The Perfect Lover

by Stephanie Laurens

  Felt forced to breathe against her swollen lips, “You’re sure?”

  She dragged in a breath, her breasts swelling against his chest. “Touch me—touch me there.”

  He didn’t wait for further direction, needed no detailed instruction. Taking her lips again, taking her mouth, he waited only until he sensed her awareness join with his again before sliding his hand lower, tracing the sweet curve of her stomach down to the profusion of soft curls between her thighs.

  Stroking slowly, deliberately, through them, he touched her, set his fingers to her softest flesh and traced, explored, learned. And still she was with him, sharing every sensual moment, every single tactile impression . . . never before had he been so aware of a woman beneath his hands.

  The knowledge of what that would translate to once he had her beneath him, body to body, skin to naked skin, sent a shaft of pure heat to his groin. He was aching, had been since she’d walked so confidently into his arms; pure torment was only a heartbeat away.

  Yet the moment held the power to command him—for once helped in holding the raging need at bay. This—she—was too important, this conquest above all others meant life and death to him.

  Fingertips throbbing, acutely sensitive, he eased her thighs wider, parted her soft folds, traced, teased, tantalized, until she moved against his hand, deliberately, wantonly—with her usual decision demanding more.

  Her fingers were lost in his hair, blindly clinging; he opened her and eased one finger into her scalding sheath. Her slickness burned him, seared through him, tempted beyond belief. He could barely breathe—couldn’t think beyond the all but blinding surge of passion, the welling need to bury himself in the sweet feminine flesh his fingers so artfully teased.

  Grimly, he held on, held the primitive urge back, ruthlessly contained. It didn’t fade but simply hardened, solidified into a brutally painful reality that would not leave him.

  It was enough to let him go on, to continue along the path he’d mapped unmindful of the price he would later pay.

  Caught in the coils of passion, deeper than she’d imagined might be, Portia was only dimly aware of that fractional hiatus—the momentary shifting of his attention—before it returned, in full force, to her. To where he was touching her, caressing her, repetitively teasing in some way she didn’t understand.

  Her body seemed to know, to recognize some pattern that was beyond her conscious mind. She had to let it lead her, had to follow mentally behind, learning, seeing, realizing.

  Feeling. She’d never imagined that physical sensation could be this acute, this consuming. His lips never left hers, his arm around her supported her, the hard wall of his chest was close, reassuring in the face of the whirlpool of sensations swirling through her, buffeting her mind, dragging at her senses.

  The fact that his hand lay between her thighs, that he’d eased them apart and was stroking her there, her flesh slick and wet, swollen and hot, should have overwhelmed her, but did not. She could sense the heat, the furnace her own body had become, the deeper heat that flared within when he probed, then opened her and penetrated more deeply.

  Her breath caught, her nerves, until then sensitized and alive, started to curl. Tight. Then tighter. Her muscles started to tense, but in some new and novel way.

  Lungs locked, she gasped through their kiss, clung to him as between her thighs, deep inside her, sensation built.

  He was stoking it deliberately; she knew that much. Knew this was what she’d asked for, what she needed to know, wanted to know.

  She let go, let slide the last vestiges of inhibition, and let the tide welling inside sweep her up. Sweep her on.

  Into a landscape of sensation. Up to some pinnacle of cataclysmic feeling.

  Her senses expanded until they filled her mind; her body felt aflame. He reached deeper within her; a rush of rapture flowed down her veins, under her skin, tightening her nerves, driving her senses . . .

  Until they fractured. Shattered.

  Sharp, almost biting delight gripped her, held her in a vise, poured radiant pleasure through her.

  The wave swept on, past, through her, leaving in its wake a sense of earthly bliss. A sense of floating in tactile glory, lapped by waves of delight.

  Gradually, the waves subsided; sensation diminished, the feelings ebbed. His hand left her.

  To her surprise, she felt empty. Incomplete.

