The Perfect Lover

by Stephanie Laurens

To the simple familiar pleasure.

  She was taller than the average, a fact he appreciated; he didn’t need to tip her face so far back, could stand with her comfortably. The column behind her merely delineated their space, providing something she could later lean back against . . . assuming she agreed to their next stage.

  The thought sent heat sliding insidiously through him. He angled his head, pressed the kiss deeper, made her cling to the exchange. Releasing her face, he reached for her waist, spanned it with his hands, then slid them around, over the fine muslin, feeling the silky shift of her chemise between the gown and her skin.

  She made a soft sound and pressed nearer; he met her lips, met her tongue—and eased her back, gently, until she stood against the column. She relaxed against it; her hands, previously resting passively on his shoulders, shifted, slid up, back, around. Spreading her fingers, she speared them slowly through his hair, let it fall.

  Then she twined her arms about his neck and stretched up against him, meeting his lips with increasing ardor, her lithe body bowing.

  Inwardly, he smiled, let his hands slide over her back, tracing the long line of the muscles framing her spine, up, then down. He kissed her deeply, sensed the heat rising beneath her skin, felt the soft mounds of her breasts, pressed to his chest, firm.

  Her perfume rose and wreathed through his mind, teased his senses. He held to the kiss, letting his hands do no more than caress the firm planes of her back, over and over.

  And waited.

  More. Portia knew she wanted more than this. Kisses were all very well, exceedingly pleasant, heady and intoxicating, sending warmth sliding through her, bringing her senses alive. And the feel of his hands, cool and hard, and the unstated promise in their steady, deliberate stroking, sent shivers of anticipatory delight down her spine. But now expectation crawled along her nerves; her senses were avidly agog. Waiting. Ready.

  For the next stage.

  He’d said he’d show her. She wanted to know, to learn of it. Now.

  She drew back from the kiss, found it required real effort; when their lips finally, reluctantly, parted, she didn’t move back, only lifted her suddenly heavy lids enough to meet his gaze from beneath her lashes.

  “What’s the next stage?”

  His eyes met hers; his seemed darker, a more intense blue. Then he answered. “This.”

  His hands shifted, leaving her back to slide forward to her sides. His thumbs cruised, brushing the sides of her breasts.

  Sensation streaked through her; her senses abruptly focused—followed, hungrily, greedily, as he stroked deliberately again. Her knees quaked; she suddenly found a use for the column behind her, leaned back against it. He followed her lips with his, brushed them as his wicked thumbs circled lightly, tantalizingly—just enough for her to understand . . .

  He lifted his head, met her eyes. “Yes? Or no?”

  His thumbs circled again, too lightly . . . if she’d had the strength she’d have told him what a stupid question it was. “Yes,” she breathed. Before he could ask if she was sure, she drew his lips back to hers, certain she would need that much anchor to the world.

  She felt his lips curve, but then his hands shifted again and she forgot—stopped thinking—about anything else bar the delicious delight that flowed from his touch, from the languid, repetitive caresses, alternately firm then teasingly insubstantial. Increasingly explicit, more openly sensual, more overtly possessive.

  Until he closed his hands, slowly, firmly about her breasts, until he took her tightly budded nipples between his thumbs and fingers, and squeezed.

  Fire lanced through her.

  Gasping, she broke from the kiss. The pressure about her nipples eased.

  “No! Don’t stop.”

  Her voice surprised her—a sultry command. She cracked open her lids, glanced at his face. His eyes met hers. There was something—some expression—she’d never seen in them before. His face was hard, very angular. His lips, thin yet mobile, were not quite straight.

  Obediently, he squeezed again; once again, sensation speared, spread and tingled beneath her skin. Warmth followed, rushing through her, washing her inhibitions away.

  She let her lids fall on a pleasured sigh.

  “Do you like it?”

  She tightened her arms and drew his lips back to hers. “You know I do.”

