The Perfect Lover Read online

  Triumph soared—immediately he grabbed hold and reined it in. Set his jaw, waited a moment, feeling the blood pound beneath his skin. He’d spent all evening warning himself not to expect this—that with Portia, nothing was ever straightforward and simple.

  Yet here she was.

  He couldn’t quite grasp it—he felt almost winded. Sucking in a breath, he blew it out softly, reminded himself he shouldn’t overinterpret, read too much into her presence. This was definitely not the moment to let his instincts loose and simply seize.

  Yet it had to have taken courage to come to his bed.

  She knew him—no other lady he’d bedded knew him as she did. She knew his character, his personality—knew what he’d be like as a husband. Or could make a very well-educated guess.

  He’d agreed to teach her all she wanted to know; they’d never spoken of anything more. Anything more binding. Regardless, she would have recognized that in coming to him—in accepting his offer to introduce her to intimacy—she was risking, trusting him with, a great deal more than her maidenhead.

  Her independence was a vital part of her, of who she was; to toss something so fundamental on the scales took precisely the kind of reckless courage with which she was so well-endowed. But she wouldn’t have taken the decision lightly, not Portia.

  She wouldn’t have missed seeing the danger, even though he’d disguised it as much as he was able.

  He had no idea how they—he and she—would make a marriage work; by no stretch of the imagination would it be easy. But it was what he wanted.

  All he had to do now was lead her to convince herself that it was what she wanted, too.

  Without revealing that marrying her had been his aim all along.

  No matter that he trusted her, that was one piece of information she did not need, one vulnerability he had no intention of revealing.

  He stood looking down at her as the minutes ticked by, plotting, planning, far too wise to rush in. Once he had the best approach clear in his mind, he girded his loins, stepped to the bed, and sat on the edge beside her.

  She didn’t stir. He raised a hand, twined his fingers in her hair, let the silky strands slide. He studied her face, innocent in sleep, then bent and kissed her awake.

  She roused slowly, warm and sweetly feminine, then she murmured something unintelligible, shifted onto her back, slid her fingers into his hair and kissed him back.

  Invitingly.

  He drew back, looked into her eyes, darker than night behind the screen of her lashes. Looked at her lips. “Why are you here?”

  Full, sensuous, her lips slowly curved. She drew him back down. “You know perfectly well. I want you to teach me—all.”

  On the last word, she kissed him, her tongue sliding between his lips to find his and stroke, caress, taunt. Passion rose, spread like wildfire beneath his skin.

  His reins started to slide—he caught them. Pulled back, met her gaze.

  “You’re sure? Absolutely sure?” When she raised her brows, faintly mocking, he growled, “You’re sure you won’t change your mind come morning?”

  Even as the words left his lips, he realized their idiocy; this was Portia—she never changed her mind.

  And, God above, he didn’t want her to.

  “Never mind—forget that.” He held her gaze. “Just tell me one thing—does this mean you trust me?”

  She didn’t answer immediately—she actually thought. Then she nodded. “In this, yes.”

  He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank God for that.”

  Pulling out of her arms, he stood, yanked his shirt from his breeches, then hauled it off over his head.

  Portia stared at the muscled expanse of bare chest suddenly on display. Her mouth dried; her logical mind was fighting to pay attention to what he’d asked—why he’d asked . . . the rest of her mind didn’t care.

  This, after all, was what she’d wanted to know. To learn.

  The rush of uncertainty, of mild panic when his hands fell to his waistband and he flipped the buttons free, was, she lectured herself, only to be expected. Yet it seemed wise to focus on other things—she was warm and cozy, comfortable . . . she shifted, acutely conscious of the caress of her chemise against her skin, of the rougher texture of the sheets.

  He turned and sat on the bed; it bowed beneath his weight as he wrenched off his boots and let them fall. His face seemed a study in single-minded determination, set in concentration.

  A concentration shortly to be focused on . . .