  Unfulfilled.

  As her wits returned fully, she made the connection. Realized this was a two-act play and he’d stopped at the intermission.

  And had no intention of going any further.

  She knew without asking; his decision was there, solid and real in his heavily locked muscles, in the brutual tension riding him.

  In confirmation, like a curtain falling, he flipped down her skirts and locked his hand over her hip.

  She had absolute confidence in his self-mastery. Drawing back from the kiss, she boldly reached between them, traced the hard line of his erection, the solid weight she could feel riding against her thigh.

  Closed her hand as well as she could; felt him shift, heard the hiss of his indrawn breath.

  Leaned close and whispered against his lips. “You want me.”

  The sound he made was guttural, a strangled laugh. “You can hardly doubt it.”

  She couldn’t, not with the evidence burning her palm, yet the degree of that want, the sheer power of his desire was a surprise—a shock.

  Even more a temptation.

  Yet the realization—the physical fact, an ephemeral knowledge brought to life, translated to flesh and blood—sent a shiver of pure caution, an elemental sensing of danger coursing through her.

  He drew in a tight breath; eyes closed, he pressed his hand between them, closed it over hers. Tightened her grip on him.

  Then, slowly, drew her hand away.

  He breathed out; she couldn’t truly see his face in the darkness, but would have sworn the harsh planes had grown even more hard-edged.

  Against his lips, she breathed, “Why?”

  She didn’t need to be more specific. He would know even better than she that he could have taken her if he’d wished.

  His gaze touched her face, traveled it, then he lifted his hand and traced a finger across her lips. She scented, and tasted, her essence. Then he leaned close and kissed her, kissed it from her lips.

  “Are you ready for that?”

  His words drifted through her mind, not really a question.

  She drew back, looked into his eyes, dark, shadowed, unreadable. Could still feel his desire, the powerful need that was riding him. Answered truthfully. “No. But—”

  He kissed her; stopped her words. She hesitated for an instant, the understanding that he did not wish her to utter them, didn’t wish to hear what she would have said—what he’d known she’d been about to say—sweeping through her. Then she returned the kiss. Gratefully.

  Sensed the heat slowly dying between them. Let it fade. Ebb. Until . . .

  Their lips parted, yet they remained close. Their gazes touched. Lifting one hand, she traced his chiseled cheek. Put their thoughts into words. “Next time.”

  He drew breath, chest swelling. Then he gripped her waist and eased her back. “If you wish it.”

  If you wish it.

  The hardest words he’d ever had to say, yet he’d had to say them.

  His hand locked about hers, they walked back to the house; a short discussion over whether or not he needed to escort her back to her room—a discussion he’d won—had helped get them back onto something resembling their normal footing.

  Not that that was the same as it had been a week ago.

  All well and good, but the desire now riding him had spurs a foot long. Never before had the need for a woman, let alone a particular woman, been so consuming; never before had he had to mask, to mute his natural inclinations to this extent. />
  Having to let her go tonight, to let her escape him, wasn’t a script of which his inclinations, his warrior instincts, approved. Having to battle them, having to keep a cool head while his body went up in flames, did not please his temper at all.

  A fact of which she was well aware; she’d been shooting quick glances at him ever since they’d left the summerhouse. His face, set and hard, bore witness to his feelings—feelings she knew him well enough to guess.

  She knew, but he seriously doubted she understood. For all her talk of learning about sex and trust and marriage, he very much doubted that it had occurred to her yet just where they were—what the next stage encompassed, what destiny she was flirting with.

  It would. Which was why he had to play a long game. To get what he wanted, to secure all he wanted, he needed her absolute, unqualified trust.

  And the only way to get that was to earn it.

  No shortcuts, no sleight of hand.

  No pressure. Of any kind.

  He felt like growling.

  If you wish it.

