The Perfect Lover (15 page)

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 kissed 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.

From under her lashes, she glanced down at him, sensed, within herself, a change, a shift, a wish to give him as much pleasure as he was lavishing on her. Was that how it happened? Why sane women made the decision to accept a man’s need and pander to it?

Her mind couldn’t give her the answer; she let the question slide away.

He was looking at her breasts, at his hands upon them; he glanced up, caught her gaze.

Heat welled, and a tide of emotion swept through her; she smiled, deliberately, equally deliberately leaned low, ignoring the press of her breasts into his hands, and kissed him.

Felt him still, drag in a huge breath . . . then he shifted, tipped her back, and turned so he lay beside her; one hand remained on her breast, the other framed her face. He kissed her—ravished her mouth, sent her senses spinning once more, then slowly, gradually, drew her back.

When he lifted his head they were both breathing raggedly; their gazes met briefly, their lips throbbed. Her fingers were sunk into his shoulders, clutching tight. They both held still, caught in the moment, both aware of the heat, the beat of their hearts—the almost overwhelming yearning.

The moment passed.

Slowly, very slowly, he bent his head and their lips met again in a gentle, clinging, soothing kiss. His hands left her skin; he tweaked her bodice closed, then slid his arms about her and held her—simply held her.

Later, as they left the parlor, Portia glanced back. The daybed lay swathed again; there was no sign that anything dramatic had occurred in the room.

Yet something had happened; something had changed.

Or perhaps been revealed.

Simon drew her out and shut the door; she could read nothing in his face, yet she knew he felt the same. As he twined her arm with his, their gazes touched, held. Then they faced forward and walked back to the gallery.

She needed to think, but the dinner table and the company surrounding it were no help at all. Portia cast an irritated glance at Kitty; she wasn’t the only person thus employed. The woman was a vacillating nitwit; that was the kindest conclusion Portia could reach.

“I hear we’re to have a major luncheon party tomorrow.” Beside her, Charlie raised his brows, then slanted a glance up the table at Kitty. “Apparently she’s organized it.”

Distrust, not to say suspicion, rang in his voice.

“Don’t borrow trouble,” she advised. “She was perfectly reasonable over lunch today. Who knows? Maybe it’s only in the evenings that she . . .”

“Transforms into a femme fatale, and a peculiarly unsubtle one at that?”

She nearly choked; lifting her napkin to her lips, she bent a frowning look on Charlie.

Unrepentent, he grinned, but the gesture wasn’t humorous. “I’m desolated to disappoint you, m’dear, but Kitty can behave atrociously at any time of day.” He glanced up the table again. “Her attitude seems entirely at whim.”

She frowned. “James said she’d grown worse—worse than she used to be.”

Charlie considered, then nodded. “Yes. That’s true.”

Kitty had started the evening badly, openly flirting—or trying to—with James in the drawing room. Charlie had tried to intervene, only to bring Kitty’s wrath down on his head. Henry had come up and tried to smooth things over, resulting in Kitty’s flouncing off, sulking.

They’d come to the table with Mrs. Archer agitated, as if her nerves were giving way. Others, too, showed signs of distraction, of awareness, reactions they would normally cloak with well-bred ease.

It was, Portia thought, as the ladies rose to repair to the drawing room, as if the genteel facade of the house party was fracturing. It hadn’t cracked and fallen away, but ignoring Kitty’s behavior was proving too great a strain for some.

Like the Hammond girls; confused by it all—hardly surprising, for no one understood—they clustered around Portia, eager to chatter brightly and forget all the black looks. Even Lucy Buckstead, rather more up to snuff and with greater self-confidence, seemed subdued. Portia felt forced to take pity on them; she encouraged them to dwell on the prospects for tomorrow—whether the officers with whom they’d danced at the ball would ride over for the luncheon party, whether the quietly handsome young neighbor, George Quiggin, would attend.