  A shiver slithered down her spine. Her senses leapt when he stood, stripped off his trousers, then turned.

  Her eyes locked—not on his. She was conscious of her lips parting, of her eyes growing wider, rounder.

  She’d touched, but hadn’t before seen.

  The visual was even more impressive than the tactile—at least to her mind. In fact, her mind wasn’t at all sure—

  “For God’s sake, stop thinking!”

  She blinked; he grabbed the covers and slid beneath. She refocused on his face in the instant he reached for her. Drew her to him.

  “Si—”

  He kissed her—hard. Arrogantly commanding. Domineering. Instinctively she responded with her own brand of aggression; he immediately gentled—gentled her as she stiffened, shocked by the sheer heat of his skin against hers, of the reality of the heavy, muscled body, tense, naked, and intent, suddenly surrounding her, more than capable of overpowering her.

  Despite all, it was a shock—a real, in some ways frightening, shock. In this arena, too, theory was one thing, reality another.

  He kept his lips on hers; she couldn’t breathe but through him. She tried to break away, to free her mind enough to think—he wouldn’t allow it. And then, quite abruptly, she was drowning, being dragged inexorably down into a sensual sea.

  Above her, angled over her, his legs tangled with hers, his hands spread over her skin, fingers flexing, he held her senses captive, ruthlessly submerged them, held them down until all thought of resistance faded.

  Until her mind was filled, not with pleasure, but with anticipation, with yearning. He didn’t let her resurface, but kissed her even more deeply, ravaging her mouth with not even the thinnest veil to screen his intent, his possession. On a gasp, she yielded, not just her mouth, but to the welling need to assuage, to give, to surrender. To appease by offering her body, her self.

  And he took. She hadn’t before realized how much he had wanted—quite what he wanted of her. As she glimpsed the reality, a long shudder shook her.

  His possession of her mouth eased, but didn’t cease.

  He turned his mind to other conquests.

  To her breasts. Heated and aching, they swelled beneath his hand. Artful as ever, his fingers teased, kneaded, stroked, caressed. Squeezed.

  Heat lanced through her, spread beneath her skin. She moaned, the sound trapped in their kiss; he didn’t stop, didn’t cease his excruciating play.

  Only when she arched beneath him and cried out did he release her lips. His hand left her breast; he tugged up her chemise.

  “Raise your arms.”

  She did, dragging in a huge breath as he drew the chemise up and off. Before she could lower her arms, he caught first one wrist, then the other, shackling them in one fist, anchoring them in the pillows behind her head, lightly bowing her spine.

  His chest met her sensitized breasts; she gasped. Fiery delight sliced through her. He bent and took her mouth again, ravenously, then slowly moved his shoulders, back and forth across her, the raspy crinkly hair abrading her breasts, teasing the tight peaks, creating a pleasure that was close to pain.

  She was beyond gasping when he finally released her lips to trail hot, openmouthed kisses down the curve of her throat, over the thudding pulse at its base, possessively tracing one collarbone before bending his head and feasting. Trapped as she was, hands above
her head, her body bowed, displayed for his delectation, she couldn’t avoid, couldn’t duck the towering wave of awareness that crashed through her—that he ruthlessly sent rushing through her.

  It caught her, lifted her up, opened her senses wide. So the reality poured in—the hot wetness of his mouth as he suckled her, the hard heaviness of muscle and bone holding her down, the rampant ridge of his erection pressed to her hip, ready to claim her.

  The promise—the certainty—of what was to come overwhelmed her—and she let it.

  Stopped fighting. Let him teach her. Show her.

  Simon knew when she acquiesced, when she stopped trying to judge—to think. To manage. Her body, nowhere near as strong as his yet with its own supple strength, eased beneath him. A sign he was too much a conqueror not to recognize and relish; he lifted his head, took her lips, her mouth—now his to savor as he wished—and shifted over her.

