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.
Rode him. Harder, faster, sliding her knees wider still to take him ever deeper. The fight to remain passive nearly ruptured his heart. His pulse thundered, galloping with her, caught in the escalating heat, trapped in the relentless driving rhythm. Running with her. Urging her on.
Her breasts filled his hands, swollen and tight; she moaned when he kneaded, gasped when he squeezed.
She leaned forward, pressing her breasts into his palms. Hoarsely instructed, “Touch me.”
He didn’t need to ask where. Releasing her breasts, pushing aside her frothing skirts, he reached beneath, closed his hands about her flexing thighs, then followed them up. Slid one hand around to grip her hip. With the other stroked her damp curls once, heard her breath hitch, felt her body constrict almost painfully about him.
Set one fingertip to her pearl.
Knowingly caressed.
Paused. Heard her earnest, breathless entreaty.
Pressed.
And she imploded.
With a soft cry, she climaxed about him, her body contracting powerfully, her hands clenching tight on his chest.
His body reacted.
The surge of primitive need, of fueled lust, desire, and so much more, nearly shattered his control. Head back, he gasped, dragging air into his locked lungs; fingers gripping her hips, sinking in, he held her down, impaled to the hilt, held her still, fought to hold on to the reins of his demons, aroused, teased, taunted, and now slavering, fully expecting, now, to be released—to be allowed to feast on her soft, feminine, satiated body.
Jaw locked, teeth clenched, breath bated, he waited . . .
She slumped on his chest. Then reached up, guided his lips to hers, and kissed him.
Invitingly—or so he hoped. Prayed.
The tension thrumming just beneath his skin, the rigidity of his body, reached her. He felt her hesitate, then she reached up again—and tugged the blindfold from his eyes.
Watched him blink, then met his gaze. Held it as she stretched luxuriously against him—smiled as his hands locked on her hips, keeping her precisely where she was, fully sheathing him.
Her expression that of a cat who’d had her fill of cream, she held his gaze, and tossed the blindfold away. Lowered her arm and traced his cheek.
Whispered softly, “Take me, then.”
His senses leapt; reflexively, so did the rest of him, before he slammed his control back into place and locked every muscle again. Her eyes widened, but the tenor of the smile curving her lips—knowingly wanton—didn’t fade.
He met her eyes, dark, dreamy with spent passion, yet very much awake. Watching, waiting, for what he would do . . .
Their breaths mingled, his still tense and labored, hers softer in the aftermath of climax.
Yet another spur he did not need.
She’d issued an open invitation, hadn’t specified. He wondered if she could even conceive of the primitive urge riding him, evoked by her game.
He wanted to take her from behind, to position her on her knees before him, her skirts flipped up over her shoulders, a surrended captive, to drive into her and feel her open for him, yield to him.
His.
He licked his lips. Easing his hands from her hips, he reached up and around, and set his fingers to the buttons closing her gown.
Held her gaze as he undid them.
Told himself he’d have her as he wished—one day.
But not yet. Later, if he played tonight’s hand wisely, kept his head through the following days—even weeks—then one day he’d be able to let fall the reins and show her precisely what she was to him.
Precisely how she made him feel.
Shifting within her as little as possible, he drew her gown off, over her head. She helped, lifting her arms, wriggling free of the folds, aiding him in removing her chemise as well.
Leaving her naked but for her stockings.
He rolled her beneath him.
Nearly lost his mind when she pressed his shoulder back. “Wait.”
His control shivered, fractured, started to fall away . . .
She shifted beneath him. He sucked in a breath, opened his lips to tell her he couldn’t wait—
Instead, blinked, watched, amazed as, lifting one of her long legs high, she rolled her stocking down—or rather up and off. She caught his gaze as she flung it away. “I like to feel my skin against yours.”
He wasn’t about to argue; he allowed her to shift enough to perform the same feat with her other leg, noting with increasing fascination the ease with which she accomplished the deed.
New vistas blossomed in his mind.
But then she flung the second stocking away, twined both arms about his neck and drew his head down.
“There. Now you may—”
He stopped her words with a searing kiss.
Took her breath from her, ravaged her mouth, and sent her senses spinning—faster, harder, faster yet—until she arched beneath him, inchoately pleading . . . until he anchored her hips and drove into her.
Again, and again, and again.
He felt the reins slide and couldn’t grab them back, could only surrender to the storm. To the blinding urgency that drove his body to plunder hers.
Far from complaining, she arched beneath him, fingernails raking his back. Flagrantly demanding, commanding, wanting . . . as desperate as he in needing more.