  He did, of course, but he hadn’t wanted to miss hearing her admission. It pleased him—a consolation prize given the limitations of their present engagement.

  The severe limitations—the open ardor of her response more than warmed him; it was a spur to which he couldn’t react.

  Yet.

  She was warm and alive beneath his hands; her breasts filled them, hot, firm, swollen. Her delight, her pleasure, was there in her kiss, in the eagerness investing her supple frame.

  When he closed his hands more definitely and kneaded, she made a sound deep in her throat and kissed him back, flagrantly demanding . . .

  It was suddenly a battle to stay exactly where he was and not press closer, not trap her against the column, mold her to him, ease his pain against her softness. He drew breath, felt his chest swell, grappled, and hung on to his control—

  Clang! Clang!

  The sound was off-key, sufficiently grating to distract them both.

  They broke the kiss; he hauled in a breath, hands sliding to her waist as he turned.

  Clang! Clang!

  “It’s the luncheon gong.” Portia blinked, slightly dazed, up at him. “They’re ringing it outside. There must be others wandering the gardens, too.”

  He hoped so, hoped it wasn’t just they being so specifically summoned. He stepped back, reached for her hand. “We’d better get back.”

  She met his gaze briefly, then nodded. Let him take her hand and lead her down the steps.

  As they walked quickly back up the lawns, he made a mental note to reinforce his reins before her next lesson. To prepare himself for the temptation, the better to resist it.

  He glanced at her, walking steadily beside him, her stride longer than most women’s. She was absorbed, thinking—he knew about what. If he made a mistake, let his true intent show, he couldn’t rely on her naïveté to blind her to it. She might not see the truth immediately, but later, she would. She would analyze and dissect everything that passed between them, all in the name of learning.

  Looking ahead, he inwardly grimaced. He was going to have to ensure she didn’t learn more than was good for her.

  Such as the truth of why he was teaching her.

  Portia sat at the luncheon table and let the conversations flow past her. She was sufficiently adept to nod here, murmur there; no one realized her mind was elsewhere.

  She longed to discuss what she’d learned, but there was no one present suitable for the role of confidante. If Penelope had been here . . . then again, given her younger sister’s views on men and marriage, perhaps it was as well she was not.

  Assessing the other ladies, she mentally ticked them off on her fingers. Not Winifred—she didn’t want to shock her—and certainly not Lucy or the Hammond girls. As for Drusilla . . .

  Kitty, brittlely vivacious as she teased Ambrose and James, seemed the only possibility—a lowering thought.

  Portia cast a glance at Lady O, then looked down at her plate. She had a sneaking suspicion that, far from being shocked, Lady O would baldly tell her she’d merely scratched the surface and there was a lot more she’d yet to learn.

  She didn’t need further encouragement. Curiosity was eating her from inside out; she didn’t dare catch Simon’s eye in case he guessed. One point they hadn’t discussed was the frequency of her lessons; she didn’t want to appear too . . . “forward” was the word that leapt to mind. She had a deep-seated conviction it wouldn’t be wise to let him know how fascinated and enthralled she was. He possessed quite enough arrogant pride; she didn�
��t need to add to it, to give him any reason to feel superior.

  Consequently, she rose with the other ladies and went out onto the lawns to sit and idly gossip in the sunshine. Simon watched her go, but he gave no sign; neither did she.

  An hour later, Lady O summoned her to help her upstairs.

  “Well, then—how are your deliberations progressing?” Lady O slumped back on her bed and let Portia straighten her skirts.

  “In a positive but as yet inconclusive manner.”

  “That so?” Lady O’s black eyes remained on her face, then she humphed. “You and Simon must have walked for miles.”

  She shrugged nonchalantly. “We went down to the lake.”

  Lady O frowned at her, then closed her eyes. “Well, if that’s all you have to report, I can only suggest you look lively. We’ve only so many days here, after all.”

  She waited; when Lady O said nothing more, she murmured a good-bye and left her.

  Slowly, she walked back through the huge house, wondering . . .

