Separate from that, was he truly capable of allowing her free rein within reason, allowing her to be as she was? Or was his offer simply a tactic to gain her agreement to their marriage?
Two questions—both were now clear in her mind.
There was only one way to learn the answers.
Try me.
She would have to put him to the test.
She sat by the window and watched the shadows lengthen, darken. Watched night descend, wrapping the gardens in silence.
Thought again of Kitty lying dead in the icehouse.
Felt the blood still coursing her own veins.
She still had her life to live, and that meant making of it what she could. She’d never lacked for courage; never in her life had she walked away from a challenge.
Never had she faced a challenge like this.
To take the situation he had wrought and shape from it the life she wanted, to claim from him—him of all men—the answers, the guarantees she needed to feel safe.
The truth was there was no going back. No pretending that what had happened between them hadn’t, or that what had grown between them, still was growing between them, didn’t exist.
Or that she could simply walk away, from it, from him—that he would let her.
No point pretending at all.
In waistcoat and shirtsleeves, Simon stood by the window in his room watching the waters of the lake turn to ink.
Feeling his mood turn equally black.
He wanted to go to Portia—now, tonight. Wanted to wrap her in his arms and know she was safe. Wanted, with a desire that was new and novel and so unlike passion he couldn’t believe its strength, to make her feel safe.
That was his governing impulse, one he couldn’t indulge.
The fact only fed his deepening disquiet.
She was in her room, alone. Thinking.
There was nothing he could do about it—nothing he could do to influence her conclusions.
He couldn’t recall being so totally uncertain of any other woman in his life; he’d certainly never been so hobbled in his ability to turn a woman to his will.
There was nothing he could do. Unless or until she came to him, he was powerless to persuade her further. To convince her to go forward with him and explore making a marriage work—something to which he was now fully committed. He’d been perfectly serious in promising to find ways to accommodate her as far as he was able.
He would do whatever it took to get her to marry him; the alternative was not something he was prepared to face.
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.
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.
The 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 i
n 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.
The Perfect Lover Page 23
