The Perfect Lover by Stephanie Laurens

forgotten to breathe, even now didn’t care. She kissed him back, hesitant, not knowing . . .
    He shifted, not away but closer yet. The fingers about her jaw firmed; the pressure of those beguiling lips increased.
    She parted her own as he seemed to want her to; his tongue slid between—her knees quaked. He seemed to know—how she couldn’t guess; the caresses slowed, slowed, until each touch seemed drenched with languor, with unhurried appreciation, with simple shared pleasure. The dizzying shock of the novel intimacy faded.
    The certain knowledge that she’d never been kissed before rocked Simon; the powerful urge to seize that raced through him in response shocked him to his core. He shackled it, refused to let it show—not in his lips, not through his fingers, not through the slow, mesmerizing play of his tongue.
    She tasted of nectar, of warm peaches and honey. Of summer and goodness, fresh and untouched. He could have happily kissed her for hours, yet . . . he didn’t want to stop at just a kiss.
    He’d backed her against the wall; he leaned one forearm on the cool stone, muscles bunching, fist clenching as he fought the urge to take advantage. To step closer yet, to press against her, to feel her silk-clad curves against him.
    She was tall, long-legged; the impulse to confirm how well they would fit, the driving desire to soothe his aroused body with at least the touch of hers burned hot and strong. Along with an urgent need to fill his palms with her breasts, to duck his head and with his lips follow the tantalizing trail of her pearls to their end.
    But this was Portia. Not even in the heady instant when he tried to break the kiss and she straightened, following his lips with hers, wanting more, and he sank back into her mouth, now freely—unreservedly—offered, did he forget who she was.
    The conundrum was there, from the very first clear in his mind, mocking, jeering at the desire that rose so swiftly for her.
    Every minute he indulged—indulged her, indulged himself—sent the price he would pay for ending the interlude soaring.
    But end it he must. They’d been gone from the ballroom too long.
    And this was Portia.
    The effort to end the kiss and lift his head left him reeling. He lowered his hand from her face, lowered his arm, simply stood, waiting for the desire thundering through his veins to subside to a safe level. Watched her face as her lids fluttered, and rose.
    Her eyes glittered darkly; a flush tinged her pale cheeks—it wasn’t a blush. She blinked, searched his eyes, his expression.
    He knew she would read nothing—nothing she would know to recognize—in the graven lines of his face. In contrast, he could see the thoughts tumbling through her mind, mirrored in her expression.
    No shock—he hadn’t expected it; surprise, curiosity, a thirst to know more. An awakened, intrigued awareness.
    He drew a deep breath, waited a moment more until he was sure she was steady on her feet. “Come—we have to get back.”
    Taking her hand, he turned and drew her with him, back around the corner, onto the main terrace.
    There were two couples at the far end, but otherwise the terrace was deserted. He set her hand on his arm; they continued toward the ballroom in silence.
    The French doors were near; he was thanking his stars she’d been sufficiently distracted to hold her tongue—he wasn’t up to any discussion, not at that moment—when he heard voices.
    Portia heard them, too. Before he could stop her, she stepped to the balustrade and looked over, down to the path below.
    He tugged, but she didn’t move. Something in her stillness alerted him. He moved to her side and looked down, too.
    Hissed whispers floated up to them. Desmond stood with his back to the terrace wall. Kitty stood before him, clinging, her arms wound about his neck.
    Desmond, rigid, was struggling to put her from him.
    Simon glanced at Portia; she met his gaze.
    They turned and strolled back into the ballroom.
    What