She couldn’t stop a reactive shiver; closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the wave of heat rising over her, steadily engulfing her, glanced over her shoulder as, pushing her hair aside, he neared her nape.
He lifted his head; for one instant, his blue eyes locked on hers, then he drew back a fraction, straddling her thighs, set his hands to her hips, swept both hard palms slowly up her body, tracing the indentation of her waist, rising up her sides, fingers boldly caressing the sensitive sides of her breasts before sliding down the backs of her arms to grip her elbows.
“Stretch your arms up, above your head.”
He pushed them up and she let him; without their support, she slumped onto the bed, her breasts, nipples already tight, pressing into the crimson silk.
Placing her wrists among the pillows, he released them. “Leave them there—don’t draw your arms down again.”
A command, gravelly and absolute. Her heart thudded, her senses leapt as he reversed the direction of his slow, possessive stroking. She could feel him close, but other than the occasional brush of raspy hair across her skin, he’d touched her only with his hands and lips.
And his gaze. She could feel that, another sort of flame, following his hands as he traced the long lines of her back, down, past her waist, until his thumbs caressed the shallow indentations below her hips.
Her skin prickled; anticipation welled and rushed through her.
To her surprise, he shifted back, shuffling down the bed, his knees on either side of her legs . . . then his hands closed about her hips; smoothly, he lifted them and drew them back.
Until she was curled on her knees before him.
She started to lift her shoulders from the bed—
“Leave your arms as I told you.”
The tenor of the words sent a flash of expectation sheering through her, wound her nerves even tighter. She’d obeyed before she’d thought—without the use of her arms, she slumped over her knees. Helpless.
Even before she’d fully assimilated the total submission inherent in the pose, one hand settled heavily on her back, just above her waist.
Holding her down.
In the instant she realized, his other hand spread over her bottom, boldly caressed until her skin was damp, then reached farther, to the slick, swollen flesh between her thighs, in this position readily accessible to his probing fingers.
He held her down, ruthlessly touched, stroked, teased—caressed but never penetrated, never gave her greedy, wanting senses the slightest succor, instead stoked her fire until her skin was aflame, until her breaths came in ragged pants.
Until she moaned.
The wanton, abandoned sound shocked her, but it was quickly followed by more. Held immobile, she could gain no surcease from the unrelenting stimulation, from the need that was flaring inside her—burgeoning, building, rising high.
Eyes closed, her hair fanning about her with the restless motion of her head—the only part of her free to move—she bit her lip, tried to hold back the sound welling in her throat.
Couldn’t.
She sobbed. Sobbed again as he raised her hips, turned the sensual rack one notch tighter . . .
In the instant before she broke and told him precisely what she wanted him to do, he shifted. Opened her with his fingers, guided the broad head of his erection to her entrance—and thrust deliberately and heavily home.
Filled her with one long, sure stroke that pushed all the air from her lungs.
That left her feeling more full of him that she ever had before.
His thighs outside hers, his groin to her bottom, he gripped her hip, withdrew a little way, then surged within her.
Still holding her down, a supplicant before him, her body offered for the enjoyment of his.
An offering he took, accepted, savored—with every hard, deep, too-knowing thrust.
She’d told him she was all his; he’d taken her at her word. As he held her before him and possessed her, deeper, harder, faster, she finally fully understood what that meant.
Couldn’t find it in her to complain.
The fire, the flames, and the love were there, around them, about them, within them. She gave herself up to it all, lost herself in the inferno.
Willingly surrendered.
Simon gasped as he felt her body tighten. Closed his eyes, savored the exquisite sensation of the firm curves of her bottom riding against him as he buried himself in her scalding heat. Again and again and again.
Taking his hand from her back, he clamped both palms about her hips and held her still as, all restraint long gone, he took all he wished—all she’d offered him.
The most potent invitation a woman could issue—to have her however he wished. To possess her, all she was, all the delights her body could offer, without reservation.
His heart thundered, filled to bursting as he filled his senses with her. As, step by step, her body responded, as did his, wanting more, reaching further.