Although her efforts were sufficient to distract Annabelle, Cecily, and Lucy, she could not rid herself of the irritation Kitty evoked. Glancing across the room, she saw Kitty talking airily to Mrs. Buckstead and Lady Hammond. Despite her occupation, Kitty’s eyes were fixed on the doors.

The doors through which the gentlemen would return.

Portia stifled a disgusted humph. An oppressive sense of impending social doom seemed to be spreading outward from Kitty. She, for one, had definitely had enough—and she absolutely
had
to find some time, and some better place, to think.

“If you’ll excuse me?” With a nod, she stepped back from the three girls and walked to the French doors open to terrace.

Without a single glance right or left, she glided through—into the sweet coolness of the night.

Beyond the light cast through the doors, she stopped and dragged in a huge breath; it tasted delicious, as if it was the first truly free breath she’d managed in hours. All frustration fell from her, slid like a cloak from her shoulders. Lips lifting, she strolled along the terrace, then descended the steps and set out across the lawns.

Toward the lake. She wouldn’t go down to it, not alone, but the new moon rode high, and the lawns themselves were bathed in silvery light. Safe enough for her to wander; it wasn’t that late.

She needed to think about all she’d learned, of what she could make of things thus far. Her hours spent alone with Simon had certainly opened her eyes; what she was seeing was both more and surprisingly different from what she’d expected. She’d assumed the attraction, the physical connection, that occurred between a man and woman would be something akin to chocolate—a taste pleasant enough to wish to indulge in whenever it was offered, but hardly a compulsive craving.

What she’d thus far shared with Simon . . .

She shivered even though the air was warm and balmy. Walking on, her gaze fixed on the clipped grass five feet ahead of her, she tried to find words to describe what she felt. Was this desire—this urge to do it again? More, to go further? Far further.

Possibly, but she knew herself—at least some of herself—well enough to recognize that mixed in with the purely sensual compulsion there was a healthy vein of curiosity, of her usual determination to know.

Along with the desire, that, too, had grown.

She knew what she wanted to know, what, now she knew it existed, she would not be able to leave be until she’d examined it fully and understood.

There was something—something totally unexpected—between her and Simon.

Walking slowly down the lawns, she considered that conclusion and could not fault it. Even though in this sphere she was untried and inexperienced, she trusted her innate abilities. If her faculties were convinced there was something there to be pursued, then there was.

What it was, however . . .

She didn’t know; she couldn’t even hazard a guess. Courtesy of her heretofore sheltered life, she didn’t even know if it was normal.

It certainly wasn’t normal for her.

But was it normal for him? Something that occurred with every lady.

She didn’t think so. She was sufficiently familiar with him to sense his moods; toward the end of their interlude lolling on the daybed, when she’d sensed that curious shift between them, he’d been as taken aback as she.

Rack her brains though she did, she couldn’t recall anything specific that had caused the moment—it was as if they’d suddenly simultaneously opened their eyes and realized they’d reached a place they hadn’t expected to find themselves in. They’d both been, not to put too fine a point on it, enjoying themselves—neither had been paying attention, neither had been steering their play . . .

It
was
something special because he hadn’t expected it to happen.

She was definitely going to find out more. Discover, uncover, whatever it took. The obvious place to start was to return to the same place, the same spot—that same odd plane of feeling.

Luckily, she had an inkling how to get there. They’d been totally focused on the physical delight, engrossed as only two people who knew each other so well could be. Neither had been watching the other in the sense of gauging the other’s honesty or character; if he’d wanted to say or do anything, she trusted absolutely that he would have said or done it. He viewed her in the same light; she knew that without thinking.

That was the key—they hadn’t been thinking. With each other, they didn’t need to bother; they’d concentrated completely on the doing.

The sharing.

She’d reached the end of the lawns above the lake. It lay ahead and below, dark and fathomless, inky black in its hollow.

No matter how hard she stretched her imagination, she couldn’t—could not—imagine sharing those moments with any other man.

Like a touch, she sensed his presence, felt his gaze. Turning, she watched him come down the lawn toward her, hands in his pockets, shoulders wide, his gaze fixed on her.