  When she stopped and thought about what that “it” encompassed, he was going to have problems enough. Their past wasn’t going to make her smile fondly and forge ahead without long and earnest consideration; her temper, and his, weren’t going to make her decision to embark on the final stage any easier.

  As for her intelligence, her willfulness, and even worse, her independence . . . stacked against the panaply of his most fundamental characteristics, with which she was extremely familiar, convincing her to risk giving herself to him was going to be an uphill battle. He needed every advantage he could gain.

  He trudged on through the balmy night. She kept pace with him easily, her stride long and free.

  One consolation—she’d never been a chatterer. She spoke when she wished to; with him, she never seemed to feel the need, as so many other females did, to fill the silences. They lay between them, not awkward but comfortable, like well-worn shoes.

  Familiarity, and her mind; two aspects from which, if he was cunning, he could wrest some advantage. She was, always had been, far more inclined to logical thinking than any other woman he’d known. He had some chance, therefore, of guessing her thoughts, predicting her tack, and by judicious prodding, herding her in the direction he wished.

  Just as long as she didn’t guess his ulterior motive.

  If she did . . .

  What pernicious fate had decreed he should set his sights on taking to wife the one woman he knew beyond all doubt he would never be able safely to manipulate?

  Stifling a sigh, he looked up. Just as Portia stiffened.

  He looked ahead, his hand tightening about hers, and saw the young gardener, once again watching the private wing of the house.

  Portia tugged; he nodded, and they moved on, slipping through the shadows to the garden hall.

  The house lay in darkness; no one else was about. They passed the candle left burning at the bottom of the stairs and he saw she was frowning.

  “What?”

  She blinked, then said, “Dennis—the gardener—was there when I came out.”

  He grimaced, and waved her up the stairs. When they stepped into the gallery, he murmured, “His fixation’s unhealthy. I’ll mention it to James.”

  Portia nodded. It was on the tip of her tongue to mention she’d seen Ambrose, too, but he hadn’t been there when they’d returned. No reason for Simon to mention him, too.

  They’d reached her room; she tugged and Simon stopped. She indicated the door with her head.

  Simon glanced at it, then shifted his hold, twined his fingers with hers and lifted her hand to his lips. “Sleep well.”

  She met his hooded gaze, then stepped close, stretched up, and touched her lips to his. “And you.”

  Sliding her hand from his, she opened the door and slipped through, closing it softly behind her.

  A full minute passed before she heard him walk away.

  Realizing just how real, how physical, Simon’s desire for her was had definitely been something of a shock. A bigger, more eye-opening shock than all else she’d learned thus far.

  It was also a temptation, a bigger temptation than all else put together, to go forward and learn what lay beyond, what, for them, was the emotion compelling them to intimacy. The emotion that, with every look, every shared moment, seemed to grow stronger, more definite.

  More real.

  That was somewhat shocking, too.

  Portia halted on the terrace and looked about. After breakfasting with Lady O, she’d left her to dress and grasped the moment to herself—to stroll and think.

  After what had transpired last night in the summerhouse, thinking ranked high on her list of things to do.

  Traces of dew still remained on the grass, but wouldn’t last long. The sun was already beaming down; it was going to be another warm day. The house party was decamping, taking a long drive through Cranborne Chase, then lunching at an inn before returning. Everyone was hoping a day away from the Hall would lift the atmosphere and bury the memories of yesterday.

  The shrubbery was one area she’d yet to explore; stepping down from the terrace, she headed for the archway cut into the first hedge. Like all the regions of the Glossup Hall gardens, the shrubbery was extensive, yet she’d wandered only a little way when she heard voices.

  She slowed.

  “Don’t you find the question of its paternity quite tantalizing?”

  Paternity? Shock rooted Portia to the spot. It was Kitty who’d spoken.

  “I really don’t feel it’s incumbent on me to guess. No doubt you’ll reveal all when you’re ready.”

  Winifred. The sisters were on the other side of the hedge from Portia. The green-walled path in which she stood turned farther along; presumably there was a courtyard of some sort, with a fountain or pool.