Releasing her hips, he leaned over her, ran his hands up and around, filling them with her breasts, hot, swollen, finding and squeezing her nipples until she cried out, until she sobbed anew.
She’d come alive beneath him, riding his thrusts, meeting them. He bent his head, nuzzled her hair aside, set his teeth to the tendon running along the curve of her neck, and nipped.
Laved as she reacted, as on a wild gasp her body rose beneath his and clenched tight, then imploded, fractured, pulsing as he drove relentlessly into her, deep into the heart of her fire.
Closed his arms around her, holding her immobile as his body reacted to the rippling contractions of hers, as he plunged deeper yet, filling her, following her, over the peak of sensual glory, over the edge of worldly delight and into earthly bliss.
Into a deep void of unutterable satisfaction. The deepest satiation he’d ever known. Her celebration had created a new dimension, taken them to a different plane.
How many minutes passed before he could summon the strength and the wit to lift from her, wrestle the covers from beneath them and, curling her body against his, slump, all but exhausted, into the bed, he had no idea.
He lay there and let the moment wash over him. Let the peace, the knowledge, the absolute certainty sink into him.
They both fell asleep.
When he woke, he found he’d turned on his side, one arm slung over her hip, his body curved spoon-fashion about hers.
She, too, was awake. He knew it from the tension in her body; she was lying on her side facing away from him—he couldn’t see her face.
Coming up on his elbow, he leaned over her.
She turned her head, looked at him, and smiled.
Even in the moonlight, the gesture was glorious.
Raising one hand, Portia touched his cheek, then, still smiling, settled back on her side, feeling him hard, strong, and hot behind her.
He lay passive, yet . . .
Her smile deepened. Reaching back, she wrapped her fingers around his length. Caressed as she remembered. “You called me a cocktease—did you mean it?”
He grunted. “I wasn’t even sure you’d know what it meant.”
She grinned as, slowly, she ran her thumb over the blunt head of his erection. “Admittedly it’s not something one comes across much in Ovid, but I do know my modern derivations.”
“Derivations?”
The reply was meaningless; he wasn’t thinking about words.
She closed her hand more firmly. “You haven’t answered my question.”
He sucked in a breath; there was a pause before he said, “Not in general, but in specific.”
She thought about that for a moment, fondled not quite absentmindedly as she did. “You mean I tease you?”
It was her turn to catch her breath as he nudged her upper thigh higher, and his artful fingers slid into the softness between her legs.
His fingers played. “You tease my cock simply by existing.”
Her smile threatened to split her face. “How?”
The word was breathless; she angled her hips farther, felt him shift behind her.
“I see you, and all I can think about is sinking it into you.” He fitted the object under discussion to her. “Like this.”
Her eyes fell closed as he slowly, oh-so-slowly slid home. Withdrew, then gave her time to savor every inch of his return.
Her lungs locked; her whole body came alive. Determined, she managed enough breath to say, “I think I rather like being a cocktease—at least in the specific.”
He leaned over her, around her, set his lips to the curve of her ear, pushed his hand beneath her arm, and closed it about her breast—and gave her to understand that, far from disapproving, he liked it, too.
Later, much later, they lay slumped in the bed; he’d settled her, sprawled comfortably over him, her head pillowed on his chest. Idly, Simon played with her hair, sifting the long strands.
Eventually, drew a deep breath.
“I love you. You know that, don’t you?”
Her reply was only a moment in coming. “Yes.” Raising her head, she smiled at him, then crossed her arms, rested her chin on her wrists, and studied his face.
Her eyes were dark and brilliant; he looked into them, waited.
Her smile, that of a woman smugly well satisfied, eased. “I love you, too.” A frown invaded her expression. “I still don’t understand it.”
He hesitated, then offered, “I don’t think love is something one necessarily understands.” God knew he didn’t.
She frowned openly. “Perhaps. But I still can’t stop thinking. . . .”
He stroked his hands lovingly down the long planes of her back. “Has anyone ever told you you think too much?”
“Yes. You.”
“So stop thinking.” He reached farther, suggestively caressed.