  How many days would she need to learn all? Or at least enough? Reaching the long gallery, she turned into one of the deep embrasures and sat on the window seat. Staring, unseeing, at the sunbeams dancing on the wood paneling, she opened her memory, let her senses slide free . . .

  And felt again, carefully mapped the limits of her learning, the frontier beyond which lay so much she’d yet to feel. To know.

  She had no idea how long she’d been sitting there, no idea how long Simon had been watching her; as she drew back from her thoughts, she sensed his presence, shifted her gaze, and saw him leaning against the outer edge of the embrasure. Met his blue eyes.

  A moment passed, then he raised a brow. “Ready for your next lesson?”

  Did it show? She lifted her chin. “If you’re free.”

  He had been for the last hour. Simon bit back the words, coolly inclined his head, and straightened.

  She rose, her soft skirts falling about her, sheathing her long legs. He reached out, took her hand, fought not to seize it. Calling on every ounce of his expertise, he wound her arm in his and turned down the corridor.

  She glanced at his set face. After a moment, she asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere we won’t be disturbed.” He heard the harshness in his voice, knew she’d heard it, too. Nevertheless, he couldn’t resist adding, “Incidentally, if you wish to progress through the various stages to any reasonable conclusion, you’ll need to make yourself available for the purpose.”

  She blinked, then faced forward. “I often go to the music room in the afternoon—to practice. I was thinking of going there now.”

  “You’re accomplished enough on the piano—you can afford to be distracted for once. Or twice. We’ll only be here for a few days more.”

  Halting, he opened a door, set it swinging wide, and ushered her into a small parlor attached to a bedchamber; neither room was presently in use. He’d chosen the room from memory, knowing what it contained.

  Portia stopped in the middle of the room, looking about at the lumps of furniture all swathed in Holland covers. He locked the door, then joined her; taking her hand, he drew her toward one of the long, curtained windows. The room faced west, overlooking the pinetum. He swept the curtains wide; sunshine streamed in.

  Turning back, he reached for the sheet covering the large piece of furniture facing the window. With a flick, he drew the sheet aside, revealing a wide and lushly cushioned daybed, now bathed in golden light.

  Portia blinked. Dropping the sheet, he reached for her. Giving her no time to think, he lifted her and fell, taking her with him, into the cushioned comfort.

  They bounced; she giggled, then sobered as her eyes met his. He shifted, propping his shoulders against the daybed’s padded side, settling her alongside him, half over him, within the circle of his arms.

  The sun poured over them. Her gaze drifted to his lips. She licked hers, then her eyes flicked up to his. “What now?”

  One dark brow rose fractionally; her dark blue eyes remained steady on his. He had absolutely no doubt she was willing.

  He smiled, insensibly relieved; lifting a hand to her face, he drew it to his. “Now we play.”

  They did—he couldn’t for the life of him remember any interlude like it. Whether it was the simple word or the sunshine warming them, or the silence of the deserted rooms around them, even the anonymity of the shrouded furniture surrounding them, that infused those first moments with a giddy, reckless pleasure he couldn’t tell, but they were both susceptible, both quickly infected with a heady lightheartedness that freed them from the world, left them both focused, not on propriety but on needs—he on hers, she, it seemed, on his.

  Within seconds of their lips meeting, she’d relaxed into the kiss, yet her body remained, not stiff, but tensed, like a deer not yet sure of its safety, poised to retreat. He drew her deeper into the kiss and she came readily, offering her mouth, eagerly responding when he took, claimed; he did nothing more, simply waited, let her learn for herself, come to her own conclusion.

  He had long ago learned that this particular configuration was most useful for easing a skittish lover; with her in his arms, protected yet not threatened by his weight, by his strength, the illusion of being in control rather than being controlled applied. As with others before, it worked; gradually that telltale tension flowed away, and she sank, warm, supple, vibrantly alive, against him.

