. Scowling came easily; she fixed him with a narrow-eyed glare. “This is not what I expected.”

He stood looking down at her; he was having trouble keeping his lips straight. “So I’d gathered.” Then his jaw firmed. “However, we’re only here for another two days, and we are not going to cause a scandal in that time.” He tossed her dress at her.

She caught it, tilted her head, and considered him. “As we do have only two more days, wouldn’t it be wiser to—”

“No.” He hesitated, studying her, then added, “We can continue your lessons tonight.” Turning, he sat on the bed and reached for his boots. “Don’t think to learn anything more before then.”

Mulling that over, she struggled into her gown, then wriggled around to sit and pull on her stockings. “Why,” she eventually asked, “do we have to wait until tonight?”

Her tone reflected honest curiosity, but also an underlying uncertainty; Simon heard both. He glanced at her, watched, his body slowly tensing as, one long, long leg extended, she—with transparently guileless grace—drew on her stocking. He blinked, struggled to remember her question.

He managed it; he lifted his gaze to her face, met her eyes. His instinct was to slide around the topic, avoid it.

She raised her brows, waiting. Jaw setting, he stood, gave her his hand and helped her from the bed. She looked down, sliding her feet into her evening slippers.

“Your body . . .” He spoke to the top of her head. “You’ll need a little time to recover.”

She looked up, blinked—was about to argue—

“Trust me, you will.” He shepherded her to the door.

To his immense relief, she went—still thinking. She halted before the door; he reached around her for the knob. Shifting, she leaned her shoulder against his chest, traced his cheek with one fingertip.

Met his eyes. “I’m not exactly a fragile flower. I won’t break.”

He held her gaze. “I’m neither small nor gentle.” He bent his head and brushed her lips. “Trust me—tonight, but not before.”

Her lips clung; he felt her sigh.

“All right.”

Gripping the knob, he opened the door.

He insisted on seeing her back to her room. In order to reach it, they had to traverse the length of the main wing. The oldest part of the house, it contained numerous reception rooms, many opening one into the other; he used that route to avoid the tweenies scurrying about the main corridors.