Gradually, the waves subsided; sensation diminished, the feelings ebbed. His hand left her.
To her surprise, she felt empty. Incomplete.
Unfulfilled.
As her wits returned fully, she made the connection. Realized this was a two-act play and he’d stopped at the intermission.
And had no intention of going any further.
She knew without asking; his decision was there, solid and real in his heavily locked muscles, in the brutual tension riding him.
In confirmation, like a curtain falling, he flipped down her skirts and locked his hand over her hip.
She had absolute confidence in his self-mastery. Drawing back from the kiss, she boldly reached between them, traced the hard line of his erection, the solid weight she could feel riding against her thigh.
Closed her hand as well as she could; felt him shift, heard the hiss of his indrawn breath.
Leaned close and whispered against his lips. “You want me.”
The sound he made was guttural, a strangled laugh. “You can hardly doubt it.”
She couldn’t, not with the evidence burning her palm, yet the degree of that want, the sheer power of his desire was a surprise-a shock.
Even more a temptation.
Yet the realization-the physical fact, an ephemeral knowledge brought to life, translated to flesh and blood-sent a shiver of pure caution, an elemental sensing of danger coursing through her.
He drew in a tight breath; eyes closed, he pressed his hand between them, closed it over hers. Tightened her grip on him.
Then, slowly, drew her hand away.
He breathed out; she couldn’t truly see his face in the darkness, but would have sworn the harsh planes had grown even more hard-edged.
Against his lips, she breathed, “Why?”
She didn’t need to be more specific. He would know even better than she that he could have taken her if he’d wished.
His gaze touched her face, traveled it, then he lifted his hand and traced a finger across her lips. She scented, and tasted, her essence. Then he leaned close and kissed her, kissed it from her lips.
“Are you ready for that?”
His words drifted through her mind, not really a question.
She drew back, looked into his eyes, dark, shadowed, unreadable. Could still feel his desire, the powerful need that was riding him. Answered truthfully. “No. But-”
He kissed her; stopped her words. She hesitated for an instant, the understanding that he did not wish her to utter them, didn’t wish to hear what she would have said-what he’d known she’d been about to say-sweeping through her. Then she returned the kiss. Gratefully.
Sensed the heat slowly dying between them. Let it fade. Ebb. Until…
Their lips parted, yet they remained close. Their gazes touched. Lifting one hand, she traced his chiseled cheek. Put their thoughts into words. “Next time.”
He drew breath, chest swelling. Then he gripped her waist and eased her back. “If you wish it.”
The hardest words he’d ever had to say, yet he’d had to say them.
His hand locked about hers, they walked back to the house; a short discussion over whether or not he needed to escort her back to her room-a discussion he’d won-had helped get them back onto something resembling their normal footing.
Not that that was the same as it had been a week ago.
All well and good, but the desire now riding him had spurs a foot long. Never before had the need for a woman, let alone a particular woman, been so consuming; never before had he had to mask, to mute his natural inclinations to this extent.
Having to let her go tonight, to let her escape him, wasn’t a script of which his inclinations, his warrior instincts, approved. Having to battle them, having to keep a cool head while his body went up in flames, did not please his temper at all.
A fact of which she was well aware; she’d been shooting quick glances at him ever since they’d left the summerhouse. His face, set and hard, bore witness to his feelings-feelings she knew him well enough to guess.
She knew, but he seriously doubted she understood. For all her talk of learning about sex and trust and marriage, he very much doubted that it had occurred to her yet just where they were-what the next stage encompassed, what destiny she was flirting with.
It would. Which was why he had to play a long game. To get what he wanted, to secure all he wanted, he needed her absolute, unqualified trust.
And the only way to get that was to earn it.
No shortcuts, no sleight of hand.
No pressure. Of any kind.
He felt like growling.
When she stopped and thought about what that “
As for her intelligence, her willfulness, and even worse, her independence… stacked against the panaply of his most fundamental characteristics, with which she was extremely familiar, convincing her to risk giving herself to him was going to be an uphill battle. He needed every advantage he could gain.
He trudged on through the balmy night. She kept pace with him easily, her stride long and free.
One consolation-she’d never been a chatterer. She spoke when she wished to; with him, she never seemed to feel the need, as so many other females did, to fill the silences. They lay between them, not awkward but comfortable, like well-worn shoes.
Familiarity, and her mind; two aspects from which, if he was cunning, he could wrest some advantage. She was, always had been, far more inclined to logical thinking than any other woman he’d known. He had some chance, therefore, of guessing her thoughts, predicting her tack, and by judicious prodding, herding her in the direction he wished.
Just as long as she didn’t guess his ulterior motive.
If she did…
What pernicious fate had decreed he should set his sights on taking to wife the one woman he knew beyond all doubt he would never be able safely to manipulate?
Stifling a sigh, he looked up. Just as Portia stiffened.
He looked ahead, his hand tightening about hers, and saw the young gardener, once again watching the private wing of the house.
Portia tugged; he nodded, and they moved on, slipping through the shadows to the garden hall.
The house lay in darkness; no one else was about. They passed the candle left burning at the bottom of the stairs and he saw she was frowning.
“What?”
She blinked, then said, “Dennis-the gardener-was there when I came out.”
He grimaced, and waved her up the stairs. When they stepped into the gallery, he murmured, “His fixation’s unhealthy. I’ll mention it to James.”
Portia nodded. It was on the tip of her tongue to mention she’d seen Ambrose, too, but he hadn’t been there when they’d returned. No reason for Simon to mention him, too.
They’d reached her room; she tugged and Simon stopped. She indicated the door with her head.
Simon glanced at it, then shifted his hold, twined his fingers with hers and lifted her hand to his lips. “Sleep well.”