He wedged her thighs wider; she went one step further, lifting her long legs, wrapping them about his hips, opening herself to him, giving him all he wished.
Heart pounding, he took, took her, gave himself.
Head back, braced above her, he let go, closed his eyes—and let the swirling power have him. Infuse him, drive him.
Felt it close in, sweep him up.
Shatter him.
Felt her cling as he shuddered, knew when she joined him.
Felt ecstasy flow through them, melding their bodies.
Felt it thunder through their veins a
nd fuse their hearts.
Portia lay back, high on the pillows where Simon had lifted her once the tumult had passed.
Passed, but it hadn’t yet died. The aftermath still held them, heat slowly dissipating, languor weighting their limbs.
She could grow used to this; this sense of intimate closeness, the sharing, the fury. The bliss.
One arm draped over the pillows behind her head, with the other, she idly sifted his hair, the fine texture a sensual delight. He lay slumped half beside her, half over her, one arm beneath her, his head pillowed against her breast, his other hand splayed possessively over her stomach.
He was heavy, hot, and oh so real. He’d withdrawn from her only moments before; her body was slowly returning to itself, to being hers, not his, not filled with him. She felt curiously alive, senses still bright with the lingering glory, her flesh still swollen, hot, still throbbing, her pulse still racing.
In the icehouse, Kitty lay cold, beyond all such feeling.
For long moments, Portia thought of all she and Simon had already shared, and of all they might yet find between them.
And silently vowed not to make Kitty’s mistakes.
She would value trust and devotion, see love for what it was, accept whence it sprang, and with whom.
And make sure—absolutely sure—he did, too.
If what lay between them was love, she wasn’t fool enough to fight it. On the contrary; if it was love, it was worth fighting for.
She glanced down, feathered her fingers through his soft, burnished brown locks, silkier than many a woman’s.
He lifted his head, met her gaze.
She held his, then said, “I’m not going to marry you unless I want to.”
“I know.”
She wondered, wished she could see his eyes more clearly, but the moonlight had faded, cloaking them in shadows.
He exhaled, lifted from her, shifted higher in the bed and settled on his back, drawing her into his arms. The bonelessness of satiation still infusing her, she rested her head on his chest, in the hollow below his shoulder. “I want to learn more, need to learn more, but don’t read it as any degree of agreement.”
After a moment, he lifted his head and pressed a kiss to her hair. Lay back. “Go to sleep.”
The words were gentle enough; his thoughts, she suspected, were anything but. He wasn’t an intrinsically gentle man; he wasn’t the sort to resign from a fight, to ride away from the field at the first reverse. He would rally—and drive relentlessly, ruthlessly on toward his goal.
Much good would it do him; she wasn’t going to bend.
But she’d warned him—and he’d warned her. A truce of sorts, complex and conditional but enough to allow them to go on. Not just in exploring what lay between them, but in facing what the next days would bring. The “gentleman from Bow Street” and the inevitable unmasking of Kitty’s murderer. Whatever came, they would face it shoulder to shoulder, bound by an understanding so fundamental it didn’t require stating.
The day had been long; its events had wrought untold upheaval.
Minutes ticked by; the heavy thud of Simon’s heart just beneath her ear soothed and comforted.
Closing her eyes, she surrendered to the night.
Simon woke her as she’d wished to be woken the morning before.
She was a sound sleeper; her body responded to his practiced ministrations even while she slumbered. Spreading her thighs, he settled between and eased into her.
Felt her arch, felt her breath catch, then she sighed, and opened brilliant blue eyes. Eyes so dark they mesmerized; as he moved within her, he felt like he was drowning in their depths.
She rose with him, clinging, clutching, lids falling at the last as she fractured with a soft cry.
A cry that ripped through him, sank talons through striving muscle and bone, wrapped about his gut, his heart, his soul, and hauled him into the void, over the edge of the world and into sweet oblivion.
Cocooned in the covers, he lay fully atop her, acutely conscious of how well they fitted, how perfectly she matched him. She turned her head and their lips met, clinging, caressing. She held him easily in her arms, cradled between her slim thighs.
Dawn was near. He couldn’t let her sleep. He roused her further, rousted her out of bed and into her clothes.
Grumbling, she gave him to understand that early morning was not her favorite time to be sneaking around country houses.
He got her back to her room unobserved, opened her door, kissed her fingers, then bundled her in and shut the door.