  Let her feel his weight, let her know and learn, as she assuredly needed to. When she tugged, he released her hands, lowered his to her breasts, then slid them lower, tracing her curves, pushing between the sheets and her silken skin to close his hands over the globes of her bottom and angle her hips against him.

  She murmured, deep in her throat; inwardly gloating, he caught her senses, dragged them deeper yet into the kiss.

  When he released her lips and trailed his down her body, licking, laving, kissing his way to her breasts, she didn’t try to stop him. Her hands lay on his shoulders, fingers clenching then easing as he sampled her bounty; her breathing was ragged, her eyes, when he glanced at her face, were closed. A fine line of concentration lay between her brows.

  He licked one tight nipple, curled his tongue about it and drew it into his mouth, then suckled, deep, deeper—until her concentration fractured and she gasped.

  Shifting lower, he let his reins slide—knew better than to imagine he could control his baser instincts, not tonight, not with her. He’d wanted her—not just, he could now admit, for the days they’d spent here, but for much, much longer. Her body was a prize his rakish soul had long coveted, even if he hadn’t admitted it.

  Tonight she would be his. More—tonight, she would give herself to him completely, without reservation. If they were to have a future, there was no point pretending he was not what he was, that he wouldn’t demand, and command that of her.

  How she would react—that was something else, but he’d never known her courage to falter.

  Deep in his heart, he knew he could ask of her everything, and she would—knowing and knowingly—give. It was, ultimately, impossible for him to hurt her. She knew that as well as he.

  He sent his lips cruising the taut skin of her stomach, and she caught her breath, restlessly shifted. His hands closed, locking about her hips; he shifted lower, spreading her thighs, with his shoulders wedging them wide.

  She guessed. Her fingers clenched in his hair. He felt her haul in a breath as he bent his head, and set his lips to her softness.

  “Simon!”

  She uttered his name on a fractured scream; the sound seared him to his very soul. He licked, probed, then settled to savor her, sucking lightly, then more explicitly tracing the swollen folds. Her slick honey flowed as he feasted; she tasted of pippins, tart yet sweet. He found the tight nubbin erect and swollen beneath its hood, and lightly sucked, his every sense locked on her, on her reactions.

  Step by step, he pushed her on, until her fingers curled to claws, until her head pressed back and her hips tilted, wordlessly surrendering. He opened her, tauntingly probed her entrance, then slowly, deliberately, penetrated her with his tongue.

  She fractured, broke apart; he gloried in her soft cry, savored her contractions, but the instant they eased, he rose over her. Spread her thighs even wider, sank his hands into the bed on either side of her, set his erection to her slick, swollen folds.

  Found her entrance. Nudged in.

  Then drove home.

  She cried out, arching wildly beneath him. He didn’t stop, but drove deeper yet, fighting to absorb the sensations—of her heated sheath yielding, then encasing him, so tightly, of the firmness of her body, the cushioning feminine flesh, the succulent heat clamping about him. Battling desperately to savor all that, yet not let the moment sweep him away, not let his most primitive instincts have their way. He could—and would—plunder later, once she’d agreed, once she understood.

  Trapped beneath him, she’d stilled. Head bowed, he could feel her panting breath close by his ear. Could feel, where they joined, where she’d clamped tight about him, the thudding tempo of her racing heart. Every muscle locked against the almost overpowering urge to ride her, he lifted his head and looked into her face.

  From beneath heavy lids, from behind the black lace of her lashes, her eyes glinted—glittered—into his. Her lips, swollen, slightly parted, seemed to firm. He felt her draw breath.

  “I thought you promised never to hurt me.”

  Not quite an accusation—her lips twisted briefly in the lightest grimace; to his immense relief, her body was already easing beneath his, the defensive tension slowly seeping away.

  He bent his head, brushed her lips with his, made them cling for an instant. “I think,” he murmured, shifting very slightly within her, “that you’ll find it’s not a lasting hurt.”

  He lifted over her again; eyes locked with hers, he withdrew a fraction, then slid home once more.

  She blinked. “Do that again.”

