He'd stopped tugging as soon as she'd moved; he seemed to be holding his breath.

She considered, then leaned down, and kissed him lovingly-unsurprised when he grabbed her head and ravaged her mouth, drank from her ravenously.

Coiling tension rose in the hard body rigidly supine beneath hers.

She drew back. He let her . . . waited, chest laboring . . .

When she didn't move, he ground out, "You do know what you're doing . . . ?"

She wasn't that innocent, not when it came to this. There were a number of books in the library at Calverton Chase that her brother, Luc, had always insisted be placed on the top shelf. He'd refused to lift them down. Consequently, she and Penelope had, at the first opportunity, climbed up and fetched the restricted volumes down. Many had proved to be picture books-with quite eye-opening pictures. She had never completely forgotten what she'd seen.

"In a manner of speaking." She edged back a fraction more. "I know it's possible, but tell me." Leaning forward from the hips, she drew her tongue slowly across one tight nipple, tasting the salt on his skin. Purred, "How exactly does this work?"

The laugh that racked him was harsh, abrupt-as if he were in pain. His chest swelled. "Simple." He grasped her hips. "Like this."

Even though he couldn't see, he guided her expertly back and down, until his rigid staff prodded her entrance; he tilted his hips, nudged in, then obediently stopped before she ordered him to.

She smiled. "Now I assume I sit up . . ." Bracing her hands on his chest, she eased upright. "Like this . . ."

She needed no answer. The slow slide of his body into hers fractured her breathing, sent a long, sensual shudder down her spine. Her eyes closed as her body gave, sheathing the rigid strength of his, gradually taking him in, accepting him. Inch by inch, all under her control, she pressed down, shifting and taking him deeper, then deeper still. The sensations were mind-numbing, all-consuming-the heat, the pressure, the rock-solid reality. Exhaling, she spread her knees wider the better to sink lower yet, to take all of him, press him as high inside her as she could.

Then hold him tight.

"God!" His fingers sank into her hips; he held her down. "For pity's sake, hold still for a minute."

His voice was beyond strained, almost breaking.

She looked down at his face, at the blankness passion had wrought in his expression, and gave him his minute, used it herself to absorb the feeling of him high inside her, of how he filled her, completed her, of how her body welcomed him in. Her senses were thrumming, heated and alive, ready and waiting for all that was to come.

Beneath her, Simon clung to sanity by his fingernails. He'd told her he'd survive . . . he was no longer so sure. To be sheathed in such a way in scalding feminine flesh, slicker than silk, while unable to see, knowing she was fully dressed, feeling the air cool against his naked skin, feeling her stockinged thighs gripping his flanks-knowing she intended to ride him to oblivion, but with no idea what she intended after that . . . if he hadn't been lying down she would have brought him to his knees.

His time was apparently up; she grasped his wrists, eased his restraining hands from her hips-turned his hands, locked her fingers with his and leaned on his arms as slowly, muscles clinging and caressing him, she eased up.

Up.

Just before she lost him, she reversed direction.

And sank even more slowly, clingingly, down.

His jaw locked; his teeth clenched. She was still so damned tight it was a wonder he didn't spontaneously combust simply from the friction. As it was, his hips involuntarily jerked as she sank the last inch down.

"Uh-huh. You are to lie still. Completely still."

He bit back a caustic inquiry as to which army she planned to use to hold him down. Told himself he'd brought this on his own head and would simply have to endure it.

She experimented again, rising, then sinking down. Then her fingers, interdigitated with his, tightened; she started to ride him in earnest.

Her training had been exemplary, albeit in a different field. She'd ridden since she could walk, spent years riding wild across the Rutlandshire wolds. There was no chance she would tire soon.

His body rose to her challenge; he fought to remain as still as he could, to defer to her stated wishes. She held him, clasped him tightly, continued to ride steadily, transparently savoring him, only gradually moving faster and faster.

His breathing became labored, as was hers. She held tighter to his hands but didn't break her stride. He could feel her tightening about him, feel the tension coiling through her, feel it start to coalesce, condense.

On a gasp, she released his hands, grabbed his wrists, and guided his fingers to her breasts. Breath hitching, he cupped the firm mounds, then kneaded evocatively, searched and found the tight peaks, closed his fingers and squeezed . . . until she gasped anew, clamped hard about him, swayed, then braced her hands on his chest, caught her rhythm again, and rode on.

Rode him. Harder, faster, sliding her knees wider still to take him ever deeper. The fight to remain passive nearly ruptured his heart. His pulse thundered, galloping with her, caught in the escalating heat, trapped in the relentless driving rhythm. Running with her. Urging her on.

Her breasts filled his hands, swollen and tight; she moaned when he kneaded, gasped when he squeezed.

She leaned forward, pressing her breasts into his palms. Hoarsely instructed, "Touch me."

He didn't need to ask where. Releasing her breasts, pushing aside her frothing skirts, he reached beneath, closed his hands about her flexing thighs, then followed them up. Slid one hand around to grip her hip. With the other stroked her damp curls once, heard her breath hitch, felt her body constrict almost painfully about him.

Set one fingertip to her pearl.

Knowingly caressed.

Paused. Heard her earnest, breathless entreaty.

Pressed.

And she imploded.

With a soft cry, she climaxed about him, her body contracting powerfully, her hands clenching tight on his chest.

His body reacted.

The surge of primitive need, of fueled lust, desire, and so much more, nearly shattered his control. Head back, he gasped, dragging air into his locked lungs; fingers gripping her hips, sinking in, he held her down, impaled to the hilt, held her still, fought to hold on to the reins of his demons, aroused, teased, taunted, and now slavering, fully expecting, now, to be released-to be allowed to feast on her soft, feminine, satiated body.