Portia heard his retreating footsteps, frowned at the closed panel. She would much rather have remained, safe and warm in his arms, for at least the next hour. Long enough to recoup her energies—energies he’d very efficiently drained. Keeping pace with him through the corridors had required concentration—to keep her muscles moving, ignoring the odd twinges and aches.
She had a strong suspicion he had no real idea how . . . vigorous he was.
Stifling a sigh, she turned and surveyed the room.
It was as she’d left it last night, the bedcovers turned invitingly down, the window still open, curtains undrawn.
She considered the bed, surely the most sensible option given her state. But if she lay down, she’d fall asleep—she’d have to take off her gown and don her nightdress, or how would she explain to the maid?
The problem was insoluble, at least in her present state; she had insufficient energy to undo the buttons down her back that Simon had just done up.
That left the chair by the hearth or the window seat. The breeze wafting through the window carried a dawn chill; she headed for the armchair. The cold hearth was an uninspiring sight; tugging the chair about to face the window, she dropped into its cushioned comfort with a deep sigh.
And let her mind roam. Looked into her own heart, wondered about his. Revisited her goals, reassessed her aspirations. Recalled with a grimace her earlier thought that of all the gentlemen present, Simon, Cynster as he was, epitomized the most marriageable qualities—what she’d meant, could now see clearly enough to admit, was that the qualities he possessed were those most likely to persuade her to marriage.
His less attractive aspects she also knew well. His overprotectiveness had always irked, yet it was his dictatorial possessiveness that most frightened her. Once she was his, there would be no escape; that was simply the way he was.
She shivered, wrapped her arms around herself—wished she’d thought of fetching her shawl but couldn’t raise enough energy to get up and do so now.
The only way she could accept Simon’s suit—give him her hand and accept all that that meant—was if she trusted him always to consider her feelings, to deal with her, treat with her, not arbitrarily to dictate.
Not a small thing to demand of a tyrant.
Last night, she’d gone to him knowing she’d have the whip hand, trusting that he would allow her to wield it. He could have filched the reins from her whenever he’d wished—yet he hadn’t, even though that restraint had, from all the evidence, cost him dearly.
He’d abided by the conditions she’d set. She’d spent the night safe, reassured of her own vitality, her ability to live and even love. Her ability to trust and gain trust’s reward.
Previously, he’d never have let her dictate terms as he had last night, regardless of the situation. It simply wasn’t in his nature . . . hadn’t been, but now was, at least with her.
A willingness to share the reins, to try to accommodate her as he’d promised. She’d felt it in his touch, read it in his eyes . . . events confirmed it truly had been there, and wasn’t just a figment of her wishful imagination.
Which left them going forward, examining the possible.
Beyond the window, the sky turned rosy, then faded into the pale, washed-out blue of a hot summer’s day.
The click of the latch jerked her from he
r thoughts. Swiveling in the chair, she watched, mentally scrambling, as the cheery little maid who tended her room came bustling in.
The maid saw her; her eyes turned round, her face filled with sympathy. “Oh, miss—did you spend all night there?”
“Ah . . .” She rarely lied, but . . . “Yes.” She looked back at the window, gestured. “I couldn’t sleep . . .”
“Well, that’s hardly to be wondered at, is it?” Bright and breezy, the maid produced a cloth and set to wiping and polishing the mantelpiece. “We heard tell as how it was you found the body—stumbled right over it.”
Portia inclined her head. “Indeed.”
“We was all talking in the servants’ hall, frightened it might be one of the gentlemen, but Mrs. Fletcher, she’s the housekeeper, told us it was the gypsies, sure as anything.”
“The gypsies?”
“That Arturo—he’s always hanging about, putting on airs. ‘Andsome devil, he is, and quick with the ladies, if you take my meaning.”
Portia inwardly frowned. She wrestled with her conscience for all of two seconds. “Did any of you have any reason to think it might have been one of the gentlemen?”
“Nah—that was just us, imagining-like.”
“Did the staff like Mrs. Glossup?”
“Mrs. G?” Picking up a pewter vase, the maid rubbed hard, concentration in her face. “She was all right—had a temper on her, o’course, and I suppose some might call her flighty, but then all young married ladies are, aren’t they?”
Portia bit her tongue.
The maid set down the vase, tucked her cloth into her pocket. “Ah well, wouldn’t you know it—it’s the day for the sheets.” She strode across the room to the bed; Portia watched her, envying her her energy.
“Blenkinsop says as how there’ll be a man coming down from Lunnon.” Gripping the turned-down corner, the maid glanced at Portia. “To ask about what happened.”
The Perfect Lover Page 24