  He would have grinned, but couldn’t; his features were locked, passion set. He did as she asked, letting out a little of the air locked in his lungs when neither her expression nor her body retensed.

  Looking into his face, Portia struggled to assimilate the feeling of fullness, of being so full of him. Not in her wildest dreams . . . the sensations of intimacy, of having given herself to him, of having taken him into her body, were not only more powerful than she’d foreseen, but powerful in a different way.

  A more fundamental, earth-shattering, soul-shaking way.

  But she couldn’t stop and examine that now—neither her body nor his would permit it. Both were primed, coiled, ready. For what, she had only the vaguest idea.

  Her hands had dropped from his shoulders to close, viselike, on his upper arms; releasing one, she raised her hand to his cheek, brushed back the fall of his silken hair. Drew his face, slowly, down to hers.

  Opened her mouth beneath his, urged him on, invited him to take her—teach her more—in the only way she knew.

  His lips closed over hers, his tongue filled her mouth, tangled with hers, thrust deep—withdrew as his body did, then echoed the surge as he filled her anew.

  A surge repeated again and again until it caught her, drew her up, had her riding the wave of sensation again, with him, this time, as he rode her. Her body, no longer hers to command, following instinct, following him, rose to his until flames flared, until fire danced under her skin, until her bones were molten, her body a furnace into which his plunged, like a burning brand, deeper, harder, rhythmically, repeatedly stoking the flames.

  Her senses were caught, locked in the moment; never had she felt so alive. So aware of herself, and of him. Of their bodies merging, giving and taking, of their skins, slick and hot, rubbing and sliding, touching, brushing, caressing. Of their breaths mingling, their hearts thundering in unison, their bodies striving, their wills as one.

  Diving into the flames, bathing in the passion, in the hot furnace of mutual desire. Clinging, gasping, then stoking the flames to new heights.

  Until they erupted in a towering wall of heat that fell on them and consumed them, that cindered all remnants of rational thought, poured in molten sensation down every nerve as wildfire flashed across their skins.

  Desperate, they danced on, breaths fractured, hearts racing, fingers sinking deep.

  He lifted his head, dragged in a gigantic breath—as did she. Their gazes met.
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  “Do something for me.”

  She could barely make out the words. “What?”

  “Wrap your legs about my hips.”

  She wanted to ask why but didn’t, instead simply did as he asked—and learned the answer.

  He drove into her—deeper, harder, faster—drove, it seemed, straight to her heart. She arched beneath him, gripped tight with her thighs, heard herself cry as her senses fractured—not as before but infinitely more intensely, shattering into shards, bright, sharp, gilded with glory.

  She felt him hold still, buried deep within her, then he was with her, caught, trapped, swept up and away in the pure energy swirling around them, through them, that battered them, buoyed them. Ultimately fused them.

  Fused their bodies, heated and damp—then imploded in a sunburst powerful enough to fuse their very souls.

  She’d wondered what would happen after; no amount of wondering had prepared her for this.

  For the sheer weight of him, slumped on top of her, for the thundering of their hearts, for the glory still coursing through their veins, the heat still pulsing under their skins.

  Over. The raging storm had swept past and left them washed up, exhausted, tossed up by the waves on some deserted island.

  Only they were real. In that moment, the rest of the world did not exist.

  Boneless, she lay beneath him, stunned, yet at peace. He turned his head. Their breaths mingled, then, blindly, their lips met. Clung. Held.

  “Thank you.”

  His words feathered her cheek. Lifting a hand, she brushed back his hair, then stroked down, over the powerful lines of his torso, the long muscles of his back.

  “No—thank you.”

  For teaching her, for letting her see . . . possibly more than he’d intended.

  She’d been right; there was something special between them, something worth fighting for. But there was also so much she’d yet to learn . . .

  His lips cruised over hers, then he drew in a breath, and eased from her. The change was dramatic—the difference in sensations, in how her body felt when he was there, joined with her, and when he was not.