She met his eyes, arched a brow. “Make me.”
He held her gaze, confirmed the words were the invitation he’d thought, then smiled—wolfishly. “My pleasure.”
He rolled, taking her with him, trapped her beneath him, and obliged.
Her next coherent thought did not surface until well past dawn.
She might not have been thinking, but he certainly had been. He’d been plotting, planning, but just what she didn’t know.
By the time she reached the breakfast table, he’d convinced Lady O that it was imperative he drive her, Portia, somewhere. She arrived too late to hear where.
“You’ll know when we get there,” was all he would say. Jaw setting in a way she knew well, he gave his attention to a plateful of ham.
She turned to Lady O.
Who waved aside her question before she could ask it.
“Take my word for it—best you let him drive you up to town. You won’t like rocking along slowly with me in the coach—not if you’ve a better option.” She grinned; the old evil light was back in her eyes. “If I were you, I wouldn’t hesitate.”
Which left Portia little option but to go along for the ride.
Helping herself to tea and toast, she looked around the table. The transformation was marked; a lighter atmosphere had taken hold once again. There were still lingering shadows in most people’s eyes, but the relief was immense, and showed in their smiles.
Lady Calvin, of course, had not come down, but neither had the other older ladies, except for Lady O and Lady Hammond.
“She’s taking it hard, poor thing,” Lady Hammond confided. “It was always her dream to see Ambrose in Parliament, and now . . . to have to face this, and with all it’s revealed of Drusilla as well, she’s quite overset. Catherine’s asked her to stay on for a day or so, at least until she’s well enough to travel.”
Drusilla, unsurprisingly, had not joined the company.
Later, everyone gathered in the front hall for farewells. The coaches were at the door; the Hammonds left first, then the Bucksteads.
Portia noted that, despite his earlier stance, James stood a little apart with Lucy, then walked her to the carriage and handed her up. A plan to invite Lucy to another house party sometime, and James as well, sprang into her wind, fully formed.
To which house was the only point in question.
Then Lady O completed her good-byes and, on Lord Netherfield’s arm, led the way onto the front steps. She and Simon followed in time to hear Lady O tell his lordship, “Quite a lively break, but next time, Granny, leave out the murders. They’re a bit much for my aging constitution to take.”
Lord Netherfield snorted. “Yours and mine both, m’dear. But at least these youngsters acquitted themselves well.” He bent a beaming smile on Simon and Portia, and Charlie and James who’d followed them out. “Seems there’s hope yet for the younger generation.”
Lady O’s snort was infinitely dismissive. “Bite your tongue—don’t want to swell their heads.”
Struggling to hide his smile, Charlie bravely came forward and offered to assist Lady O into the carriage. She accepted with aplomb; once settled, she looked out at Simon and Portia. “I’ll see you two in London.” She met their eyes. “Don’t disappoint me.”
It sounded like a warning to behave; they both read it for what it was—an exhortation of quite a different character.
Lord Netherfield smiled and waved; they did, too, waiting only until the carriage lumbered off before walking to Simon’s curricle, waiting, horses prancing, across the forecourt.
James and Charlie followed them. While Simon ran a careful eye over his bays, James took her hands. “I won’t embarrass you by thanking you again, but I hope we’ll meet in London later in the year.” He hesitated, then glanced at Simon. “You know, Kitty had driven all thoughts of marriage firmly out of my head. Now . . .” He raised one brow, teasing yet quizzical, “Perhaps there really is hope, and I should revisit the notion.”
Portia smiled. “Indeed, I think you should.” She stretched up and kissed his lean cheek. Then turned to Charlie, raised her brows.
Smiling, too, he met her gaze—then blinked. Glanced at James. “Oh, no—not me. Devotedly fancy-free, that’s me—far too shallow for any discerning lady.”
“Nonsense.” She kissed his cheek, too. “One of these days some
highly
discerning lady is going to see straight through your facade. And what then?”
“I’ll emigrate.”
They all laughed.
James helped her into the curricle. “And what of you?” he asked Simon as he came up.