  “Oh, I think you’ll be interested in this. It touches so close, you see.”

  Kitty’s tone was that of a vindictive child hugging a particularly obnoxious secret to her bosom, biding her time, keen to make most misery; it was plain who she wished Winifred to imagine was the father of her child.

  There was a rustle and swish of skirts, then Winifred spoke again. “You know, my dear, there are times when I look at you and can only wonder if Mama played Papa for a fool.”

  The contempt in the words was all the more powerful because they were uttered in Winifred’s soft voice. Worse, there was something else there, edging the contempt, that was even less pleasant.

  “And now,” Winifred said, “if you’ll excuse me, I must get ready for the drive. Desmond’s taking me up in his curricle.”

  Portia turned and walked quickly out of the shrubbery. She swung into the rose garden; sniffing the large blooms, she waited, one eye on the lawn, until she saw Winifred walk past and go into the house. When Kitty did not immediately appear, Portia started for the house herself.

  Glancing back across the lawn at the shrubbery, she caught a glimpse of Dennis, weeding a bed at the foot of a hedge, one of the hedges that must enclose the shrubbery courtyard. He glanced her way; there were dark circles under his eyes.

  Small wonder. Portia climbed to the terrace and entered the house.

  She’d promised to return and help Lady O downstairs; when she reached her room, Lady O was ready, sitting waiting in the armchair by the hearth. One look at Portia’s face and she waved the maid away. The instant the door shut, she demanded, “Right, then! Let’s have your report.”

  She blinked. “Report?”

  “Precisely—tell me what you’ve learned.” Lady O waved with her cane. “And for goodness sake, sit down. You’re almost as bad as a Cynster, towering over me.”

  Her lips not entirely straight, she sat, her mind whirling.

  “Now, then!” Lady O leaned on her cane and fastened her black eyes, gimlet-fashion, on her. “Tell me all.”<
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  She looked into those eyes; she couldn’t think of words in which to tell even half of it. “I’ve learned that things are . . . not as obvious as I’d supposed.”

  Lady O’s brows rose. “Indeed. What things?”

  “All sorts of things.” She’d learned long ago not to let the old harridan unnerve her. “But never mind that. There’s something else—something I’ve just learned that I think you should know.”

  “Oh?” Lady O was fly enough to know a distraction when she heard one, but curiosity, as Portia knew, was her besetting sin. “What?”

  “I was just strolling in the shrubbery . . .”

  She recounted as accurately as she could the exchange she’d overheard. When she finished, she studied Lady O’s face. Quite how she managed it, Portia didn’t know, but the old lady succeeded in conveying supreme disgust while her expression remained otherwise inscrutable.

  “Do you think Kitty’s really pregnant? Or was she making it up to hurt Winifred?”

  Lady O snorted. “Is she stupid enough, immature enough, for that?”

  Portia didn’t answer. She watched Lady O closely, glimpsed the possibilities being weighed behind her black eyes. “I’ve thought back—she hasn’t been down to breakfast since we’ve been here. I didn’t think anything of it before, but given her liking for male company and the fact the gentlemen gather in the breakfast parlor every morning, perhaps that, too, is a sign?”

  Lady O humphed. “How did Kitty sound?”

  “Kitty?” Portia replayed the exchange in her mind. “The second time she spoke, she was like a nasty child. But now you ask, the first time, she sounded a touch hysterical.”

  Lady O grimaced. “That doesn’t sound promising.” Thumping her cane on the floor, she heaved herself out of the chair.

  Portia rose and went to take her arm. “So what do you think?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say the foolish gel really is increasing, but regardless of the truth of who the father is, she’s unfortunately witless enough to use the question in her mad games.” Lady O halted while Portia opened the door. Gripping Portia’s arm again, she met her gaze. “Mark my words, that gel will come to a bad end.”