Jaw locked, teeth clenched, breath bated, he waited . . .

She slumped on his chest. Then reached up, guided his lips to hers, and kissed him.

Invitingly-or so he hoped. Prayed.

The tension thrumming just beneath his skin, the rigidity of his body, reached her. He felt her hesitate, then she reached up again-and tugged the blindfold from his eyes.

Watched him blink, then met his gaze. Held it as she stretched luxuriously against him-smiled as his hands locked on her hips, keeping her precisely where she was, fully sheathing him.

Her expression that of a cat who'd had her fill of cream, she held his gaze, and tossed the blindfold away. Lowered her arm and traced his cheek.

Whispered softly, "Take me, then."

His senses leapt; reflexively, so did the rest of him, before he slammed his control back into place and locked every muscle again. Her eyes widened, but the tenor of the smile curving her lips-knowingly wanton-didn't fade.

He met her eyes, dark, dreamy with spent passion, yet very much awake. Watching, waiting, for what he would do . . .

Their breaths mingled, his still tense and labored, hers softer in the aftermath of climax.

Yet another spur he did not need.

She'd issued an open invitation, hadn't specified. He wondered if she could even conceive of the primitive urge riding him, evoked by her game.

He wanted to take her from behind, to position her on her knees before him, her skirts flipped up over her shoulders, a surrended captive, to drive into her and feel her open for him, yield to him.

His.

He licked his lips. Easing his hands from her hips, he reached up and around, and set his fingers to the buttons closing her gown.

Held her gaze as he undid them.

Told himself he'd have her as he wished-one day.

But not yet. Later, if he played tonight's hand wisely, kept his head through the following days-even weeks-then one day he'd be able to let fall the reins and show her precisely what she was to him.

Precisely how she made him feel.

Shifting within her as little as possible, he drew her gown off, over her head. She helped, lifting her arms, wriggling free of the folds, aiding him in removing her chemise as well.

Leaving her naked but for her stockings.

He rolled her beneath him.

Nearly lost his mind when she pressed his shoulder back. "Wait."

His control shivered, fractured, started to fall away . . .

She shifted beneath him. He sucked in a breath, opened his lips to tell her he couldn't wait- Instead, blinked, watched, amazed as, lifting one of her long legs high, she rolled her stocking down-or rather up and off. She caught his gaze as she flung it away. "I like to feel my skin against yours."

He wasn't about to argue; he allowed her to shift enough to perform the same feat with her other leg, noting with increasing fascination the ease with which she accomplished the deed.

New vistas blossomed in his mind.

But then she flung the second stocking away, twined both arms about his neck and drew his head down.

"There. Now you may-"

He stopped her words with a searing kiss.

Took her breath from her, ravaged her mouth, and sent her senses spinning-faster, harder, faster yet-until she arched beneath him, inchoately pleading . . . until he anchored her hips and drove into her.

Again, and again, and again.

He felt the reins slide and couldn't grab them back, could only surrender to the storm. To the blinding urgency that drove his body to plunder hers.

Far from complaining, she arched beneath him, fingernails raking his back. Flagrantly demanding, commanding, wanting . . . as desperate as he in needing more.

He wedged her thighs wider; she went one step further, lifting her long legs, wrapping them about his hips, opening herself to him, giving him all he wished.

Heart pounding, he took, took her, gave himself.

Head back, braced above her, he let go, closed his eyes-and let the swirling power have him. Infuse him, drive him.

Felt it close in, sweep him up.

Shatter him.

Felt her cling as he shuddered, knew when she joined him.

Felt ecstasy flow through them, melding their bodies.

Felt it thunder through their veins and fuse their hearts.

Portia lay back, high on the pillows where Simon had lifted her once the tumult had passed.

Passed, but it hadn't yet died. The aftermath still held them, heat slowly dissipating, languor weighting their limbs.

She could grow used to this; this sense of intimate closeness, the sharing, the fury. The bliss.

One arm draped over the pillows behind her head, with the other, she idly sifted his hair, the fine texture a sensual delight. He lay slumped half beside her, half over her, one arm beneath her, his head pillowed against her breast, his other hand splayed possessively over her stomach.

He was heavy, hot, and oh so real. He'd withdrawn from her only moments before; her body was slowly returning to itself, to being hers, not his, not filled with him. She felt curiously alive, senses still bright with the lingering glory, her flesh still swollen, hot, still throbbing, her pulse still racing.

In the icehouse, Kitty lay cold, beyond all such feeling.

For long moments, Portia thought of all she and Simon had already shared, and of all they might yet find between them.

And silently vowed not to make Kitty's mistakes.

She would value trust and devotion, see love for what it was, accept whence it sprang, and with whom.

And make sure-absolutely sure-he did, too.

If what lay between them was love, she wasn't fool enough to fight it. On the contrary; if it was love, it was worth fighting for.

She glanced down, feathered her fingers through his soft, burnished brown locks, silkier than many a woman's.

He lifted his head, met her gaze.

She held his, then said, "I'm not going to marry you unless I want to."

"I know."

She wondered, wished she could see his eyes more clearly, but the moonlight had faded, cloaking them in shadows.

He exhaled, lifted from her, shifted higher in the bed and settled on his back, drawing her into his arms. The bonelessness of satiation still infusing her, she rested her head on his chest, in the hollow below his shoulder. "I want to learn more, need to learn more, but don't read it as any degree of agreement."

After a moment, he lifted his head and pressed a kiss to her hair. Lay back. "Go to sleep."