  His hands on her back stroked, soothed; it was she who shifted back, gave him access to her breasts, flagrantly encouraged him to fondle.

  To gradually, inch by inch, wind her tight.

  As before, she ultimately broke from the kiss, lifting her head, dragging in a breath, her breasts swelling under his hands. This time, he didn’t stop, let his hands and fingers continue their artful torture.

  She opened her eyes and looked down, sucked in another breath as she watched him pander to her senses. Then she lifted her heavy lids and, with her usual directness, met his eyes. “What’s next?”

  He held her gaze, tightened his fingers about her nipples, watched her concentration fade . . . her lids droop. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  She opened her eyes; the look she pinned him with would have been imperious, but for the curve of her lips. “Quite sure.” She tried to straighten her lips and failed; she couldn’t have been kittenish if she tried, nor yet played the coquette—she simply didn’t have it in her—but he sensed—could almost feel—the gaiety welling within her, the thrill, the excitement, the anticipation.

  It was as if they were exploring something, some unknown landscape between them, all on a personal dare. She had not an ounce of fear in her; she was eager and sure of him, sharing the moment even though she didn’t know what would come . . .

  She trusted him.

  The knowledge crashed through him—not just the realization that she did, but all that it—so totally unexpectedly—meant to him.

  How he felt.

  He drew in a deep breath, fighting the constriction locked about his chest. She’d glanced down, watching his hands knead the tight, heated mounds of her breasts; when she glanced up at him, raising her brows, he had to clear his throat, and surreptitiously shift beneath her.

  “If you’re sure . . . ?”

  The look she threw him told him to get on with it; he found it impossible not to smile. Her bodice was closed with a row of tiny buttons from neckline to waist; releasing her breasts, he set to work easing the tiny nubs free of their holes.

  She blinked, but made not the slightest move to stop him. However, as his hands pressed between them and her bodice gaped, a frown gathered in her eyes; light color rose in her cheeks.

  The instant the last button slipped free, he reached for her face, curled one hand about her nape and drew her back down. Caught her gaze in the instant before her lids fell. “Stop thinking.”

  He kis
sed her, long, deeply, claiming her senses in truth for the first time, something he’d been careful, previously, to avoid. She hadn’t needed to know he could kiss her witless, yet if he didn’t deprive her of her considerable wits now, just for a few minutes, she might well draw back . . .

  He was not in the mood to cajole, let alone argue; he no longer possessed sufficient coolheadedness, not where she was concerned, to ease her trepidation with words. And it was that—trepidation, not fear. Simply a hesitation on the brink of the unknown.

  Ruthlessly, with the gentlest of touches, he drew her over the edge, over the threshold of her—their—next discovery.

  When he let her surface, his hand cupped her breast, skin to silken skin. Their lips parted, but she didn’t draw back; their eyes met briefly from under lowered lids. He continued to touch, trace, felt her shiver. Felt something within him shudder in response.

  He was hard, aching; he wanted her with an urgency that stole his breath. He lifted his lips, closing the half inch that separated hers from his, wanting, needing, succor.

  She gave it; how she knew, he didn’t know but she kissed him, framed his face, angled hers and pressed deep, then invited, incited—dared him to take. As ravenously as he wished. She met him, matched him, followed, then led.

  Eventually drew back as the brief flare between them faded. She made no demur when he pressed her bodice wider, so he could fill both hands and touch, caress, knead. Her breath caught, hitched, then came again, faster. Beneath his palms, her skin burned.

  Portia felt giddy—with delight, with a sense of illicit awareness so sharp she could barely breathe. His touch was pure pleasure, more golden than the sunshine that played over them, warmer, more real.

  Infinitely more intimate.

  She should be shocked—she knew it. The thought floated through her brain. And out.

  There was too much to take in, to absorb, to learn. To feel. No missish sentiment, no modesty was strong enough to distract her from the sensuous delight of his fingers, the strength of his hands, the pleasure they conjured.

  Fascination was too weak a word for all she felt.