summerhouse.
“What…?”
He stopped a few feet before one of the columns. Looked back at her and raised a brow. “I assumed you’d want to progress to the next stage?”
She blinked. “Yes, but-”
“We can’t do that by the arch, in full view of anyone who might wander by the lake.”
Her lips formed an O as he drew her past him, twirling her to face him. Freeing her hand, he lifted both his to frame her face, tipping it up as he stepped closer and lowered his head.
He kissed her, waited only until the steel went from her spine and she surrendered her mouth, then he backed her, slowly, step by deliberate step, until the column was at her back. She stiffened with surprise, but when he didn’t press her against the wood, she relaxed, bit by bit, gradually let herself become engrossed in the kiss.
For long moments, he did nothing more-simply kissed her and let her kiss him back. Sank into the softness of her mouth, with lips and tongue caressed, enticed, then let her play. Let her sense and grow accustomed to the give and take, to a slower, less overwhelming rhythm.
To the simple familiar pleasure.
She was taller than the average, a fact he appreciated; he didn’t need to tip her face so far back, could stand with her comfortably. The column behind her merely delineated their space, providing something she could later lean back against… assuming she agreed to their next stage.
The thought sent heat sliding insidiously through him. He angled his head, pressed the kiss deeper, made her cling to the exchange. Releasing her face, he reached for her waist, spanned it with his hands, then slid them around, over the fine muslin, feeling the silky shift of her chemise between the gown and her skin.
She made a soft sound and pressed nearer; he met her lips, met her tongue-and eased her back, gently, until she stood against the column. She relaxed against it; her hands, previously resting passively on his shoulders, shifted, slid up, back, around. Spreading her fingers, she speared them slowly through his hair, let it fall.
Then she twined her arms about his neck and stretched up against him, meeting his lips with increasing ardor, her lithe body bowing.
Inwardly, he smiled, let his hands slide over her back, tracing the long line of the muscles framing her spine, up, then down. He kissed her deeply, sensed the heat rising beneath her skin, felt the soft mounds of her breasts, pressed to his chest, firm.
Her perfume rose and wreathed through his mind, teased his senses. He held to the kiss, letting his hands do no more than caress the firm planes of her back, over and over.
And waited.
More. Portia knew she wanted more than this. Kisses were all very well, exceedingly pleasant, heady and intoxicating, sending warmth sliding through her, bringing her senses alive. And the feel of his hands, cool and hard, and the unstated promise in their steady, deliberate stroking, sent shivers of anticipatory delight down her spine. But now expectation crawled along her nerves; her senses were avidly agog. Waiting. Ready.
For the next stage.
He’d said he’d show her. She wanted to know, to learn of it. Now.
She drew back from the kiss, found it required real effort; when their lips finally, reluctantly, parted, she didn’t move back, only lifted her suddenly heavy lids enough to meet his gaze from beneath her lashes.
“What’s the next stage?”
His eyes met hers; his seemed darker, a more intense blue. Then he answered. “This.”
His hands shifted, leaving her back to slide forward to her sides. His thumbs cruised, brushing the sides of her breasts.
Sensation streaked through her; her senses abruptly focused-followed, hungrily, greedily, as he stroked deliberately again. Her knees quaked; she suddenly found a use for the column behind her, leaned back against it. He followed her lips with his, brushed them as his wicked thumbs circled lightly, tantalizingly-just enough for her to understand…
He lifted his head, met her eyes. “Yes? Or no?”
His thumbs circled again, too lightly… if she’d had the strength she’d have told him what a stupid question it was. “Yes,” she breathed. Before he could ask if she was sure, she drew his lips back to hers, certain she would need that much anchor to the world.
She felt his lips curve, but then his hands shifted again and she forgot-stopped thinking-about anything else bar the delicious delight that flowed from his touch, from the languid, repetitive caresses, alternately firm then teasingly insubstantial. Increasingly explicit, more openly sensual, more overtly possessive.
Until he closed his hands, slowly, firmly about her breasts, until he took her tightly budded nipples between his thumbs and fingers, and squeezed.
Fire lanced through her.
Gasping, she broke from the kiss. The pressure about her nipples eased.
“No! Don’t stop.”
Her voice surprised her-a sultry command. She cracked open her lids, glanced at his face. His eyes met hers. There was something-some expression-she’d never seen in them before. His face was hard, very angular. His lips, thin yet mobile, were not quite straight.
Obediently, he squeezed again; once again, sensation speared, spread and tingled beneath her skin. Warmth followed, rushing through her, washing her inhibitions away.
She let her lids fall on a pleasured sigh.
“Do you like it?”
She tightened her arms and drew his lips back to hers. “You know I do.”
He did, of course, but he hadn’t wanted to miss hearing her admission. It pleased him-a consolation prize given the limitations of their present engagement.
The severe limitations-the open ardor of her response more than warmed him; it was a spur to which he couldn’t react.
Yet.
She was warm and alive beneath his hands; her breasts filled them, hot, firm, swollen. Her delight, her pleasure, was there in her kiss, in the eagerness investing her supple frame.
When he closed his hands more definitely and kneaded, she made a sound deep in her throat and kissed him back, flagrantly demanding…
It was suddenly a battle to stay exactly where he was and not press closer, not trap her against the column, mold her to him, ease his pain against her softness. He drew breath, felt his chest swell, grappled, and hung on to his control-
The sound was off-key, sufficiently grating to distract them both.
They broke the kiss; he hauled in a breath, hands sliding to her waist as he turned.
“It’s the luncheon gong.” Portia blinked, slightly dazed, up at him. “They’re ringing it outside. There must be others wandering the gardens, too.”
He hoped so, hoped it wasn’t just they being so specifically summoned. He stepped back, reached for her hand. “We’d better get back.”
She met his gaze briefly, then nodded. Let him take her hand and lead her down the steps.
As they walked quickly back up the lawns, he made a mental note to reinforce his reins before her next lesson. To prepare himself for the temptation, the better to resist it.
He glanced at her, walking steadily beside him, her stride longer than most women’s. She was absorbed, thinking-he knew about what. If he made a mistake, let his true intent show, he couldn’t rely on her naivete to blind her to it. She might not see the truth immediately, but later, she would. She would analyze and dissect everything that passed between them, all in the name of learning.
Looking ahead, he inwardly grimaced. He was going to have to ensure she didn’t learn more than was good for her.
Such as the truth of why he was teaching her.
